That Kid from High School
The degenerate of our high school popped some girl’s tire. He never went on to become much of anything.
I never really knew him though.
*
The degenerate of our high school popped some girl’s tire, not because he was devious, but rather because I asked.
I hated that girl, not because she did anything to me though. Her name was Alana, but I knew her as the girl who sent nudes to my girlfriend’s boyfriend. My girlfriend I wasn’t very close with at the time, but her heart was good and fragile.
It was mischief night, and we tracked her car down to the gym–the gym, as if fixing her body would make an ugly heart attractive. I could have put the nail there myself, but I didn’t want to carry the guilt of ruining someone’s day, even if it was Alana’s.
So, as loyal as he was, he did it. Well, he failed the first time, sticking the nail in front of her tire, completely oblivious to the fact that she would have to back out, so the nail would have to be put behind the tire–boy, was he dumb. It gave us a good laugh though, like when we overheard she was late to school the next day because of “car troubles.”
*
The degenerate of our high school purposely blew past a stop sign and blasted his music so loud the entire truck shook! It was the summertime, and I was so painfully bored that when my friend texted me to come hang with these kids, I thought I’d give it a shot.
A few days later, I was at a small house party. He was on the couch, and I was standing, and I stole his hat. A room full of guys, and for some reason, I stole his. I walked away though, knowing I probably took too many shots. He disappeared for a bit.
Sometime later that night, I was near the side of the pong table, pretending to watch the game so nobody would think I was looking for him. From behind me, I felt two skinny arms of a borderline stranger engulf my body and, calmly, guide me away from the smirking faces around the table, behind a wall.
He kissed me there, and I kissed him back–alcohol is a wild thing!
He said, “I’m different, are you different?” I hadn’t given it much thought before then, but I was seventeen and, from the outside, I didn’t think he would believe that behind the cheer pom-poms and mascara was a brain of great depth and struggle. So, I told him I didn’t think so.
He pointed to my jeans–blue jeans with white flowers painted on them. “Those are different,” he said. “See, you are different. It’s good to be different.”
I went home a little while later laughing at myself. I barely drank that night.
*
The degenerate of our high school had a 2.3 GPA and often skipped school days to smoke weed in his mom’s garage or race his dirt bike through the woods. I knew that, but he told his friends he had the flu at least once a week. He was just a kid with divorced parents: an alcoholic father and a mother who never told her son “No.”
I thought he was stupid cute. Most people thought he was just stupid. We were seniors, and he told me he wanted to go to college, like me, and asked if I would help him make some changes. He told his friends he would never go to college. I said I would.
The kid was a mess, but a mess I felt inclined to clean up.
He started to do well. On the days when he would skip school, I would drive to his house during my free period, begging him to come for the last few classes. He never did those days, but getting him out of the house for fifty minutes was an accomplishment. I watched him stare at the math homework and try to work through it, often skipping the ones he “didn’t like.” I saw him in driver’s ed class for consecutive days, too. I remember we did an in-class project. He was assigned loyalty.
*
The degenerate of our high school picked me up in his Ram truck with monster wheels late at night because he always “knew a spot” under the stars. We did this pretty often during that summer, so he knew to carry me out of the passenger side, so I didn’t roll my ankle jumping out of the truck when we arrived.
That one lookout, the one that overlooked New York City just across the Hudson, that was my favorite. The bench we sat at was perfectly stationed under the limitless sky, and there, I felt grounded in the warmth of his sweatshirt.
My cheeks blushed when he smiled and said I “had a lot of stories.” Guess I was talking a lot.
I liked how he carried himself. “Who gives a fuck what people think?” was easy to agree with, before the laughs and torment from my friends. They weren’t my friends. Who gives a fuck what people think?
*
The degenerate of our high school talked to me every day, and this blooming feeling of a glowing heart was foreign to me, yet so attainably pleasant.
I fell in love with his skin, pulled tight on his fingertips, wrapped around my waist like a leash. I fell in love with his eyes, a deep dark brown tunnel into the most lost of souls. I fell in love with his smile, the way it grew from a sly smirk to the most beautiful of grins. His playfulness, his shocking gentleness, I fell in love with every part of him.
He talked to me every day but disappeared in the nighttime.
It was okay, though. I trusted him.
*
The degenerate of our high school texted me “I’m getting sent away again,” one morning, on his way to rehab. He told me they would take his phone, so we had to use Google Hangouts to communicate. He told me it was okay though, because in three weeks, he would be back in time for Christmas.
