To Not Be Seen

A teenage boy deals with his peers.

I paid my last respects this mornin’ on an early grave

Already said goodbye, nothin’ left to say

A tiny church a tiny town and not a tear was spent

Not how I wanted it, I’m hating all of this.

            The song ripped him from his slumber and as the lids of his eyes opened, they tore away the sleep that had accumulated overnight.

Well I’m hating all of this

I’m hating all of this

All of this, all of this

            “Corey,” his mother mumbled as she walked past his bedroom door, “turn that damn music down.” Slowly his eyes began to focus on the IPod blaring music from its docking station, and lazily he slapped away at the device until the room fell silent. “Why in God’s name you listen to that garbage…” her voice trailed off as she moved down the hallway.

            “…is beyond me!” his lips moved but expelled no sounds. Corey had become accustomed to this conversation"they had it nearly every day, and at times felt as if they were following an unwritten script with monotonous repetition.

            Reluctantly Corey kicked the covers off and dropped his feet to the floor. The cold linoleum caused a shiver to ricochet up his spine and shoot all the way back down. By using his toes, he grasped the belt loop of his pants, drug them across the floor and pulled them up. At the foot of his bed stood a tall wicker hamper which overflowed with a mixture of clean and dirty clothes. Carefully, he sorted through the pile until he found similar looking socks, took a deep whiff, ensuring they were not too odoriferous, and completed his ensemble with a black Nickelback t-shirt.

            “You’re going to be late again,” said his mother as she filled her cup with coffee.

            She looked older today; perhaps even older than the day before. She hadn’t always looked that way. His mother was only thirty-four, but lately"well lately she just seemed to look much older. He could vividly recall when she would barrel into his room, yelling “Get out of bed sleepy head!” His drawers were filled with clean laundry and breakfast would be waiting for him on the kitchen table. She didn’t even really have to wake him then, for the aromas of bacon, eggs, toast, and juice practically carried him down the hall. However, that life seemed like a distant memory.

            This day there was no bacon, no juice, so Corey grabbed a cold Pop-tart from the cupboard, a Mountain Dew from the fridge and then made his way back to his room.

“Take out the trash when you leave,” she reminded him walking past his door. Her bedroom door closed and moments later the sound of her shower came on. For a moment he stared at the wall, almost staring through it. Grabbing a blue notebook off his dresser, he opened it and began to write:

Wednesday March 3rd

Will it ever change? Will it ever be like it was? Probably not!! I’ve learned not to expect miracles. No one f****n’ cares…so why should I? It is as if I see the world"but does it see me? Do I even want it to? I think not.

 

Corey closed the notebook, grabbed his backpack and in a single motion tossed it over one shoulder. He then opened up his nightstand drawer and grabbed a pair of dark, black, plastic, gas station sunglasses which he hung from the collar of his t-shirt. As he began walking out of his room, he turned suddenly and sprinted back to grab the IPod from its docking station. Then, walking through the kitchen he took a final swig of his Dew, threw it in the trash, smiled a bit, and walked out the door.

The combination of white icy flakes and the briskness of the wintry air bit at his exposed flesh. He simply pretended it did not bother him. Ahead he could see a dozen or so kids huddling together for warmth at the bus stop and he slowed his pace to ensure the greatest amount of time passed as he made his journey.

            As Corey approached, he could witness a large orange monster slowly creep up to the street corner. Quietly it hissed as it began to engulf those who anxiously awaited its arrival. One by one they quickly filed through the creature’s mouth and down its gullet to their place in the belly of the beast. Their chatter sounded like hysteria as it drowned out the noises of those already inside.

            There was no agony"no despair. Instead, numerous high-fives and friendly shoves signified mutual acknowledgement of adolescent friendships. Everyone seemed to be almost oblivious to their destination as they conversed, each sharing tales of the previous day.

“Dude, I beat Halo…the ending was sick!”

“O.M.G.!!! I can’t believe you went out with him! I am soooooooo jealous!”

“Hey, Robbie, you got the answers to the math assignment?”

“Alan, you coming over later?”

The air was heavy with multiple cryptic conversations, all seeming to take place simultaneously, but Corey tried to pay them little mind. He quietly made his way to a seat midway through the bus, sat down, repositioned the dirty-white ear buds of his IPod, took out his notebook and began to scribble away.

            No one patted him. No one reached to give him a high five. In fact, no one noticed him at all. For Corey, in many ways, that was just fine. The conversations of his anti-peers grew louder, so he reached into his pocket and turned up the volume on his music machine. Nickelback drowned them out once more he began to scribble away.

