Determined to stop feeling like a failure, to never see another face disappointed by him, the boy looks up at the chalkboard in front of his English classroom. Lazily, he scribbles down a few notes and begins to work, trying. It never takes more than a few seconds before I notice his eyes wandering about the room. He can not help it. He thinks of other things and other people, and slowly the work on the page becomes his art, once more. It seems as if the page calls his name, and he has no choice but to answer. It is the same everyday, and I watch him.
I watch him let his life blow around in the wind with no direction and no purpose, allowing it to settle wherever it pleases, no care in the world as to where his life is heading. What a shame it is, I think, how he wastes himself away like that on his paper, on a textbook, on a gum wrapper, on the back of his hand. He creates with whatever he has, and his creations scream from the page. They are so loud and force me to stop and look at them. I almost want to talk back to them, to answer them, to reach out and touch them. There are haunted, beautiful faces staring back at me. Sometimes they smile, and sometimes they do not. Sometimes, there is no face at all, only a body and a head ducked down low, hidden. Sometimes, I see creatures and objects and words. I can never help but notice a certain similarity in every picture. I never manage to put my finger on it exactly, as the bodies and movements and faces change from image to image.
There is something about his pictures, as if the same life burns behind every one of them. It is someone I do not know, but I feel as though I am looking through a window into their life. I can see it, especially when there are faces. Yes, I can not help but notice a resemblance in the faces. No matter what or whom I see on that page, it is that same life every time. I see emotion and thought. I see talent and skill. I see wasted brilliance. I watch him live through his pictures, letting reality slowly drift away until there is nothing left but the faces.
When the pictures are about to bounce off of the page with life, the boy sits back and watches them. I wonder what they say to him when he listens like that. Do they tell him a story? Do they make him smile? Are they friends? Do they taunt him? Is that why he is compelled to tell their story day after day? Once their silent conversation is finished, the boy lifts the page and turns it over. He begins to draw a new picture. This picture, however, is different. It is not like the others at all, at least at first. Then again, it may be very much the same.
“Dear James,” he begins. “Sorry for all the sketches on the other side. You know how much I hate English class, and drawing is the only thing to keep my mind awake. I am writing to you now, because you are all I can think about. Even if you never write back to me, I just need to talk to you, even like this.”
The letter starts the same everyday, “Dear James,” and everyday he writes. I catch glimpses and pieces here and there, from my seat behind him. I am too afraid to let him realize that I can see and that I know. I wonder who else knows. I wonder if James has ever read any of the hundreds of letters that this boy writes to him everyday. I wonder if James knows at all.
His secrets are forever rooted into his pictures, and I think that this is what he tells them when they have their silent conversations. They may be the only ones who really know. Until the pictures share his truths, I will just continue to watch every day. I will watch in silence, at the brilliant boy who wastes his life away. I will watch the brilliant boy who has so much to say but keeps it hidden. I will watch the brilliant boy whose only real companions are his drawings. They are the only ones who know.
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