I was spared fifteen minutes to have a bite for lunch first. We stood in the busy cafeteria line, about twenty hungry souls away from being served. At this rate, it wasn't likely that I'd get so much as a bite of my muffin before my inevitable doom. Jude and Liam shared each other's sandwiches and pop top apple drinks, forming a circle with me, Goose, and Ben. The conversation felt grim, focusing on some pretty dark stuff Goose was going through.

"Yeah, so she'll be staying with him over in Germany till he passes, I guess," Goose said, expression somber. "The doctors predict three months or less."

"Your poor mum," Jude cooed, looking grimly over at Goose.

"Yeah," Liam agreed, mouth still partially filled with sandwich, "I can't even imagine my dad dying. That's so rough. Sorry, man."

"Even just my grandad," Ben said with a shudder, right as Ikeisha entered the cafeteria. Incoming sex-gods and my current Hansen-twin-prey. "Couldn't imagine it."

This was my chance to get things back into motion!

I slapped Ben's shoulder, making him jump with surprise. "HA, HA, HAAAA!" I held my stomach, laughing while I bellowed. "Ben, you're freaking hilarious. Such a funny guy. You could be a comedian, I keep tellin' ya!"

Ben frowned at me, miming what the flip are you doing? The others cringed at me, too, but I knew my efforts were paying off when Ikeisha glanced this way. "Hahaha! You're always so funny and witty," I said, pretending to wipe a tear from my eye for good measure. "Anyone would be so. Lucky. To date you."

Aubrey's eyes flickered this way, giving a look that mildly resembled disgust. Clearly weirded out. Ben stared at me with blatant confusion along with the others. I wrinkled my nose and nodded aggressively towards Ikeisha, trying to make sure they cottoned on quick. Before she did, at least. They finally noticed, eyes widening and forcing laughs and words of agreement. Their smiles and laughs were strained; fake, partially confused. And like a choir, our voices rang out across the cafeteria... only we were being conducted by a miserable drunk.

But that didn't matter because it worked. Ikeisha grinned wryly over at us, while being blatantly ignored by the rest of them. At least she was easier to entertain than her friends.

It should make things easier.

-

It was already nearing the end of break time, and neither Aubrey nor I had accomplished anything even marginally productive. For lack of a better comparison, we both sat here twiddling our thumbs. Not even attempting to engage in conversation, there were no pleasantries. Nothing about this was pleasant, full stop. He was such a hard character, caught up in his own impenetrable shell. Why was he listening to Mr. Hardy now of all times?

Why didn't he ditch this time as he did just about every English class? Mr. Hardy told us to pull our heads together and work on some poetry materials. It was fine for me, but Aubrey's top lip was about to catch the wind and blow away. I mean, it honestly would have if it wasn't fixed to his face.

Forever in an eternal pout.

Just what did Mr. Hardy intend for me to do here? His exact words were, "Work together on this poetry," as he handed me a piece of paper. It was an eighteen hundred's classic by Elizabeth Barrett Browning; To Myself. So, now that we had it in front of us with no particular instruction. Here the both of us sat, staring at it; ruminating. Not even about the poem. Or at least, I doubt he was. His eyes never left the window. I picked up the piece of paper and started to read it, gaging his reaction as I did so.

"Let nothing make thee sad or fretful,

Or too regretful; Be still; What God hath ordered must be right;

Then find in it thine own delight,

My will."

There was none.

We were sat at the back of the class. He was at his desk while I sat at Trey's, right beside him. I was reluctant, but Mr. Hardy insisted that it was fine. It seemed like Aubrey had even less interest in poetry than I had in being here. I pulled my pen out from my bag and started scribbling on the paper. Just because he chose to be unproductive, didn't mean I had to be. Since Mr. Hardy didn't give us any specific task, I started trying to recall everything I could about this poet.

Birthday, March 6, 1806: Shares the same date as me!!

Brown and curly hair: Same color hair!!

Hopeless romantic: Me too!

An early model for feminism: Girls rule!!

Then, with little else to do, I started to scribble out a rough sketch of how I once interpreted her expression. At the time, I thought her eyes were unusual; solemn, almost. Expression downcast. Some time ago, I'd expressed my interpretation, only to have that idea challenged by a stranger.

And I remember how I immediately took to him.

It was at a poetry expedition that I met him when I was around eleven. His name was Robert, a burly, kind old man with a receded bowl line along the back of his head. Through the softness in his eyes, I could sense the gentle character he was. Even though I was so young, I could still remember his passion for the art.