            Masterfully his hand created new shapes, new dimensions, new visions and ideas. Corey was intellectually gifted. With barely any forethought his hand created visually appealing masterpieces. Or, when so inclined, Corey would scribble out pages of prose or poetry that flowed like a river from his mind and through his hand. The words would saturate the pages of his notebooks in ink. Over time, he began to realize that there was no longer a person he could share his inner-thoughts with like he could with his notebooks. They were his confidants"his best and most reliable friends. They would never judge him and they would always be there for him.

            “Hey, Core-boner!” Tyler’s voice was colder than the winter air and stung far worse. However, Corey simply turned his music up and ignored the intrusion. From behind he felt a forceful shove"and then another followed by a tug that tore his ear buds from their lodging.

            Corey spun around to see Tyler leaning in from the seat behind, “What ya doin’ here freakazoid?” An eruption of laughter salted the verbal wounds Tyler inflicted.

            “Freaks and geeks sit up front!” Tyler continued. The laughter of his peers fueled him on. Tyler slapped the edge of Corey’s notebook, forcing it to flip his pen towards another, unsuspecting, student and the book itself landed face down and open into the slushy residue tracked on to the bus by the students.

            Once more laughter erupted from the rear of the bus"Tyler’s the loudest of all. Corey reached to his shirt, grabbed his glasses and quickly slid them onto his face. He then reached to the floor, picked up his notebook and made his way toward the front of the bus.

            “Knock it off back there!” the gruff voice of the bus driver bellowed from the front. Snickers and whispers were exchanged and Corey was thankful the attention was now deferred to the driver and no longer focused upon him.

            “Ol’ fat-a*s Anderson….” Tyler whispered to his friends and carried on as Corey found another seat.

            The glasses protected him. When he placed them over his eyes, it was if no one else could see him. No one else could harm him. He was safe. It always seemed to work. It wasn’t just students either. His dad always said that when he wore those glasses it was as if were protected by an abundance of “cool power.”

            Corey’s mind wandered. His thoughts drifted back to fishing with his dad at Jensen Dam the previous summer. They fished there often, but rarely caught a thing. To Corey that was just fine though. To him it was never as much about the fishing as much as it was catching up with one another.

            “School goin’ okay kiddo?” asked his father.

            “Sucks!” Corey said, watching and hoping the bobber would be pulled under.

            “Yeah, may feel that way now. But, when you get old like me you’re gonna wish you had more of it. Education is one thing you can’t just catch, ya gotta work at it.”

            “Uh-uh! It’s a waste of time. Like Algebra, when am I ever goin’ to use that?”

            “Never know kiddo….but, I find that’s the point.”

            “Huh?”

            “You never know what’s going to happen. Learn as much as you can every day and then use it every day after. Don’t want ya growin’ up livin’ in a damn box.”

            “I am gonna be an artist or a writer!”

            “I ain’t met many writers or artists that were notably rich without having a bit of an education.”

            “Well, I will be the first!” Corey replied

            “If you are, then you’ll be taking care of your mom and me"but until then keep your nose in them books, ya hear?”

            “K!” Corey replied in a jaded tone.

            “Don’t cop ‘tude with me kiddo! Ya, ain’t too old for an a*s-whoppin’ from your ol’ man ya know!” with that his father grabbed the sunglasses from his shirt collar, placed them over his eyes and continued, “And with my “cool-cloak” you’ll never see me comin’!”

            They both erupted in laughter.

            Just then Corey’s bobber was pulled under and his line whizzed out.

            “Easy son got a live one there! Now just reel it in nice ‘n easy.” Corey struggled against the fish held captive by the small metal hook. After what seemed like an eternity he pulled in a small-mouth bass, no more than nine inches in length.

            “The way you fought it I thought you had freakin’ Moby Dick and instead you pull in Nemo? Better start takin’ ya to the gym with me!” Corey could see his father wink even through his sunglasses. The fish struggled a bit as his dad pulled a small Swiss Army knife from his pocket, surgically removed the hook and threw the fish back into the water.

            “We’ll let him grow a bit bigger and catch him next time!” his dad said with a grin.

            That was the last time they went fishing at Jensen Dam.

***************

            At sixteen years of age, Corey’s height was somewhere between 5’4 and 5’5; his weight was just a pound under 120 in the morning and a pound over at night. His hair was stringy and black, almost long enough to cover the prints on his t-shirts. Perhaps it was his size that provoked his classmates, perhaps it was his meekness. Corey didn’t know for sure really. It was his first year at Lincoln High and all he knew was he hated it. Kids like Tyler seem to target him and boost their own self esteem through punishing those smaller or weaker.

