For my first three years of middle school, I hadn’t even known he’d existed.

Which was hard for someone in a class of 150 students.  

Even during the eighth grade, I hadn’t even realized his presence until during a group project – in the second quarter. That’s after two months of classes. For someone on their school’s Student Council, this usually would’ve brought a shame, especially after I consulted the school yearbooks to confirm that he wasn’t a newcomer.

But Alex Cartwright wasn’t anything to miss. He wore blue jeans or red sweat-pants every day, along with some striped T’s and gray New Balance sneakers. That was it.

In class, he sat there. At lunch, he ate with someone somewhere, or by himself. Moving from class to class, he moved out of your way for you. He was merely an obstacle in the hallway, a blurry shape in the background as you laughed with your friends.

In class, he smiled while we laughed. He never raised his hand. He showed no expression during the lesson – even the teacher, Mr. Brunin, seemed to glance right over him.

The day I was assigned as Alex’s partner, my curiosity sparked inside. I kept a vigil on him for the rest of the period. Still I watched as the bell rang. He gathered his binders, and walked out.

I like to watch people. Granted, you’re probably going to stop reading this ‘cause now I’m some sort of stalker. But everyone does it.

My spark had turned into a fire. What were his grades? What sports did he play? How many siblings did Alex have? How did Alex live?

A far as I was concerned, he had no friends. He had below average grades. He had no team. He had some sort of guardian. But that was it.

Still he moved, expressionless, emotionless, friendless. How did Alex live?

I completed the project at home, with no collaboration from Alex. I turned it in, and easily got a 100. No surprise for me. I watched Alex though. He received the grade sheet back, eyes wide, and slid it into the front pocket of his binder, neat compared rest of his papers. Then he went back to staring, but this time I noticed a bright grin on his face. For the first time, Mr. Brunin asked him a question. For the first time, he skipped out the door to his next class.

That day, I hatched a plan to follow him home. He wouldn’t see me. I was just curious. He couldn’t live too far in the small community.

You’ve probably made up your mind about me. But don’t worry – my creep-ish plan was never achieved. As I exited through the gym at the end of the day, Alex, with his distinctive red pants and bumblebee shirt, could be seen crossing the street and heading up into one of the dilapidated one-story houses across the street. I paused, yet still ran through my questions.

Who were his parents? There was no car in the driveway, which meant Alex was the only one home, while his parent(s) were out working. Pity washed over me, as my inquiry came back: How did Alex live?

I had good grades, was one of the most prodigious athletes on the baseball team, had plenty of friends plus a little sister and two parents, and lived in a big house. If any of these were taken, I’m sure I’d be overwhelmed, my stone base stolen. Yet somehow, Alex lived with none of this.

As I shuffled through the crowds of the middle school, I waved back to a few people, half-heartedly, with no emotion. It dawned on me.

I’d always had a good self-esteem. I wasn’t cocky, but I’m pretty sure that the entire grade liked me. I felt strong, secure. This was the lie.

I was a weakling. So was everyone else, while Alex Cartwright, poor and dumb, lived bravely through his life. He probably had no role models – he was “going solo.” I realized how far he could make it with a push.

A friend.

Now, as a senior, I pass Alex every day in the hallway. My alienation has gone, as I jostle him playfully, and while our banter echoes through the hallway.  I still remember the day I reached out; erasing my plan I’d created the day before to follow him home.

I laugh every time I looked back at my true insecurity in middle school, hovering dangerously. I ponder over the fact that my best friend Alex used to have no friends, waiting, breathing, frowning through life. All he needed was one.

I help him often with his homework, but his rejoice is always worth it. Despite the fact that I wasn’t voted onto the student council again, I’m sure I’ve regained my old popularity, though I think of that now as just extra fluff. 

Still I star on the baseball team; still I’m always earning A’s. But now, despite my fewer “friends,” I know Alex and I have built the strongest foundation of stone.