The Specks of Smallness

Aaron | Twelve

Aaron | Twelve

The day after I confessed to Dad changed my life completely.

I walked down the stairs after a long night of wondering if they would kick me out the house, or if they would disregard me in the way that criminals disregard the law. I wondered where I would go if they told me they didn’t want me to live with them anymore. I didn’t know anything about being homeless. I didn’t know how someone would beg for food, or how to dumpster dive and not get caught by restaurant owners. I didn’t know how to stay warm through the middle of the night; there weren’t any recognizable shelters in town, if any. I would be living on my own, by myself, and I would have to become accustomed to it, and acknowledge the reality of dying in the streets as the rich pedestrians pass my rotting body and the rats feast on what’s left.

The smell of coffee swam through the kitchen as Mom held her boring mug underneath the maker to catch the black liquid that flowed out. Dad was leaning over the island with his reading glasses on, scrolling through something on his laptop. Neither of them looked up at me, let alone say something like, “Good morning,” or some type of greeting. I frowned, opening the fridge to get a handful of grapes.

I wondered if this was the last food I would have the pleasure of tasting.

Before I walked out the kitchen, Mom said, “Hey,” and handed me a plaid pail. I looked up at her, staring at her shimmering eyes, a smile that brightened my morning. But her lips weren’t curved; they fell flat across her face.

“Thank you.” I swiftly turned on my heels and headed out the door, walking with my head hanging low, stepping over the crunchy snow.

I looked over at my bike, at the metal that was twisted like a pretzel, and frowned. Someone had vandalized my property in the middle of the night when everyone else was asleep. I didn't know if Dad called the police; I just knew that I would now have to ride the bus to school, and deal with the blank stares that correlated with Mom's, as they at my neck as I sat in the front seat.

School was different.

Ever since I got caught skipping classes, I swear the teachers and other staff have been keeping their eyes on me. I can feel their eyes on my back as I open my locker door; I can feel them staring at me as I write an essay on if I believe that Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated JFK. Every time I turned around, they pretended to be staring down the opposite end of the hallway. It was quite pathetic, the school system, I thought.

I feel forced to go eat in the cafeteria, too, with my peers who look at me like I’m a speck of smallness. They snarl at my back, too scared to look at my face; they make comments when they think I can’t hear them. But the worst of all is seeing those I used to know: Carson, Lily, and Elin, acting like they’ve never seen me before.

It’s been days since I’ve talked to Elin. For some reason, this hurt the most. I’ve seen her walking the hallways alone, stacks of books in her hands, as she controlled her ticks. Her lipstick was bright, along with her smile. I would try to smile at her when she was alone, and, thankfully, she would smile back, giving me the smallest hope.

One day I caught her in the library, eyes glued to the letters that formed words that were in sentences that read like a ballad. She was smiling; she had finally found a place that wouldn’t mock her ticking, a place that would accept her for who she was, her insecurities and all. So there she was, reading a book, while I pulled up a chair opposite of her. She peaked up at me, but continued to read until she read the last word on the page she was reading, closing the book and sighing.

I was hoping that she would say something first instead of staring at me, but she didn’t. There was so much vacuity in her eyes that I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t.