Le Commencement

Freshman year started off very dismal. I had just moved to the NEISD area from the Judson District. I knew just about no one and the people I met during the first couple of months were just people who pitied me. I wouldn't eat lunch, a pattern that had remained since seventh grade. For some reason, people find that a reason to shower pity over someone. I sat alone, but it didn't matter. Not then, and it wouldn't matter because I would grow used to it eventually.

                I isolated myself from others and tried to keep it that way by talking to few people, if any at all. I was a very lonely, isolated soul and wondered if I'd ever find at least one person to trust. Ironically, it wasn't until that November, in 2006, when I finally found a friend. His name was Anthony. He was a little taller than me, and approximately the same size as me. This was the person that I could never hope—nor ever want—to forget.

                Our friendship started out innocently. There wasn't even a feasible possibility that we'd end up as we are today. Of course, like many other friends I had, our friendship was confined to the three classes we had together, the area where I stayed with him and his friends until their bus arrived, and, finally, on MySpace.

                The truth of the matter is that his friends weren't my friends. They could never be. We just happened to coexist in that general area.

                I remember that I didn't really start being around them until one day, after Anthony and I had started to get to know each other. It was after school, but I don't remember which day it was—"A" day or "B" day, since our classes were split up between the two. Shyly, I wanted to be around him. Maybe it had been a little crush. I hid behind one of the columns and tried to remain in the shadows. Despite trying to hide and watch from afar, I wanted him to find me. I wanted him to notice me. To my slight jubilance, he spotted me and told me to go over there and join them.

                Tentatively, I walked over to their little group and soon became integrated, but only temporarily. It lasted only a short while due to what I chose to do the upcoming February.

                It was about to be Valentine's Day and Anthony and I had gotten closer, as far as friends go. But I felt we had gotten closer than just friends. My heart jittered madly as I tried to convince myself to go through with what I had furtively intended.

                Our school had little heart-shaped lollipops for sale, which could be sent with a  private message for that special someone to receive. Not only did I get him one of those, but I took advantage of what our school also had to offer. There were three types of roses available. There were: the "stalker" rose, which was a blackish purple; the "love" rose, which was unsurprisingly the deep red one; and the "friend" rose, which was a pinkish orange. I resisted from getting him a "stalker" rose, but if I remember correctly, I ordered him both a "friend" rose and a "love" rose.

                Before all this had been done, I must clarify something that would only make sense between us. We had a secret way of communicating silently. We passed notes, but there was something more to it. I had gotten a thick clicking pen and taken out its ink. I unscrewed the tip and put a rolled-up piece of paper into its hollowness and told Anthony what we were to do with it. To my surprise, he didn't have much trouble getting used to it and cooperated even though it was a little strange in other people's eyes to do this, even if we were friends. The pen lasted for a while, until one of us lost it. Then I searched in my backpack and decided that we would use a pink highlighter. He used my scissors and removed the tube of ink from inside. In two of the classes we had together, we usually slid the highlighter on the floor towards the person whose turn it was to reply. Everyone wondered why we'd do this. Even I don't know why we did it, but it was a way for us to articulate some things that weren't meant to be said aloud. This pink highlighter has lasted a long time, and was still put to good use later in our high school career.

                With that said, it's safe to carry on with this line of thought.

                One day in our P.E. class, we were sitting in the cafeteria. Our P.E. class was pretty much uneventful. It was our first class on "B" days and since it was taught by a new coach at the time and the gym was usually being used by those in athletics, we were always sitting in the cafeteria for about half of the class's duration. This was the class we commonly used our highlighter for, so I ruined my surprise and told him what I'd done and why.

                I confessed the way I really felt about him, but only so much as would fit on that small piece of paper and still be somewhat legible. To my surprise, he shared these feelings that I had for him.

                I felt happy, relieved, and yet I felt delirious from all that had just happened.

                Valentine's Day came and went. He got the things I had gotten for him, along with a card I had gotten especially for him. There was even a small gift of my own, that he had asked for. I didn't get anything from him, but I didn't mind. There was enough reason for him to not get me anything. All I wanted was for him to be there for me…

                It still surprises me how much didn't happen in those few weeks we were together. I still don't understand how I could've considered ourselves as a couple when we never did anything. Never once did we hold hands. Never once did we have a phone call that wasn't awkward.

                I still remember that first time I had called him. I had just gotten home from a little art contest shindig that I had been convinced to participate in by my Art I teacher. The piece I submitted was so ridiculously lacking in real effort that I feel it was so stupid to put so little thought into such a piece. It was dry, empty, hollow; no real life could ever emanate from its sleek surface. Yet somehow I had received good reception from the judge who had interviewed me about it. The story behind the piece was that it was me reaching out to Anthony, hiding yet trying to get closer intimately. I had called him to tell him about what happened with it.

                Anxiously, I listened to the phone ring. I was tempted to just hang up before he had the chance to answer. What if something would go wrong? What if it was a bad time? What if he didn't want to talk to me? These thoughts were always so common during that time. They continued to be in my mind every time I ever called him. I don't know what it was. Maybe it was just insecurity that could never go away.

                Expecting him to answer his phone, I was affronted to find his mom answering it. And it all went downhill from there. He said that his mom said I sounded like a girl. And somehow, his brother had heard my voice, too. They were all laughing on the other end of the line.

                It hurt me inside, not the chagrin, but the feeling of being all alone on that one end of the phone call. Not even when our phone call was at its end, he never said he was sorry for what had happened. I don't even think I had gotten the chance to even tell him what had happened earlier that day. I was crushed, too much to even say a word. I was so damn angry inside. When we had been on the phone, it didn't even sound like he cared about anything I said. During those minutes of talking to him on the phone, I had forgotten he was even my "boyfriend"… or even anyone special. He was just someone else. Someone I hated in that moment.

                Soon after that evening, everything we had ever had between us was erased.

                It was a Monday in mid-March, a "B" day. I had started to accumulate some resentment towards him because of all the things he did and didn't do. There was nothing between us, but that didn't mean I wanted what was about to happen to happen. He had had the highlighter over the weekend and I didn't expect to read what I did that terrible morning.

                "Augustin, do you think we can just be friends?" he had written in that handwriting I had gotten so used to seeing, reading, relishing, savoring… awaiting to observe once again. It was so clear and legible on that unforgiveable scrap of paper. But I had to keep rereading it. I didn't want everything to end like this. What little we had… shouldn't have had to end.

                All through P.E., the highlighter went back and forth between us. But it couldn't be helped. It was over between us; he made that as final as he could. I had lost nothing but time, in reality. Yet somehow, as I was handed the highlighter for one last time, hollow and filled with regrets, I felt I had lost much, much more.