Forgotten

Chapter 8

The one thing on my mind as I drove home from school was not the little black book now present on my passenger seat, but the fact that Harry showed up at Louis' Friday night. He had to have. Where else would Johnny and Derrick have gone to have an altercation with him? To think, while Harry was getting punches thrown at him I was in the backyard having a soda and chatting around the fire. The thought was actually pretty unsettling. What I don’t understand is how Johnny and Derrick got so beat up with just Harry against them. The only evidence Harry has of the fight is a single purple mark where Johnny and Derrick had several.

Then there was Louis. He said it was too dark out front for him to see who they were fighting, but surely Johnny and Derrick would tell him, right? I can’t imagine they would keep their mouths shut unless they didn’t want people to know the class freak beat them up. Maybe he was telling the truth, but maybe he knew something I didn’t. Either way, I wanted to find out.

I waited until I was in the confines of my room to open up the book. I didn’t even know if there was going to be a response considering the writer did not have class today. Still, I found myself untying the strap and flipping to the most recent page. Sure enough, the narrow scrawl was printed between the lines of the paper.

If you are aiming to be the captivated that shortens the distance to the unknown then I would hope you are aware of what you are doing. If you are not afraid of the unknown or even slightly spooked by the knowledge that this entails then continue to try to shrink the distance.

I believe there is something beautiful in anonymity. It strips one of initial judgement. You do not know what I look like or how I talk. You don’t know if I live in velour jumpsuits or ridiculously tight jeans. For all you know, I could be one of those freshmen with a full beard and a thick Italian accent. For all I know, you are a six foot seven basketball god that draws to release the stress that comes from being the only person on the team that can dunk.

Anonymity allows for one to become comfortable with personality as opposed to the appearance judging we, as individuals, tend to do when we first meet someone. I wish to remain anonymous to keep us on a clean slate.

 

I must have reread the words at least four times. I believe there is something beautiful in anonymity. There was something about how beautifully the writer scripted the words that made me want to continue writing. I wanted to keep reading his or her opinions and seeing his or her humor play through the words. The words most certainly flowed from a creative writing student.

For some reason, I pictured the writer to be a boy. Maybe it was the sports reference or the facial hair remark or even the tall, neat script of the penmanship. Either way, I had a sneaking suspicion whoever etched their pen into the page besides me was a boy. Still, I was basing an inference off of a few sentences someone wrote down in a notebook.

I just stared at his response for the longest time, not knowing how to respond. Every time I brought my pen even remotely close to the paper, I immediately retracted it, not finding the words in my head to be worthy enough to convert to the pages. Finally, an idea popped into my head. I swiftly brought the pen down, the tip meeting the fresh page at last. I wrote in haste, not wanting my thought to escape.

 

Although your take on anonymity is appealing and I respect keeping aspects of our lives in the shadows, I can assure you I am not a six foot seven basketball god that draws to release the stress that comes from being the only person on the team that can dunk. I actually do not draw at all, those are mere sketches, something I do when I am bored.