            Tyler was the kid to know at Lincoln High. Corey recognized that Tyler was blessed with both size and athletic prowess. He was the contrast to Corey in almost every way. Tyler stood shy of six feet in height and was thirteen pounds under two-hundred. He was an athletic phenomenon, lettering in wrestling, track, basketball, and of course football. Tyler was a shark in a pond full of guppies and the constant praise bestowed upon him by the coaches and teammates enhanced an already inflated ego. To Corey, it seemed as if Tyler’s thirst for praise was something that could never be satiated and in turn Tyler wanted to"no, he needed to soak in the adoration of everyone around him.

            However, Corey felt that Tyler had achieved such a high social status because at sixteen he had all but mastered the art of intimidation. Perhaps he bullied people so much because he was still thirsty for attention, Corey thought to himself. Perhaps instead of fearing kids like Tyler, he was supposed to feel sor…

            “Corey!” Tyler yelled from the “cool” seats at the back of the school bus. “Hey numb nuts, there’s no sun. What’s up with the glasses?”

            “Enough!” the raspy growl of Mr. Anderson quieted the conversations of all passengers.

The bus pulled up to the school, and once again the doors hissed open signifying that it was time to disembark. Corey stayed seated as the other kids shuffled past him. Suddenly, he felt a stiff elbow make contact with the left side of his head, once again jarring free his earbuds.

“Sorry, dipshit!” Tyler responded in a sarcastic and provoking tone.

As the last passenger departed, Corey finished his thought, placed his notebook and pen inside his pack, slipped the ear bud back into his ear, and made his way off of the bus. Corey’s bus was always the earliest to school and therefore allowed the kids thirty minutes of free time before the first bell rang.  

Lincoln high offered morning activities such as volleyball in the gym, study time in the library, or breakfast in the cafeteria. Corey meandered to the cafeteria and partook in a sequel to his breakfast, which religiously consisted of Frosted Flakes with chocolate milk and a banana. Reaching into his backpack he pulled out the old, faded, red Swiss Army knife and covertly cut the banana into small pieces which splashed down into the Styrofoam cereal bowl. He then looked around, as to not raise any suspicion, and wiped the blade upon his pants leg and slipped the knife back into his pack.

He took a bite, followed by another, then reached for his notebook again.

                        Where do they come from and why?

                        A world full of demons has emerged and all the angels had to die.

                        The misery we endure each and every single day,

                        Happiness visits infrequently and never truly pushes the misery away.

                        The world is a place where people never say what they truly mean,

                        And instead simply exist as if by routine.

                        I care not for this place for it’s a dream I simply cannot bear,

                        No ‘tis not a dream at all"but a full-fledged nightmare!

 

Engrossed in music and writing, Corey never took notice of Tyler’s approach. Along with two other boys Tyler had made his way to Corey’s table and sat down. By the time Corey looked up it was too late. Their eyes met and he was engaged.

            Tyler’s mouth and lips seemed to move to the music playing in Corey’s ears and he could not help but crack a smile.

“What the hell are you smiling at, a*****e?” Tyler’s voice overpowered the music, which was now fading. “What are you writing about anyway?” Tyler reached for the notebook, but Corey quickly pulled it in for safety.

“I think he’s going to cry,” one of the fatter boys behind Tyler said with a smirk on his face.

“Oh, he is gonna’ cry alright,” Tyler responded with an amused grin. With that Tyler quickly grabbed Corey’s pack and started ruffling through it.

Corey reached and grabbed for his possessions, but Tyler shoved him back with ease.  Once more Corey sprung towards Tyler, this time grabbing hold of his bag.

“Give it here!” Corey yelled"his pubescent voice crackling.

Again, Tyler shoved him, this time sending Corey to the floor and his sunglasses skidding across the green and black tiled floor. Corey’s attention diverted from Tyler ransacking his pack and he scuttled after his glasses, which had slid underneath a table about ten feet from where he laid.

“Give ‘em back!” Corey screamed hysterically, “Give ‘em back now!”

“These cheap pieces of s**t?”  Tyler asked rhetorically, “Who would want ‘em anyway?”

“Pleeeeaaaaaassssseeeee, just give them back,” Corey sobbed and begged.

“Tyler, Dude,” one of the other boys interrupted, “just give him back the glasses.”

“See, told you he would cry,” and with that Tyler snapped the glasses in two, dropping them to the ground and smashing the lenses into the floor with the heel of his shoe.

“Noooooooooooooo!” Corey screamed in pain and horror.

“Not cool dude!” the other boy said to Tyler.

