Chapter 5: The World Doesn’t Stop

School bullying knows no gender.

Next to the classroom trash can sat Jamie, a kid who struggled with learning and never seemed to fit in.

His family was poor, like me he was a day student, but he had a grandma who loved him dearly.

His clothes were always clean, though patched, and smelled nice.

His backpack always had eggs and PB&J sandwiches his grandma made for him.

If they held back with me, with him it was pure malice and bullying.

Taking advantage of his innocence, they tricked him into the bathroom to drink dirty water and urine; they called him "idiot" while stealing his only lunch money; they dumped all the class chores on him, threatening he could only go home after finishing.

They said it was friendly play between friends.

He believed them.

No one cared what his real name was—everyone just called him "idiot."

So the first thing he did at school every day was hand over his lunch money, serving this group of masters.

He couldn’t bear to waste food, even if his eggs and sandwiches were stomped on, he would eat them clean, then go home covered in footprints.

His grandma was old, so she picked up more cans every day to sell, just to give him a bit more lunch money, hoping he’d have a better life.

How did I know? Because I ran into his grandma while picking up cans. She let me help her sometimes, handing me a peppermint candy and a smile.

She was a kind old lady, with gentle eyes—just like the "idiot."

But kind people are bullied.

I could barely protect myself, so all I could do was shout "the principal is coming" when he was dragged into the boys’ bathroom.

Why not call for a teacher? Because teachers didn’t care.

When he was covered in footprints, I helped dust him off, so it wouldn’t be so obvious when he got home. I always checked over his backpack, making sure at least one sandwich survived.

After school in winter, I helped him clean the classroom, letting him go home first.

Because it got dark early, his grandma would worry.

He was different from me; no one waited for me at home, but someone always kept a light on for him. I imagined his grandma peeking through the blinds, kettle whistling, relief flooding her face when she saw him coming down the street.

A child with no haven doesn’t look forward to going home.

Over time, I found out he wasn’t so dumb.

His name was Jamie—a very nice name.

He could tell who was good to him and who wasn’t.

When I helped him, he would say thank you, and the next day bring me breakfast too. He always wrapped it in a napkin, careful not to let it get squished.

He had a Slim Jim as a snack every day; before, he always ate it before entering school, but later, he would bring it to share with me in secret.

Half for him, half for me.

Because everyone called him dirty, when he handed me food, his eyes were full of caution.

He said: "I’m not dirty, these are clean, don’t hate me."

He said I was his good friend, the only friend in class.

He said if he didn’t listen, they’d bully his grandma.

Because I was close to him, I became the second "idiot" in the class.

From then on, I was no longer Aubrey, but "Aubrey the Idiot" in their mouths.

They said Aubrey the Idiot and the real idiot were a good match.

They said the two idiots were in puppy love.

They wrote "idiot’s wife" on the back of my homework book.

Asked when I would marry the idiot.

They laughed wildly, like demons crawling out of hell.

The good and evil of youth are sharply divided.

In the second semester of eighth grade, we got a new homeroom teacher, a young woman named Ms. Carter.

In her, I saw what the textbooks called "a real teacher."

She was strict, but fair.

She cared about everything.

She held class meetings every week, stressing that all forms of school violence were strictly forbidden.

Complaining to her worked.

So I no longer had to endure vulgar jokes, and Jamie didn’t go home covered in wounds.

He was very happy, saying to thank me for helping him complain, he’d bring me a whole Slim Jim tomorrow.

I said okay, then I’d bring him a small gift too.

We were both celebrating belated justice.

Jamie liked the balloons sold at the corner store by the school, especially the ones shaped like cartoon sheep.

But his lunch money was always stolen, so he could only look, not buy.

So, the next day I came to school early.

Five dollars for a balloon, I used my saved money to buy him two.

I waited a long time.

That seat remained empty.

Until the homeroom teacher choked up while announcing to the class:

"Kids, you have to be careful crossing the road. This morning, Jamie was hit by a truck that ran a red light. The driver took off, and he died right there."

Instantly, all kinds of eyes turned to me.

I sat dazed at my desk, my mind frozen. The room felt too bright, every noise distant.

When I came to, I realized my face was already wet with tears.

But just yesterday, everything was fine. My hands shook under the desk, clutching the balloons I never got to give him. Grief felt like swallowing a mouthful of broken glass.

We hadn’t had time to celebrate.

We hadn’t had a few good days yet.

I hadn’t given him the balloons he liked.

I hadn’t told him he was my only good friend too.

How did everything become too late?

His grandma came to school to collect his belongings, her eyes swollen, hands trembling.

I helped her load things onto the rusty old wagon she used.

She sobbed, trembling as she took two warm Slim Jims from her pocket and put them in my hand.

"Jamie said, he said today he wanted to give his best friend two Slim Jims. He kept talking about it since last night, told me to remind him in the morning."

"You’re a good child, thank you for taking care of Jamie for so long."

"He had no luck in this life, leaving before this old woman."

I stood at the end of the road, watching the staggering figure slowly push the wagon, her loose clothes fluttering in the wind like a boat about to capsize.

There were sheep-shaped balloons tied to both handles, swaying in the sky.

Swaying, as if Jamie was saying goodbye to me.

Until the last trace of her disappeared around the corner.

I blinked my dry eyes.

On a winter afternoon, the sun stung my eyes. The world felt heavy and unfair, but the day went on.