Jake

It's funny how you can forget things just going around in everyday life. Things that seemed so important once. I was driving in the mountains today, just thinking. I thought about everything I knew I would, except for one thing. Jake. Jake was my locker buddy junior year of high school. After that year, I saw things differently. At the beginning of junior year, everything went the way I expected; me sitting in front of Jake and having nothing to do with him. He was always the kid who did things no one else would. He would sit in the hall and ditch class just because he could. I think one day in eighth grade he even ate the guts from the pig we dissected. He didn't care what people thought of him, which confused me at the time. No one talked to him, no one seemed to care what happened to him. I would see him walking for more than five miles every day to get to school. The funny thing is, he didn't try. He didn't try to have friends, or talk to anyone at all. The only time he would talk to someone was when he wanted to bet five bucks for doing something utterly stupid. I did my best to stay away from him as much as I could. As much as was possible, anyway.
First day of school we were assigned our study halls, two to a table with the strictest teacher ever. He called us to our assigned tables and I knew what was about to happen. "Mr. Brockman. Go sit by Hunter," Mr. Roscoe said. He saw my shrug and the displeased look on my face. "And Mr. Brockman. Don't try anything with her." This made me laugh because I already knew NOTHING would ever happen. Jake walked over to the table and sat down, tipping it my way. I slammed the table down and said, "Don't even try." He looked at me for a minute and said, "What's your problem" as if I had insulted him in the worst way possible. I just went back to my homework; at least I tried because he kept staring at me and finally snapped his pencil in half.


Later that year, I was at my locker, having nothing to do with anyone. Jake walked up and slammed my locker shut.
"You trying to break in?"
         "What's your deal?" I asked before I walked away.
         "You're a stuck-up!" and that was all he said for a long time.


         In mid-November, Jake asked me, "Why do you wear turtlenecks?" What was I supposed to say? Get lost loser or something like that? No matter how much I dislike someone, I would never do that to them.
         "They're comfortable," I answered.
         "Are you insecure or something? --- Do they feel like a hug to you?" Jake was completely serious, and I was completely confused.
         "No, I just like them." And that was it. I went to class and he sat in the hall. That day was strange. He wanted to ask something, it seemed, but he never did. He wasn't in study hall that day, either.


         Then next day, Jake walked up to my locker wearing a turtle-neck. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile in five years when he asked, "What do you think?" I tried not to laugh at the way he looked but I couldn't help it. The turtleneck did not help his height of 6'4" and he knew it because he laughed too. Personally, I thought he looked a bit like a giraffe, but he wasn't a bad looking giraffe.
         "Not my type?" he asked.
         "No," I said, shaking my head. "Stick with the t-shirt and jeans."
         "That's what I thought, too."


         Jake was always one of those there-one-day-gone-the-next type of kids. I didn't see him for two weeks after the turtleneck incident. Then one day, he was in English class reading a poem due a month ago. He called it "Why Do Turtles Need Necks?" He knew I was the only one that got what he was talking about. The poem talked about how all the people he had known had never stuck up for him or defended him when he needed. It was funny because the assignment due that day was a poem; mine was called "The Secrets Stored in a Turtle Shell." His was so full of secrets and I wanted to help him.
         In study hall that day, he passed me his notebook asking for a pencil. This led to a conversation about middle school, Mr. Roscoe, and spaghetti. Jake's next English assignment was called "What's In the Spaghetti Pile?"


         Jake stayed in school for a whole month that time and he didn't miss a day. One day, he came into study hall with Bugles on his fingers and ran them up my arm.
         "My real hands should be like this," he said.
         "Mr. Brockman. Feel free to escort yourself to the principal's office. Hunter, don't go anywhere. You're staying twenty extra minutes." Jake and I gave each other a look and he left for the principal's office. I sat there twenty minutes after everyone had gone, wondering what would happen to Mr. Roscoe if he ever asked anyone to talk to him. I assumed not much because Mr. Roscoe never talked to anyone.
         "Alright, Hunter, you can go." He didn't even look up, so I took the opportunity to make the most hideous face I could. I looked over at the door and saw Jake sitting in the hallway.
         "Stuck?" I asked.
         "Nah, just don't feel like going home."
I nodded and walked away.
         The next day, Jake wasn't at school, or the day after that. When he came back, he had a massive black eye. He passed in the hallway and kept going without talking to me. My next assignment in English class was "Anger like a Bull's." When I read it, only then did he look at me.