But he just laughed. “P*****s! To tell ya the truth,” he continued on in a condescending tone, “I am not sure what are worse, p*****s, or crying lil’ f*****s!”

Something snapped within Corey. He was tired. He was tired of holding back. He was tired of being quiet. He was tired of being a victim. Before Tyler could react, Corey dove at him, knocking Tyler off balance and tumbling to the floor. Then, with an unanticipated quickness, Corey began to lay blow after blow upon Tyler’s face.

“Whose an a*****e?!?” Corey screamed as he continued striking Tyler again and again.

The other boys, scorned by Tyler’s remarks, simply watched in awe"and perhaps a slight amount of perverse pleasure"as the almighty Tyler, captain of the football team, star basketball player, homerun hitter, track and field star, was seemingly laid to waste by Corey Reynolds.

Corey’s punches were fueled with suppressed emotions. They were fueled with anger; they were fueled with hatred; they were fueled with despair; they were fueled with loss. Over and over again he struck Tyler, who, lost in confusion and pain, could no longer fight back and began to taste his own blood trickling from his nose, down the back of his throat.

“Stop! Stop it!” Tyler gurgled and screamed, unable to block Corey’s stinging strikes.

Tyler’s cries went unanswered and more and more students circled the two boys chanting Corey’s name and screaming like blood thirsty patrons at the Coliseum.

“Clear the way!” a booming male’s voice dispersed and scattered the crowd. Coach Marcus and the algebra teacher, Mr. Johansen, moved through the students and pulled the boys apart. Corey struggled against Mr. Johansen’s grasp, but was no match for a grown male. He had expelled his fuels and energies on Tyler, who still lay on the floor immersed in a combination of blood, tears, and mucous.

Coach Marcus stood over his prized gladiator. “Are you alright son?” he asked Tyler in a comforting tone.

Tyler, knowing is image, along with his masculinity, had been blemished, fired back at Corey"who was still restrained by Mr. Johansen.

“You’re f****n’ dead man! Dead!” Tyler screamed

“Enough!” Coach Marcus silenced him quickly. “Mr. Johansen, take Corey to the office, I’ll take care of Tyler!”

As Mr. Johansen escorted him to the office, Corey could hear Tyler trying to profess his innocence to Coach Marcus, “I didn’t even do nuthin’ he just hit me for no reason!”

******************************************

Corey was unaccustomed his situation. He always seemed to just go along with the flow. He was still trying to figure out exactly what happened. It wasn’t a question of why really, but more so why now.

Sure he had conflicts before. He had struggles. He was a teenager; it was part of the curriculum. But before, well before he just kind of tried to remain un-noticeable.. Just last week in Mr. Johansen’s class he found himself in an uneasy situation when he was called on to demonstrate an equation in front of the class.

“Corey,” Mr. Johansen called on him, “if we distribute x in the equation x(3x+3+9xy) what would that look like? Could you come up to the board and show the class?”

Corey did not move. He stared blankly at Mr. Johansen, almost as if to battle him a test of wills.

“Corey, will you come up to the board please?” he asked with a hint of impatience. Giggles and whispers began to filter through the blanket of silence that covered the room.

“Quiet!” Johansen commanded. “Corey?”

Corey was absolutely silent. He had hoped that perhaps Mr. Johansen would tire and move on. He did not. Whispers and giggles from the class became even more defiant as he looked around the room and then back at Mr. Johansen. Corey’s eyes began to turn red and well with water. The color was vacuumed from his skin as his complexion resembled that of a corpse.

“Corey?” there was more concern in his voice this time. The stern overtone melted away giving way to a warmer sense. The whispers and giggles ceased and Corey felt as if all eyes were focused solely upon him.

Corey quickly reached for his glasses and placed them over his eyes. The class erupted. Johansen was caught off-guard by this action and had to quickly decide whether to address the Corey in this moment or continue with the lesson and rein his class back in.

For better or worse, Mr. Johansen reined in the class.

But, no longer could Corey hide. Tyler had seen to that. No longer did he have his shield; no longer was he protected by his “cool-cloak” and right now he needed it more than ever.

“Mr. Reynolds,” a stern voice forced Corey from his pondering. Everyone knows that when you are addressed by your last name"good things are not on the horizon. Corey looked up to see a tall, well-built man, in his mid fifties. He wore a reddish beard, with hints of grey and had sparkling green eyes that somehow offered a hint of comfort. Corey immediately recognized him as Mr. Branston, one of the schools four assistant-principals.

“Would you come into my office please?” Corey was taken aback by Branston’s invitation. Oddly enough he seemed"well he seemed polite.

