His name was really Billy.
I'm not changing that for the story.
His name was Billy Jones,
and we hated him.
He was the fattest kid
in the sixth grade class.
He claimed his cat peed on him
right before he got on the bus,
so that he didn't have time to change.
But he smelled that way all the time.
His Metallica t-shirts were riddled with holes
and they were too large even for him.
Billy did not look like anyone else in the class.
On top of it all he was too shy to defend himself.
His meekness made him embarrassed in place of angry.
And I hated him.
To my core I hated him.
I watched him suffer in front of me.
I saw the way my classmates laughed.
I knew to be with Billy was to be with dirt.
So I hated him.
To hate him was to belong.
I extended no arm of sympathy.
The teacher's poked fun at him as well.
He did not belong with us.
Then one day he was gone.
Moved away.
And the wrinkles he had created
in our conservative, small town
middle school smoothed.
Everyone looked the same again,
and we didn't have to look at
the ugly angles of life anymore.
Some grew up and never had to again.