The girl responsible for all of this and her best friend stand near me, but not next to me, thoroughly engrossed in stimulating, intellectual conversation about girl scout cookies and wanting to fuck eachother. The only other person around who can see things clearly at this point is off somewhere else speaking with his partner in crime. They've just stolen my cookies.
Me, I've got my backpack slung over one shoulder, holding it because I don't really have anything else to do. I'm not here because I want to talk to any of these people, and I'm not here because I don't have anywhere else to go. I'm happier on my own. Gives me time to write, time to think, and time to breathe.
The truth is, I'm here because I'm worried about him. So I'm scanning the crowd looking for his face, hoping he will come back. When he does, I watch him slide to his spot, crash against the wall, and crumple to the floor. It's not so dramatic as this unless you're paying attention.
The girl who's responsible, she keeps talking. The boy, he walks over, but he's listening to Rage Against the Machine, and that is infinitely more important than anything else at this moment.
My friend, the one against the wall, he's sitting now, and I am still standing. I know that if I sit, then the boy will sit, and then the girl responsible might sit, and if that happens then my friend will feel even more trapped. So I stand, looking down on him, feeling slightly condescending for doing so.
I hadn't noticed before, but he has become much thinner by now. His eyes are sad and wet when he thinks no one is paying attention. It leaves when someone calls to him. He's wrapped in under layers of black clothing, and he's fragile somehow. I stand and absorb all of this.
The bell rings, and the group stands for a while, rebellious teenagers as it were. The girl responsible for this heartbreak, this pain, she approaches him, and I watch them embrace. She leaves.
Later, he tells me she kissed him.
His hands are shaking, and in the back of my mind, I can't stop thinking that I'm going to be late, and my teacher will lecture me for this, most likely in front of the entire class. I'm going to be in trouble for a boy who wouldn't return the favor if the positions were switched.
I hold his hand in mine, and it doesn't really matter that I'll be in trouble. Being on time was never the important part of life. Following the rules was never the true meaning of anything.
I slip into class and tiptoe to my desk quickly. It doesn't matter if I'm subtle, so long as I am quiet. She sees me and approaches, hissing, "And just why are you late?"
"My friend. I was worried about him. He's dealing with some stuff..."
"Well he needs to get over it then."
I sit down. It's a cold remark to make, especially from a Psychology teacher.
I smile to no one in particular.
I tried.