As Corey followed Mr. Branston into the office he scraped his hand against the smooth surface of the door and felt a searing pain. In his distraction, Corey never realized that his hands were scraped and bleeding from their repeated contact with Tyler’s skull.

“We will have the nurse come in and look at your hands shortly,” Mr. Branston must have noticed the wounds as well, “She is…” he paused and then continued “ummm, busy with other matters right now.”

Corey looked up to Mr. Branston and for the first time began to “feel” again. He worked to fight back the tears that began to well in his eyes.

“Mr. Reynolds, I don’t know you and at Lincoln if I don’t know you that is normally a good thing for you.” he finished with a smile, which offered a slight amount of comfort to Corey and, for the time being, forced his tears to retreat.

“I’ve called your mother in and am expecting her any moment, but I would like to hear your side of all this.”

Corey stared through him. He found that he actually wanted to speak; he had just forgotten how to.

“Mr. Reynolds,” like Mr. Johansen before, Branston’s voice became sterner and less comforting, “I cannot help you if you do not cooperate.”

Now Corey was flooded with fear. The tears marched forward. Again, he wanted to speak. His lip began to tremble and he pushed and fumbled for his words, but nothing came out.

There was a moment of silence where they just stared at one another. The sparkle in Branston’s eyes dissipated.

Buzzzzzzzz! Buzzzzzzzzzzz! Buzzzzzzzzzzzz! His phone broke off the staredown.

“Yes.” Branston paused and Corey could hear the mumble of the voice on the other end. “Yes, I am with him now. Yes, please show her in.”

 It was quite easy for Corey to ascertain that his mother had arrived.

Mr. Branston stood up and walked over to the door. Corey could make out the shapes of two women approaching through the blurred glass window of Mr. Branston’s office door. His stomach turned and ached and his hands felt as if they were on fire. Desperately he wanted his glasses; he wanted his notebooks, he wanted….

“Mrs. Reynolds, I am Mr. Branston assistant vice-principal here at Lincoln High.”

“Is Corey okay?” her voice was filled with distress and concern. “The lady who called said there was an incident with Corey and I had to come in, but she wouldn’t tell me much more.”

“Please, won’t you come in?” Mr. Branston deferred her questions.

Corey looked to his mother with reddened tear stained eyes. As soon as she spoke he broke down.

“Corey baby?” her eyes welled with tears. “Baby, talk to me.”

He held her"he held his mommy and he wept uncontrollably as if he had never cried before.

Mr. Branston stood back, unsure as what to say or if he should say anything at all. So, he stood and watched a mother hold her son; he watched a son need his mother. His mother softly pulled back from Corey and worked to compose herself. Branston offered her a tissue box and waited for a moment then spoke.

“Mrs. Reynolds, I have taken a moment to review Corey’s records and see he enrolled here at Lincoln just this fall. Until today, I myself have never had to meet with Corey. However, there was an altercation between Corey and another student that was quite severe.”

“An altercation?” she inquired

“A fight Mrs. Reynolds.” he responded. “It seems Corey and another student had a disagreement of some sort and Corey took matters into his own hands.”

“Corey,” her attention went back to her son, “what is going on? What happened? You? In a fight?”

He felt like he was the victim of an intense interrogation and just wanted to run away.

“Would you care to tell us your side of the story son?” Mr. Branston inquired once more.

“M-m-m-y” Corey stuttered and stammered, “my glasses mom, he broke…” his voice broke and Corey lost all control. He sobbed and wept uncontrollably grasping his mother tightly.

Mrs. Reynolds held him back. She held him like he remembered being held after falling off his bike or scrapping his knee when tripping up the stairs.

“Prescription glasses Mrs. Reynolds?” Mr. Branston asked with confusion. “There was nothing in his folder about eyeglasses.

Once more she fought through her own tears. “No, they were a black pair of sunglasses his father gave him.” To utter those words choked her up even more.

“And he broke them!” Corey’s voice echoed in the small office, “He broke my dad’s glasses, he f*****g broke them!!”

Mr. Branston was overwhelmed with confusion. His mind was drowning in questions and there was no answer in sight.

“Mrs. Reynolds?” he asked.

“My husband gave him those glasses before he deployed to Iraq.” once again she gave into her emotions.

“Is he still serving in Iraq?” Branston asked reluctantly

Author's Note

Yes, a story we have all read before, however this one was inspired by Tim O'brien's "The Things They Carried." For those unfamiliar with the story, O'brien shows readers the sentimental value behind what are often seen as everyday items people may carry around with them.