He was shorter than us. Scrawny. Freckles around his lumpy, mushroom nose.

He walked to school alone.

We would hide by his fence and pelt him with leftovers from dinner.

By his locker, we jeered. Rained occasional blows on rounded shoulders. Watched as his face slowly turned the color of ripe tomatoes.

One day, he didn’t come. Not to his fence; not to his locker.

The others saw his mother on television. I saw her eyes gaunt with grief.

They saw his father. I, the tears his father shed.

They moved on to new targets.

It’s just me now, standing here, alone.