Those three weeks made me miss him more, and at cheer practice, I ran to my phone every water break, around 3:30 pm when he would be allowed access to his laptop, and smiled with blushed cheeks at my phone screen with his name on it.
He would tell me he missed me. He told me “The best part of my day is talking to you.”
I couldn’t wait for him to get home. I stopped smoking as much to make it easier for him when he did come back.
When those three weeks were up, on Christmas Eve, he sent me another Google Hangout message. My eyes lit up with joy until they flooded with water. He wasn’t coming home, but rather relocated to a sober facility. He told me it was okay though, because when he turned eighteen, a day apart from my birthday and only a month away, he would be able to check himself out.
That Christmas Eve, he told me to “live it up.” He said, “If we were meant to be together, we will be.” He said, “My mom’s finally proud of me.” He said he was “doing what’s best for now.” I cried. And I cried. And I was a teenage girl who asked for a hug from her mother.
My heart broke that day, but, at the time, I was not aware of how many times a heart could break over one person.
*
The degenerate of our high school got his phone back, eventually, and he reentered my phone screen, but this time with more distant messages. On my birthday, I waited for it to be his birthday the next day, so he could come home, and we could be together.
He never came. What started as three weeks turned into a year and eight months, the two of us going back and forth, me trying to leave, him pulling me back in every time, the both of us holding on to that evil sliver of hope.
I told him to stop “keeping me there waiting.” He said, “I never wanted to let you go.”
He did come back throughout all that time, just he avoided the people who cared about him. He came back, never told a soul, other than his best friend who would already have joints rolled up waiting for him with no judgement. He knew he fucked up his entire life and couldn’t man up and face all the damage.
My heart throbbed, but I knew a quick fix to mend the pain over. When I came home from my first year at college, I answered his texts, and God gave me three days.
The first day, he looked me in the eyes and said, “I was not loyal to you the entire time we were together.”
For some reason, this came as a shock to me. I made every which excuse to not believe it.
Yeah, I saw the pictures, of the two of them on her social media long before this moment. I saw her name pop on his phone and watched him get all squeamish. I remembered when he said she would “kill herself if I stopped talking to her.” I remembered when she went from “my brother’s friend” to “my childhood friend” to “my crazy ex-girlfriend.” Hell, I even remembered when I met her, not knowing a clue who she was.
But when he said that pungent statement, I felt more of my heart collapsing into my stomach. I yelled and I yelled.
I drove him home in silence, until he said, “I am not getting out of this car knowing I will never see you again.” So, we talked out this whole “restarting” thing, and henceforth day two, one of the worst nights of my life.
I had plans to see him again, but I felt so weakened by the noise in my head. That sliver of hope I carried could not rise above feeling pathetic anymore. I loved him, so I tried.
And by that, I mean, I drank while he dragged me to this trail in the woods so I could watch them all ride their dirt bikes. I drank more when another girl there, somebody’s girlfriend, asked me if I knew about her, and I lost it. We were in his backseat driving home and I brought it up. He threw me to the other side of the car, telling me I “needed to let it go if this was going to work out.” I couldn’t help it though. I could not understand how my gentle sweet boy could live two different lives.
That night ended with me throwing random shit at him while I cried to show him the damage he caused, and him saying, “I never want to see you again.”
I got out of his truck, and he zoomed off, but I know he heard the screams. I still hear them sometimes. Those weren’t just cries of sadness. They were screams of years’ worth of heartbroken pain masked in box dye and manic smiles.
And on day three, he told me he would block her on everything to make things work. I told him we should just be friends. It took everything in me. I didn’t want to leave because I hated him. I needed to leave because I loved him. And although I knew that, I still offered him friendship.
He didn’t want my friendship. A few days later, he blocked me on everything. He ran back to her, as I assumed he would. I think he forgot he told me he loved me.
And that was the nicest thing he’s ever done for me: he left my life completely.
*
The degenerate of our high school popped some girl’s tire back when we were teenagers. He never went on to become much of anything. Last I heard he was a “chef,” who cheats on his girlfriend.
I never really knew him though.
Madison Simone is a senior at the University of Miami, studying Marketing and Creative Writing. Originally from New Jersey, Madison started writing as an outlet to better understand her emotions. What started as a tool, writing has become Madison’s deepest passion and greatest skill. Madison is currently working on her first fiction novel at twenty-two-years-young, with high hopes for her future career journey.
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