In English class, we currently read a book and prepared ourselves for an analysis of the plot and characters, and an upcoming exam based off it. 

A hefty classic, the usual, boring stuff with overtly flowery, old language. I enjoyed reading, so it wasn’t boring, but I liked to read at my own pace, which wasn’t possible in class, where our teacher Mrs Fletcher insisted on everyone reading a passage out loud. 

It didn’t go as peaceful and smoothly as I would have hoped. 

“Oliver.” Mrs Fletcher called out to him, and I gazed over at my neighbor. 

His head hung low, staring at the lines of the book, his eyes stuck to it. With a ruler, he made sure to track his progress, to focus on the line he was reading. He was behind, read all by himself, and possibly hadn’t listened at all ever since the beginning, reading at his own pace just like I did. I made sure to keep track of where the class was, but that wasn’t the case for him. 

“Oliver. Line 14. It’s your turn.” 

“Um…” He scratched the side of his head, eyebrows lifted, in a desperate attempt to find the line the class was at. It turned out, I realized, he was two pages behind everyone else. 

I wondered if I should help, but it only took one glare from him to make me reconsider, and keep to myself. 

He flipped the page back and forth, and couldn’t find the exact line Mrs Fletcher wished to hear, and her patience, already thin from the get-go when it came to Oliver, practically snapped in half. 

“Get out, Oliver.”

With a frown and a confused expression, Oliver lifted his head. “What? Why?”

“I don’t need you in my class if you won’t pay attention, do I? It’s the same as always, just get out, and don’t disrupt the class.” 

Oliver’s voice turned darker. “I didn’t disrupt the class.” 

It was true. Silently, he’d been reading — why didn’t he just admit so? To properly remember the plot and lines, he read by himself, and he was slower than his classmates. 

Well, given his reputation with the teachers, would they even believe him? Should I have said something in his defense? But I didn’t want to assume he struggled to read, even so slowly as he did, and embarrass him in front of everyone. It was a dead end for me, with no way of helping; I’d already gotten on his nerves more than once, and I didn’t want to make it any worse. 

Mrs Fletcher’s outburst made no sense to me. Why didn’t she just let it go, and move on? Whether Oliver didn’t read or lagged behind, whether he paid attention or not, no one else but her cared, and she had already made her opinion about him long before he’d opened his mouth.

Oliver gave up rather swiftly, and didn’t even bother defending himself in front of her. He banged his book shut, which forced me to flinch in surprise, and dragged himself across the classroom, only to throw the book he’d so diligently read right into the trashcan — completely ignoring the fact it was school property, and he was supposed to hand it over at the end of the year; preferably undamaged. 

With all eyes on him, he left the classroom, another loud bang to follow as he shut the door so loudly, it sent a wave of wind flying throughout the room, whipping pages about and flipping them onto the next.

“Tsk,” Mrs Fletcher rushed after him, opening the door once more. “What’s gotten into you?” She should have just let it go, but instead, she wasted her time scolding Oliver instead of moving forward with the class. 

Oliver didn’t even protest as she gave him an entire speech about why he shouldn’t smash the door, and how she expects him to reflect on his behavior, whatever that was, and calm himself down. 

Once our teacher returned, I wondered what Oliver was up to outside; whether he fled the premises and smoked behind the gym, or if he sat outside, blowing off steam? Did he walk back and forth with too much energy boiling inside his body?

I caught myself staring at the notes on his desk, the few he had written down to remember key details of our book, and I felt bad for the way he’d been treated. 

Class ended, the door opened, and Oliver snatched his stuff, and disappeared a second after. Mrs Fletcher realized that too late, gazed around the room, and sighed all the louder. 

“And Oliver? I told him to wait, we had something else to discuss.” No one really responded her, and ultimately, her eyes fell upon me. 

“Finn, could you please find him for me? There was some homework I have to hand him.” 

“Ah … Um, yeah, sure.” Though I had no idea where he was, where he always ran off to. Oliver disappeared so quickly, it was impossible to track him down. 

But this time, I was forced to, and I only had one guess: behind the school’s gym, where he was rumored to smoke and bully others with his friends.

