There was a piece of lint stuck to my hoodie that I picked at while an old lady jotted down my name. She was surprisingly elegant.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

So, we did.

“I remembered the tip of the pen was almost non-existent from the heavy hand strokes. Her thin frame— no excess fat, rounded elbow, and flush sagging skin— barely covered a fourth of the whiteboard. She was so different from the lady in front of me now. The gray strands of her hair blended with the board.

I had my elbow resting on the one-inch diameter metal bar attached to my designated chair. My eyes followed the flapping skin of her upper arm as she moved. I found her hips to be wider than what would be natural for her bone structure judging from her torso. My attention shifted from the teacher to the boy beside me.”

A hand was raised.

“You’re quite descriptive. How long ago was this memory from?”

“That morning, upon entering third period Honors U.S. History class, I beelined for the seat I sat on now for the boy beside me was the Robert Torres. I was going to start my high school junior year on a good note. I was sixteen.

The year before, I sat across the room from him in chemistry class. There were two senior boys at my table and a girl my age. Her lengthy brown large arms would be spread throughout the table with her bag occupying another portion. She would stretch her legs forward knocking one of the boy’s legs to which she would quickly apologize for. Tamara was her name. She sometimes came to class in short shorts and knee pads while her sports bag hung on her shoulder and backpack lazily crumple in her hand. Tamara had pretty fluffy short auburn curls that were sometimes pulled back with hairpins. She often talked about volleyball with me, an enthusiast.

When we first met, I thought she was intimidating. She thought I was pretty stuck up. We got along in the end and it was a joy watching her.

Both boys sat in a straight but relaxed manner at our first meeting, both brown and tan. Their hands were always visible unless they were texting. Jacob, the thinner of the two, had hands larger than his build and carried an almost empty backpack wherever he went. He had a long neck and arrogant eyes. Giovanni or Gio had a bit more padding overall and always wore a smile even at times of frustration towards the difficult classwork. He was the conversation starter— "Hello, my name's Gio. I'm taking this class again. What about you guys?" We all met through him. Jacob then replied, "Man, you know me. Sup, my name's Jacob and a senior, like this guy.” He nudged a thumb towards Gio. “Taking the class for the first time. Gio and I are on the same program, that guy too." That was the first time I saw Robert.

We met once during class. We were in the middle of completing a worksheet when the teacher excused himself for a few minutes, leaving us all to self-study. Tamara got up to mingle around like she always did during breaks. Jacob pushed his chair back and rested his feet on the table. Gio leaned forward to ask me about one of the problems in the assignment.

Robert came over in the uniform of the program he shared with his two seniors. He crouched down. He made a few jokes with Gio and a few more with Jacob before he turned his gaze towards me. Had he crouched down to meet my eyes?

My hands clammed up. The grip on my pen tightened and my dry lips quivered a micro-millimeter per second. I didn't quite like the invasion of my personal bubble.

"Hey, I'm Robby,"—his eyes sparkled as he smiled— "sorry about these guys being loud and all."

I simply forced a smile and nodded, "It's fine."

Robby turned his head towards me as soon as our history teacher stopped lecturing. He was talking to the entire table and I focused on the direction of his pen. I lifted my legs so that they'd rest on a lower bar under my seat and rested both elbows on my knees. Readjusting myself kept me from staring too long.

The teacher walked around. I knew everyone in the class this time around. My eyes darted from one friend to another before landing back on Robby. He was twirling his pen between his fingers. I noticeably watched him—"How do you do that?" I wondered. He laughed, shaking the tables as he did. The amusement clearly displayed on his face. He repeatedly tried to show me the trick in slow motion, even suggesting I try it for myself. More than the trick itself, I couldn't turn away from the sweet smile he often had.

And it was like that for the three months we sat together. We talked about school, homework, classwork, and tricks.

I saw him two times a day during school that junior year. Aside from physics (a class we were taking at different periods of the day) club activities on Thursdays of every other week, there was lunch. He started hanging out at The Tree that year.

The Tree was composed of four skinny short evergreen trees in a space of about a master's bedroom: a room for a bed, a walk-in closet, a sitting area, and a bathroom. We also had The Hill. The Hill stood across The Tree. If anyone wanted a private conversation, they would go there. It had been our main place until that year. I never revisited that hill for my privacy.

"And who is Robert?"

I had requested to talk to a priest of the Maison upon my arrival, Father Peter. I'd only ever talked to him once before in person, the rest through email. He was my correspondent when I acquired information about the Maison. He suggested I come and talk to him. When I decided to run, I thought, would it be acceptable to run to a Father? I wondered if he'd judge me for my sins. I really wasn't all too sure about my decision. 

I’ve never trusted a man before.

"He's a boy I know," I answered vaguely.

Who was Robert to me?