Heartpen: Poems of a Cardiac Quill

Bryce

One for the highschoolers, who are braver than they know.

Adults swore the problem with the youth

was that the youth all wanted to belong,

but how backwards was that?

The youth didn't want to belong.

Actually they wanted the opposite of belonging.

They wanted to be outcasts

so that they could operate

on their own terms,

without definition.

At least

this was what Bryce wanted.

Sometimes, yes,

Bryce wished he wasn't invisible,

nonexistent.

Freshman year was almost over

and he hadn't made

one legitimate friend.

Fine, okay, glare at Bryce,

back away slowly.

Honestly he would not have had it

any other way.

He didn't want to be like

the kids who were in his grade,

he didn't want to talk like them,

he didn't want to abide by their rules.

Jocks, band geeks, theater kids,

Goths, emos, hipsters, nerds.

But what if you weren't any of those?

What if you were

Bryce?

Being Bryce meant exclusion

from everything,

including, fortunately,

social rivalries.

You barely got bullied, believe it or not,

and when you did it was mostly behind your back.

For the most part you were completely ignored,

left to explore the halls in peace.

Even teachers avoided you half the time.

The downside was

your . . . success? revolved around

the fact that nobody

knew or cared you existed.

"But," contended Bryce,

"high school is temporary.

The guy who runs the crummy arcade down the street from my house,

do you know who he was in high school?

He was captain of the football team (the Coyyyyoteeeeees!!!)

in '04.

The scabby lady who

hangs out near the dumpsters

at the Wal-Mart,

who was she?

She was prom queen, '09,"

contended Bryce.

The hardest part for him

involved appearing like he did something

rather than just standing idly in a lobby

or sitting

in the bleachers during a game.

Maybe he was in a garage band

or maybe he was a drug dealer

or had just gotten out of juvie.

"The loner," contended Bryce,

with a dimple of pride,

"can be anyone,"

contended Bryce, Bryce contended.

He relied on the mystery

without worrying about being scrutinized.

Because nobody even talked to him,

let alone scrutinized him.

No, Bryce's classmates filled in the gaps themselves,

and Bryce became everything from

"psycho" to "schizo" to another s-word

ending in "head."

But hey, if Bryce was any good at what he did,

which he totally freaking was,

his invisibility would supersede

even rumors about him

and before long he'd just be "that guy" again.

That was the thing about the rules of high school.

They had no power over the indifferent.

Today, Monday, Bryce sat in his assigned seat—

third row, fourth desk—

in Mrs. Ortiz's class.

His stomach churned with something like tacks

as he read from the board

his chalky demise.

Math problems eighty to ninety were due today!

He dug his textbook out

from his book bag

and flumped the heavy tome onto his desk.

He wrote his name

at the top-right corner

of a blank

loose-leaf paper

and fibbed his way through

half a word problem

before the morning bell rang,

and the boy behind him

started prodding him

with messily stacked homework pages.

Bryce took the heap and set his poor paper

on top.

The girl in front of him was already reaching

a violet-nailed hand over her shoulder.

She did not look back at what she was reaching for.

He placed the papers in her hand.