“Matt, can you bring my backpack to the other class? I’ll be back soon.”

“You’re seriously going after him?” 

“Well, Mrs Fletcher asked me, so …” 

“Yeah, but—“ Matt looked around, as if cautiously choosing his words. “It’s Oliver.” 

“He hasn’t done anything wrong,” I mumbled, avoiding Matt’s almost shocked gaze as he wondered why I bothered defending him. 

I made my way over, walking across the school’s yard in an effort to find Oliver. He wasn’t anywhere in the hallways of the school, I hadn’t even seen a glimpse of him, but as I approached the gym’s building and walked around it, I could already hear the laughters, and smell the cigarette smoke that made my nostrils flare in disgust. 

Only a quick peek, I thought. I’d call Oliver over, tell him about Mrs Fletcher, and disappear again. A few seconds would pass, barely enough time for him to get angry and lash out at me. A bulletproof plan, or so I thought.

I peeked around the corner, and saw four people standing around behind the gym, leaning against the wall or sitting on the pavement. All four smoked, three boys and one girl. 

They were older, dressed in over-sized clothing, except for the girl. She wore a black skirt, heavy leather booths, chains decorating her all over. Piercings atop her dark-colored lips, and heavy, dark makeup beneath pitch-black hair. She was pretty, but just as frightening as the others. One of the boys wore nothing but a tank-top and some shorts, showing off tattoos on both his arms. 

But there was no Oliver, and that alone confused me. The cigarette smoke clouded my vision as I tried backing off, but they had long noticed me. 

“Hey, little one,” one of them called out to me with a mocking giggle, forcing goosebumps onto my skin, and as I turned around once more to face them, he’d already approached me. He had bleached hair, ears decorated with piercings, and a cigarette tucked between his lips. Staring me up and down, he cocked his head to the side.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

“W-What?” Blush rushed onto my cheeks, confused by such a ridiculous question, and I didn’t even know how to respond. Never, ever had someone asked me that. 

“Such a pretty face, it’s almost annoying.” Before I could fight back, he had wrapped his arm around my shoulders and dragged me closer. 

“Want some? That why you’re here?” He waved his cigarette in front of my face, but I shook my head.

“N-No, I was just … looking for someone.” 

“Oh, yeah? Who are you looking for, baby-girl?”

“Don’t call me that.” I pushed him off of me. “I’m a boy.” 

“Are you sure about that?” he scoffed, only to shake his head and laugh along with his friends. My cheeks burned in embarrassment, realizing that having come here was a mistake. 

“I’m looking for Oliver,” I said nonetheless, gulping down my pride. “Have you seen him?” 

Their eyes widened in unison, almost. “Oliver, huh? Haven’t seen him in a hot minute.”

“Seriously? I thought—“ I squeaked in surprise when a hand wrapped itself around my wrist, so suddenly it shook my entire body, and yanked me back onto school grounds. 

Of course, it was none other than Oliver, who stared down at me with anger-tightened lips and a tense jaw, his teeth grinding against one another. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed at me, his fingers leaving prints upon my wrist. 

“I—“ My voice was an embarrassing peep, a frightened stutter. I stared down at his fingers clinging onto my arm, and didn’t know what to think. 

Why was he so angry, just because I’d come here? He didn’t want anyoe seeing who he spent time with? But just now, his so-called friends had said they hadn’t seen him in forever. 

“I was looking for you. Mrs Fletcher—“

“I don’t care. Now piss off.” He dragged me to the side, away from those friends and the cigarette smoke that lingered. Finally, he let go of my arm. 

“But, Mrs Fletcher wanted—“

“It’s none of your business. Don’t come back here.” Oliver didn’t let me protest any longer, and instead, he turned away and went to his friends, who greeted him in the same mocking sound as me.

“Hey, Oliver, finally showing us your face again? Who was that, huh?” 

“Shut up, Toby. Leave him alone.” 

They didn’t sound like friends at all; why bother spending time with them?

If Oliver wasn’t here during his breaks, where on earth did he go?