About a boy

This is a story about a boy. This boy is set. He has looks, charm, wit, intelligence, talent, humor, and a kind smile. At least he likes to think so. With all of these traits he earns good grades, recognition from his teachers and peers, and creates plenty of paths for his future. The only thing missing is the most important to him, friends.
This story is about communication. It’s about interaction. It’s about fear, and shame, and loneliness. It’s about a person who led life alone, unaccompanied, solitary. Not separate from the world by choice but merely by circumstance. It’s all about trying to find a place of comfort and acceptance by leaving behind all one knows. Ultimately, it’s about friendship.
Society has evolved, so fast that it often has trouble keeping pace with itself. The values and ideas of fifty years ago are deliberately debased today. Once childhood was considered a sacred time for kids to learn values and establish relationships with others. It was a time where hard work was respected over ability and the future stayed well ahead of the mind. Now the values of society scoff at these ideals. Instead the contemporary world wishes that children begin their life with the end in mind. If what someone is doing now does not have a recognizable benefit towards their future, it is considered inefficient and unnecessary. Essentially, children would be much better off if they were robots, robots working hard solely for the purpose of working. These children alienate themselves from each other, tainting what makes them human.
This boy was a robot, an outcast. Before he knew any better he was programmed to work hard. It wasn’t about doing his best; it was about doing better than everyone else’s best. All work and no play made him a bright boy. However he was still alone. His name was well known, but it wasn’t popularity that garnered the attention. It was different, he was different, the weird kind of different. That’s why kids avoided him, he was uncommon. A smile wouldn’t fix the stares or whispers when he sat alone. A hello would just avert the gaze upon him temporarily. Playing on a team or working in a group only made his observers become hostile to him. Yet all it took was a hand to make all the stares, the judgments, the hate seem invisible.
The teacher lectured on about some component to English grammar that at the time was a futile attempt to teach a class of fidgety fourth graders. The English wasn’t bad, most kids just doodled or daydreamed too bored to even give their attention to the boy sitting in the back absorbing it all. Why wouldn’t he? Didn’t his family tell him time and time again that any knowledge is useful knowledge, and those who turn away from it only invite a doomed life on the streets or working in fast food forever. A long haired boy who was new to the class turned around and actually looked at the outcast. They were both startled. One at the quizzical and worried look of the outcast wondering what possibly could this long haired boy do, and the other surprised merely by the firsts expression. The boy shook it off quickly and asked for a piece of paper. I don’t have a spiral, so I need yours he said and grabbed the notebook off of the desk. The outcast didn’t reply, this was common and he always kept an extra just in case that was to happen. The day proceeded like any other. At recess the outcast walked across the back of the soccer fields just like any other day, almost. Before he even passed the goal post he was drilled by a soccer ball. It was lights out; he hurt and was humiliated about the event. Surely the kids would laugh at him and it would be news for the rest of the day. It was silent. He opened his eyes and to his immediate shock saw a hand reaching down for him. I’m Ian, he said. Thanks for letting me use your paper by the way. I left my stuff at home. The outcast was stunned. He didn’t understand why the kid had any reason to acknowledge him. All he could do was stammer back, I’m Scott, and smile.