Sweet Boy
BY: ELLIOT GRIFFITH
Images by Winta Assefa
The bell rings. The school day’s over. I finally got to go home. I slid my big, silver Chromebook into its case before sliding my phone into my backpack. I swung it over my shoulders and wormed my way out of the science hall and down the math hall. When I reached the end, I took a left down a two-part flight of stairs into the side entrance of my school. It was a tall, white room with two red metal benches, one across from the stairs and one under them. This room doesn’t really have a name so my friends and I called it the benchroom.
Normally, I sit on the left side of the bench under the stairs but people were already there so I sat on the right side. Of course, they got up and left out the external doors as soon as I was settled. I don’t move to the left. I couldn’t care less at this point. I crossed my legs and pulled my phone out of my bag. I opened Pinterest for some quick entertainment. I don’t have any traditional social media. I don’t really feel the need to get them. Besides, I’m not really paying attention to the art and memes I save, I was mostly waiting for a friend to show up.
Rivers of people flowed down the stairs. They either went outside or back into the school’s first floor. There was an internal door near where I was sitting. There was a lot of doors in the benchroom.
Soon enough, I see him. My friend, Ian (I might even call him my favourite friend), came down the stairs. All annoyance and exhaustion from the school day melted away. I felt my face relax into a softer expression. He’s here. I can finally unwind. Except something’s not right. He’s tired. I could see it in his eyes. I wished I could’ve asked him what was going on but I knew he wouldn't tell me. Ian doesn’t talk about his feelings like I do. I let the dam break before it drowns me. I guess some people can hold their breath a little longer.
Ian placed his backpack next to mine but kept his phone in his hand.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” He sat down beside me.
“How’s your day?” I tried asking.
“Egg,” he answered, just as expected. I tried not to make my disappointment known.
Ian stretched his legs out behind him and leaned on his forearm. He looked up at me for an invitation. I put my phone in my backpack, rested my arm against the back of the bench, and gave a quick nod. Ian lowered his head into my lap, bringing both his hands up to his face. I have to admit, it was cute. With his eyes closed and all the muscles in his face relaxed, he looked so peaceful, so innocent. I ran my fingers through his hair. It’s coarse but smooth and pleasant to touch.
A lot of people think we’re dating. We're not, just very close, but that doesn’t stop people from asking. It always flies over Ian’s head so I, ironically, always have to tell the askers no. It is the truth though. I’m not going to give a false answer for some teenage boys who can’t mind their own business. That would be stupid.
I kept an eye out for any such idiots. I was not going to allow them to start oohing and ahhing at Ian and I while he was this tired. I was not going to allow anyone to disturb the peace. Then again, who would want to disturb him? Ian is beloved by all. How good that must feel. The memories of my last year of middle school forced themselves to the forefront of my mind; memories of a time where half my class would poke and prod at me like my anger was some form of entertainment.
I shoved those memories from my head and looked down at Ian again. He was borderline falling asleep and still holding his phone. I took it from his loose grip and placed it on the small bit of bench between me and the armrest. It would be a shame if he dropped it. I know Ian would miss me. He’s told me before but I can’t understand why. “I’m going to miss you,” he once said. “I know you want me to be more specific but I can’t. I’ll miss you.”
I looked back at Ian and he looked so precious, so sweet, so young. I swear, sleep erases all age from the face.
He’s just a child.
The thought struck as unfamiliar. But it’s true. Ian is just a child. I am just a child. It’s easy to forget. Ian could probably pass as an adult if he wasn’t so clueless. But that didn’t matter. Our teachers had already forgotten how young we really are. Just a little bit ago my science teacher was telling off a boy in my class. She said “He’s a young adult." Young adults are people in their twenties, not us. Maybe convincing themselves we were “young adults” made it easier to rationalize us having to choose career paths this early. Maybe it was some lie they could tell themselves to make them feel better.
Dread crept up my spine. I have two years left before I graduate, one year before things start to matter. Ian, being a year older than me, only had one. Maybe that’s why he was tired. I mean, he was the most likely to get a good career in his family. Pressure would begin to build. That had to account for something, right. It felt illegal to know that. God, I wish I didn’t know that. I wanted to ask him if he was okay but I know he wouldn't tell me because his dam doesn’t break and I can’t help with what I don’t know. I just want to help.
I don’t want him to leave me but I don’t really have a choice in that, do I? I don’t want him to forget me. I don’t want to go back to that dark place my mind always finds itself in when people leave. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to be an adult just yet. I’m not ready to be an adult. I’m not ready to choose a college. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I’m not–
Ian’s phone buzzed and I stopped thinking. I tilted his phone to get the screen to light up. It was a notification from his messages app. I dragged a finger across the screen so I could see what it said. It was from his dad. He was there to pick us up. I gently shook Ian awake and showed him the message. He sat up and I can feel where he once was on my legs. He looked at me, “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
We grabbed our backpacks and we left the school’s internal door.
I need to stop living in the future.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hi! My name is Elliot Griffith (he/him) and I am an aspiring author. I normally work with fantasy or sci-fi; basically anything where I can just make stuff up. The story I’m sharing here is a little out of my comfort zone since I typically don’t like writing with real people. It’s composed of multiple memories grafted onto a single core but it channels a lot of my thoughts about being a teenager and how we are perceived by the adults around us.
