He never fights back, no matter how bad the bullying gets. When the cocky football players shove him against a locker, he readjusts his backpack and walks away. When the girls with perfectly straightened hair whisper about his eyeglasses, he pretends that he doesn’t hear it.
We're not supposed to like him because he is a loser. Associating with a loser would make us one too. So we make fun of him and high-five about it. We laugh when someone trips him in the hall or when a teacher forgets his name in class. We bond over the embarrassing nicknames we give him, making up a new one every week and passing it along from one pubescent mouth to the next.
We are at the top of the food chain and he is our helpless prey. Whenever we abuse him, he waits until it's over. There's nothing he can do, nothing he say to make us stop. Our hormonal minds cannot mind their own business. We have to ruin his day just to get through our own.
***
I stay after school to hang up posters because I am running for Student Council. Too short for my own liking, I am having trouble reaching up high. As I am holding a poster above my head, I see a hand reach up and tape it to the wall. When I turn, I see him staring at me.
"I'll vote for you," he says before walking away. I want to call back at him. I want to thank him for helping me, even after I've put him through years of unnecessary torment. But before I can, he strolls out of the building.
***
We arrive at school the day after Student Council elections. They are going to announce the winners and I am crossing my fingers that I have been elected. We pile into the auditorium, all preteen clones of each other. The room is piercing with our cracking voices, discussing the homecoming dance to take place this Friday. When we are all finally seated, our principal stands in front of us with a face too serious to be announcing the winners of Student Council.
She forces us to be quiet and listen intently, a difficult task for a group of thirteen year olds. But we do what we're told and she continues to speak.
She tells us that he has died. A hush falls over the room as she explains that he killed himself last night. Whispers are lingering around like they did when he was still alive. He is gone, and we are still talking about him.
I get up and run out of the auditorium, ignoring the teachers who are trying to stop me. I sprint through the hallways, tearing down my posters and shoving them in the trash. I find the poster that he helped me tape up. Out of breath, I rip it off the wall and hug it close to my chest, like I should have done with him.
He was our helpless prey. And we killed him.
We're not supposed to like him because he is a loser. Associating with a loser would make us one too. So we make fun of him and high-five about it. We laugh when someone trips him in the hall or when a teacher forgets his name in class. We bond over the embarrassing nicknames we give him, making up a new one every week and passing it along from one pubescent mouth to the next.
We are at the top of the food chain and he is our helpless prey. Whenever we abuse him, he waits until it's over. There's nothing he can do, nothing he say to make us stop. Our hormonal minds cannot mind their own business. We have to ruin his day just to get through our own.
***
I stay after school to hang up posters because I am running for Student Council. Too short for my own liking, I am having trouble reaching up high. As I am holding a poster above my head, I see a hand reach up and tape it to the wall. When I turn, I see him staring at me.
"I'll vote for you," he says before walking away. I want to call back at him. I want to thank him for helping me, even after I've put him through years of unnecessary torment. But before I can, he strolls out of the building.
***
We arrive at school the day after Student Council elections. They are going to announce the winners and I am crossing my fingers that I have been elected. We pile into the auditorium, all preteen clones of each other. The room is piercing with our cracking voices, discussing the homecoming dance to take place this Friday. When we are all finally seated, our principal stands in front of us with a face too serious to be announcing the winners of Student Council.
She forces us to be quiet and listen intently, a difficult task for a group of thirteen year olds. But we do what we're told and she continues to speak.
She tells us that he has died. A hush falls over the room as she explains that he killed himself last night. Whispers are lingering around like they did when he was still alive. He is gone, and we are still talking about him.
I get up and run out of the auditorium, ignoring the teachers who are trying to stop me. I sprint through the hallways, tearing down my posters and shoving them in the trash. I find the poster that he helped me tape up. Out of breath, I rip it off the wall and hug it close to my chest, like I should have done with him.
He was our helpless prey. And we killed him.
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