He'd had a scrawny blonde-haired kid following him around, too. Someone my age who didn't interact with me much aside from agreeing with anything Robert said. I'd learned that it was his grandson, who shared his interest in poetry.

Robert said to me at that time, "Think about her words. She was proud; a hopeless romantic who challenged ideas. People misunderstood. She could have been gravely punished for one of her poems. She was fierce and strong."

He looked down at the boy beside him, smiling while playfully shaking his shoulder. "When you understand her like this," he continued, "take another look into her eyes. Think about what you see, then. When you do, you'll see the positive aspects. Y'know, you should always look for the positives in everything. Because there is, you know. There's a bright side to everything."

I'd probed him for a hundred more answers to my endless questions before running back off to my Mum that day. It took time, but at some point, I did as he said. Now I could see that those ideas she challenged were the morally corrupt systems of the time. U.S slavery. The grave punishment she faced was for potential treason, even though it was her outspokenness. She fell in love with a man through letters, even though she'd never met him before.

She was brave.

I hadn't noticed I'd stopped scribbling. At some point, I looked over at Aubrey to see him staring at the piece of paper.

"You like her work?" he asked, eyes roaming back towards the window with what I wondered might be feigned disinterest. What was this gut feeling I had that he was more interested than he let on?

"Um, do you?" I asked, tightening my grip around the pen. I kept scribbling her curls, tracing over several times to darken them.

"You suck at drawing," he said, eyes flitting back to my portrait doodle.

I dropped the pen and lifted the paper, scrunching it inside my hand. "Sorry about it," I said, tossing it back down on the desk.

"Such a baby," he quipped, reaching over to grab it. He uncrunched it and pulled out a pencil, scribbling over what I'd done. When he was done, he slapped it back down in front of me.

He'd shaded or added parts to bring out her features, fixing everything with his own accurate rendition of her. She looked... exactly as Robert portrayed her to me back then. Strong, proud, brave. I glanced up at him, seeing him staring back out the window with his sulking expression.

"I see you do," I whispered, tracing my fingers along her eyelids, the curve he added to her lips, and more naturally falling curls. It was clear this guy had some sort of knack for art. Was this kind of thing what he got up to whenever he ditched class? "You like poetry, right?"

He shrugged, not paying me any interest.

"Righto, then, Mr. Keats. Keep your secrets. Keep playing cool, ya ratbag."

A subtle smile curved up the side of his lip, and he lightly kicked my bag that was placed between our seats. I stretched over and elbowed him in the arm, which he responded by kicking my bag again but harder. This time, I ruffled my hand over the top of his head to mess up his hair. He laughed, swatting my hand away. It was the first time I'd heard Aubrey Keats laugh... since ever.

There was a chunk of hair sticking out behind his now, protruding in several directions. It looked like a total straw bird's nest. That must be one of the downsides of growing hair this long. Was it normal on guys, anyway? Just starting to reach down past his shoulders.

Now, that bit of hair was all I could focus on, and it was beginning to annoy me. Maybe I should bring it to his attention so he could straighten it out. On the other hand, though, it did look pretty funny. I kind of wanted other people to see it, too. Aubrey Keats with a bit of crow's nest hair. The thought made me chuckle, and as I did, he frowned at me.

"What?" he asked. "Why're you staring? And why're you laughing?"

I'd better tell him. It was the right thing to do.

But on second thought, it was funnier to keep it to myself. I shook my head, biting my lip as I tried to hold my grin. The bell rang, so break time had finally come to an end. Our little 'poetry session' was fruitless but gave me at least some source of entertainment. At least it would be funny if I straightened that piece in front of everyone. He'd be so shocked that I'd come out of nowhere.

People were returning inside. If I was going to get a reaction out of him, it had to be right when they could see it. What's the bet he could be easily embarrassed? He had an image to maintain, after all. The kind of 'I don't care' persona he adopted every time he skipped English period. Then, when none other than Charlie Rascal came along and took him by surprise, it'd be a sight to behold.

I snickered at the thought, deciding to give in to my whim. Rubbing my hands together, I said, "You look silly."

He narrowed his eyes, gingerly touching his fingers to his face. "Why?" he asked.

"Your hair is all matted on the side," I said. "Like a clown."

He brought his fingers up to where I pointed on my own head. His fingers kept missing each time, failing to pull back the bits sticking out. He was really bad at this, but it was perfect. His face would be hilarious. "Not there," I said, redirecting my finger to see if it clued him in a little better. It didn't.

