Hidden

Sometimes I like to think of my over-active imagination as my Super Spy Skills going into overdrive. Sometimes though, I think it is seen more as a liability than an asset. It makes me super careful and—so I have been told—a good writer, but it also makes me extremely paranoid. I have to make sure that everyone is wearing a seatbelt in the car or else I’d be afraid they would die in a car accident; I won’t step on cracks that I can avoid; Sometimes I even freak myself out to the point of tears with some crazy, random scenario of a serial killer or a stalker or something that tries to break into my house to kill or rape me. There are always things lurking in the shadows that play into our imagination and our biggest fears. It is inevitable not to be swallowed whole at one point or another.

My paranoia, however, doesn’t make me intuitive to anyone’s thoughts or actions. I am no super hero by any means. Hell, most of the time I’m clueless to what others are feeling around me unless I know them extremely well—like my mom—or it is painfully obvious that something is the matter. James, at the moment, is the latter.

With every message he sends, he seems to become more and more on edge. The replies are short and influenced with a tone of feigned okay-ness. Something about his tone was off, and I could tell that he was trying harder than usual to act silly and tell me how happy he is that I said yes. I almost feel mixed emotions behind his words.

Me: Okay, spill. What’s going on? I sent to him finally. It took a while for him to reply, but when he did it was short and sweet.

James: I got into a fight. Don’t really want to talk about it.

I sighed and grimaced. I wanted to know more abut it, but I didn’t want to pressure him into confiding into me. Though, I don’t really know why he wouldn’t tell me, perhaps he didn’t want to scare me? Though, I don’t think that I could ever be afraid of him. He’s too sweet to me.

As soon as my mom woke me up the next morning, I knew that it wasn’t going to be the best of days. She was hurting a lot today, so she was on edge. She snapped at me for not getting out of bed right away, she took a while getting out of bed, and when we finally got to school, she could hardly keep her eyes open. Most of the time, the pain keeps her from sleeping.

My mom has Fibromyalgia. Honestly, I don’t really know what causes it, but it makes my mom’s muscles hurt a lot. Sometimes the pain is so bad that she can’t even bear to walk. She has to use a wheelchair and my brother has to driver her around. I did my best to help—when I could—until we got to school and then I left her to her own devices as I sought out my friends. It may seem mean to just leave her, but she’s a tough cookie and she’ll manage. After a while, I started to worry less and less because I know her and I know how she is. It also becomes harder to take care of her when she is in a pissy mood, so I try to avoid talking a lot to her in those days so she won’t become angry with me.

Rina, Zaney, and I walked around for a while before school. They talked amongst each other while I thought of James. I wondered what he looked like, what his friends were like, what he was like in real life. Though, I wouldn’t dare to ask just yet. I prefer to keep the image I have made of him in my own head for a while before crushing it. In turn, I would never give up my information without him giving up his first. I would want to investigate and think about it before I make a decision. If he sends me a picture and I don’t think he’s cute, I’m not going to tell him, but I might not want to send him my picture. What would he think of me, if he met me in real life? Would he think I’m pretty? Would he think I’m smart? Would he think I’m a creepy freak that thinks almost nothing of a conversation about decaying bodies and doesn’t talk much to people she doesn’t know? He would probably break up with me if he knew the real me: a small, nerdy girl who doesn’t fit in with any one crowd and is too afraid of the shadows to walk around her own locked, alarmed house at night, with the lights off.

As I began to spiral down a train of thoughts that would ultimately make me feel pretty shitty about myself, something threw my train off the track to make way for a new one. Well, more like a someone. The same boy that sat near me in Algebra II was sauntering down the hall with his head down. His hair covered most of his face while he walked, but beneath the strands I could see that his face was slightly purple and there were signs of cuts. Something happened to him, but he didn’t have anything covered up. I figured that if his face looks that beat up, how bad could the rest of his body look? The sight of him made me sad—though I’m not entirely sure why. There is something about him that makes me want to tackle him to the ground with a hug.

I got into a fight. Don’t really want to talk about it.

The sight of the unknown boy made James’ words bounce off the walls of my skull until I would see them behind my eyelids and hear them through any conversation. My imagination began to go into overdrive as I imagined what could have happened to him and who he could be. Though, I would never voice my crazy, impossible thoughts.

The bell rang and knocked me out of my reverie. It was then I decided that I had to do something for the boy. To me, it looks as if he doesn’t have a lot of money. It’s not like I have a lot either, though, so it would be hypocritical to judge him. It’s not his fault, I’m sure. The cuts need to be treated and he has got to hurt.

I skipped lunch today and went around to some of my mom’s friends’ classrooms. I collected gauze pads, antiseptic wipes, Band-Aids, and I even managed to score a re-freezable ice pack and a piece of tan cloth he can wrap around everything so there’s not such a scene. I was absolutely embarrassed and nervous to ask for the supplies, but Rina thought it was a good idea and she urged me to move on with my plan.

I wrapped everything up in a plastic grocery bag and taped a red heart with the words “feel better” onto for cutie kicks. Ann knows a lot of people and lucky for me, she knows him too. She doesn’t know his name, but she shares a guitar class with him. I gave the pack to her and asked her to put it in his backpack when he’s not looking. My friend Delilah has the same Algebra class a period before us, so I asked her to leave a note for him on his desk. I wouldn’t want someone to lead it back to me; he’d think bad things about me.

Rina and I walked into 6th period with a plan to just ignore the boy and keep busy with our own outward conversations. We are going to try and be calm and collected. Though, when he sat at his desk and opened the colorfully decorated note—courtesy of Delilah, no doubt about it—I couldn’t seem to pry my eyes away from him. My breath began to pick up as I waited anxiously for him to open his bag and react in some way. Maybe he would like it; maybe he would think it was stupid. Either way I don’t know how I could contain myself.

Though the rate at which he opened his backpack was agonizingly slow for me, it was probably normal for any other person. Time seemed to slow as I saw him pluck the heart out, then put it and the note back in the bag. I couldn’t see his face, but I hoped that he was smiling.