         I often wonder why I was the only person Jake talked to. One time he told me a joke I knew no one else would get, but I did. It was a horrible joke. I hoped he never said it again, but knowing him, he would probably repeat it as often as he could.
         Jake came into study hall with headphones on. "Principal, Mr. Brockman." Mr. Roscoe showed no mercy, but his rules were becoming clear. Nothing pleasant in study hall or "principal" would be embedded in your brain by the sound of his deep, scratchy voice.
         My study hall desk was by a large bookshelf in the library. Mr. Roscoe said no taking books unless we "absolutely needed them." Jake didn't like Mr. Roscoe anymore that day than he did every other day. He took all the books off the first shelf and stacked them on our desk. He took a bag of Doritos and crushed them in the books. Mr. Roscoe didn't see the chips.
         "Mr. Brockman. Put the books back and go to the principal's."
         While Jake put the books back, I took his iPod and headphones out of his backpack and blared the music in my ears loud enough for Mr. Roscoe to hear.
         "Hunter, please go join Mr. Brockman."
I grabbed my stuff and left. Jake was sitting in the hall outside the door.
         "Principal?" I asked.
         "They just make you sit anyway. Why not the hall?" So we sat and ate chips and listened to music.


         On the way to school the next week, I saw Jake walking in the opposite direction.
         "Hey what's going on?"
         "Today's a ditch day. You should ditch with me. Or are you still a stuck-up?" He seemed concerned about something.
         "Get in," I said. We spent the whole day ditching school, and it was wonderful.


         I asked Jake for his notebook: What happened to ditching class?
I've got nowhere else to be that's any better.
We ditched the next day and didn't say a word to each other, accept for when he said, "I thought you couldn't tolerate me." I didn't say anything after that and neither did he.
         We had to write a poem again in English class. Mr. Beck said it was "beneficial to our self-expression." Jake's was called "Silence in Sincerity" and mine was "Change of a Porcupine." The rest of the class had no idea what I mean; neither did Mr. Beck. But Jake and I understood each other perfectly.


         For the next few months, Jake and I hung out a lot. He would come to school with bruises all the time. I would ask where he got them, but he would never tell me. He would clam up and just not answer. So, I learned not to ask.
         One week, Jake never came to school at all. I was worried about him. But then he showed up the next week and he was back to his old self. Missing class, talking to no one, and once again, ignoring me. In study hall, I couldn't concentrate. He was sitting there at the table with his textbook open. He looked angry, so I didn't say anything. Then, slowly, he started tearing pages out of his textbook, staring straight ahead. This went on for about ten minutes before he stood up, tore his textbook in half, and chucked it into the bookshelf. Jake stood there for a moment and finally flipped the table against the bookshelf, knocking it over. I sat there, wondering what had happened to him. He stood there, panting like a dog, staring. Then he looked at me and stalked out of the library, completely ignoring Mr. Roscoe, shoving furniture out of his way. I never saw him again.
         So now, here I am, 23 years later, wondering what had happened to the guy who was my closest friend. I'll never know where he went, what he did or why he did it. He would have never told me anyway. All I know is that Jake changed me. I thought of everything differently. The thing is, people don't care about others, and it makes me sick. If Jake had tried to talk to David or Brock or anyone else at this school, none of them would have even considered him human. Why he chose me, I don't know; but we got along and I'm glad things happened the way they did. Yes, I hated him like poison, but my perception changed just by being around him.
         But everything about Jake was temporary. He never acted a certain way for long or stayed in one lifestyle. In order to be himself, he was constantly changing, and I never knew what Jake I was going to be talking to. I guess some people are just like that.