More people started coming inside. Now was a perfect time. I leaned over, reaching out and taking him by surprise. "Here, let me-"

"No, don't!" He slapped my hands away, but my fingers were already combing through his hair. Something scooped out from behind his ear and flung through the air before clattering across the floor. The class went silent, staring, while Aubrey's eyes were wide. Shocked. Panicked... frightened.

I turned to look at the ground while others around us gasped, staring at a weird little contraption on the floor. While I didn't know much about much, I was reasonably sure that that was a hearing aid. Small and different to any I'd seen pictures of, but there was no mistaking it.

"Outta the way," Trey's voice said, coming in through the door. He shoved people out of his way before he came up to us, staring first at Aubrey, then at me, then at the hearing aid. He picked it up from the floor before placing it in Aubrey's hand, then came and stood to the side, looming over me. He stood protectively between me and Aubrey. "You happy? Huh, clown?"

Almost lost for words, I shot my hands up in defense, hoping to explain myself. "Um, I'm sorry, I just ah-"

But I couldn't finish my sentence. Hands wrapping tight around my upper arm, he yanked me from his chair, sending me toppling forward. Unable to catch my footing in time, I fell to the ground. It was awkward enough that my wrists caved immediately on impact, so my face hit the ground. My cheek, to be exact. The class was gasping, and people were helping me to my feet. Shock reverberated through my body with every movement, probably a side effect of the impact.

Goose poked his head above everyone else's, then politely made his way through until he was at my side. Ikeisha came not long after, looking around in confusion after having missed the whole ordeal. Goose leaned in and whispered to me, "Dude, what happened?"

How was I meant to respond?

"I think I messed up..." I said, rubbing my cheek. "Big time."

The only thing I could see at that moment was the back of Aubrey's head as he left the room. Both Ikeisha's and Trey's hands were on his back, guiding him out. People were whispering, talking about this. Talking about us. About him. How we all discovered right then and there that Aubrey Keats was... disabled.

No, I remembered Mum hated that word. He had a disability and I just outed him in front of the whole class.

I was toast.

-

Aubrey didn't come back to class. Mr. Hardy didn't say anything to me. He went about class as usual, but I didn't miss his gaze flickering between me and Aubrey's empty desk.

When the last bell rang, everyone packed their bags and headed out, while I remained firmly seated. Mr. Hardy was arranging things on his desk, fiddling about as everybody cleared the room. Goose, Liam, and Jude all patted my shoulder as they left, obviously clued in on why I remained here. When it was clear, Mr. Hardy stopped pretending not to notice me.

He smiled and came over, sitting on Ben's seat beside mine.

"Mr. Rascal," he said, clasping his hands together over his lap. "What can I do you for?"

"You really wanna ask me that?" I asked, unable to help but glare. I felt bitter.

He chuckled. "Good point. So, you wanna talk about it, then?"

When I nodded, he got up and closed the classroom door before resuming the seat at Ben's desk. "Mr. Hardy... I didn't mean to."

"I know, Charlie. Since the cat's out of the bag now, all we can do is try to adjust. The best thing you can do for Aubrey now is to try understanding his world as best you can. Do some research. Learn and grow from this."

"How?" I asked.

"The likes of Pierre Pélissier might be a good start," he said, clasping his fingers over his lap. "He was a deaf poet, a pioneer for deaf language. Also, try Laura Bridgman. You've heard of Helen Keller, right?"

I nodded. "Deaf and dumb, right?"

He shook his head. "Deaf and blind. There wasn't a dumb bone in that woman's body. Do some research on her. Forget this week's homework, this is yours for the week. Helen Keller, Laura Bridgman, and Pierre Pélissier."

Pulling out a pencil and notepad from his breast pocket, he scribbled the names down before handing me the paper.

"Here, take this with you," he said. "Research anything you find relevant then show me what you come up with. Think of it as in Aubrey's best interest, alright? This is step one to making it up to him."

"Alright, thanks," I said. "I'll do that."

Pulling my bag over my shoulder, I started heading for the door. But as a niggling sense of guilt crept up on me, fear came up alongside it. I paused and turned back to see Mr. Hardy already standing back at his desk. He was filing and organizing documents, packing them inside his bag.

"Sir, d'you think he hates me now?" I asked, making him look back up at me.

He offered an assured smile. "I think you should wipe any preconceived ideas about him, Charlie," he said. "He isn't at all like what you think."

After those words, I spent the whole walk home thinking about it.