JACKSON

 

 

Walking down the hallway is torment in itself, even without the constant jeers and ridicule. My shoes have been worn for a while, the soles growing thinner with every step, until they finally fail to provide protection from whatever surface I’m walking on. It was raining this morning and my feet have been soaked all day, the cold slowly creeping up my legs until it reaches my core.

I've never known anything but poverty, but the older I get, the more it seems to hurt. Still, I can consider myself lucky. I've never gone hungry. Food is the only thing that my mother always has enough money for. Food and alcohol. The latter seems to be the only comfort she has since my father left us two years ago, and I've been watching her grow more depressed ever since. Glued to the couch in front of the television, the only quality time I ever share with her involves a huge portion of fries and fish sticks with ketchup, pizza, or instant macaroni and cheese. Sometimes, it's all of these together, while we stare at the TV in silence, only communicating via our loud chewing or when passing drinks and food between us. She started sharing her beer with me when I turned thirteen a few months ago, but I never cared for the taste. I don't understand why everybody is making such a big fuss about underage drinking, when beer tastes like wet feet. I'd much rather stick with Coke.

"Jackson Fatson!" One of my classmates yells across the hall at me as I approach my locker. I ignore him, just like I ignore everyone else. The stares, the name calling, the pointing fingers, the giggling behind my back - the D on my most recent test. I provide these cruel kids with a target on so many levels, I can hardly blame them for unloading on me.

I just wonder what it's like on the other side.

I hold my head low and fiddle with the lock on my locker, prepared to be attacked by a horrible smell or something falling at me once I open the door. Kids are very creative when it comes to torturing others.

Today nothing happens. All I find are my belongings, worn-out schoolbooks, pens, and an open bag of candy, the only solace I know. I grab two pieces and quickly shove them into my mouth, hoping that no one saw me do it. A faint smile speaks of the comfort the sugar provides me. I feel happy, even though I know the feeling won't last long.

My next class is math, the only class that doesn't make me feel like a complete failure. It's not like I'm bringing home straight As, but I never saw a big fat F or D scrawled across any of my math tests.

"Jackson Fatson!" Another chorus sings behind me.

"Whatcha doing loser?" Kendrick, a boy from my geometry class asks. "Trying to hide in your locker?"

"Like he'd ever fit!" Another one chimes in. "Probably crying because he flunked the easiest quiz ever!"

"I didn't flunk!" I protest, now turning around to the little group of boys who have nothing better to do than to add to my misery for their own amusement.

"Whatever!" Kendrick yells at me. "Jackson Fatson!"

Something tells me that he's not the brightest bulb in the box himself. Others have shown a lot more wit when it comes to tormenting me with their words.

I cut off his ongoing attempts at messing with me and head for my next class. Math is my favorite class, not only because I don't suck at it, but for an additional reason, and that other reason happens to walk around the corner at just this moment.

Aileen Watson may not even be aware of my existence, but she plays the lead in all of my adolescent dreams, innocent or not. She is tall for a girl, taller than me and there is nothing particularly captivating about her looks, as far as I can tell. I've never heard the boys talk about her the same way they talk about the others. Like Sara, our blonde, popular star athlete whose breasts grew enormously last summer and who suddenly started to wear the heaviest makeup.

Aileen doesn't wear makeup or short skirts and she is rather clumsy in gym class, but she excels in her studies. She's the best student in our entire grade, which means that she must be a lot smarter than me. Her brown hair falls over her shoulders in long waves, sometimes blocking her views when she bends over her desk to work on assignments. When that happens, she tucks it behind her ear with a calm and elegant motion, not letting it disturb her work. She's always prepared and concentrates in class, and she doesn't participate in chatting and giggling with the other girls.

And she doesn't bully me. She's a good person. At least I think she is. I've not talked to her even once, and the only time I've heard her speak was in class, when she answered the teacher's questions. Her voice is deep and calm, not squeaky and annoying like the voices of the girls on the cheerleading squad who continuously practice their infantile chants on the field outside and inside the halls.

She always sits in the front row, and I'm two rows behind her, slightly to the right, so that I can see her delicate frame and watch her follow along in class with unparalleled attention.

She's too good for me. I know that. While I've never seen Aileen with a boyfriend or even talking to another boy in a flirtatious manner, I'm sure that I'd be the last one for her to pick. She needs someone smart. Someone with potential. Not Jackson Fatson. Not a loser who sighs in relief when he earns a passing grade because he's too dumb for school.

But while all of that may be true, Aileen still gives me a reason to smile. Her mere presence uplifts my mood and makes me feel blessed to be alive.

I could look at her forever.