I could see Bill’s* eyes tracking mine in brief furtive glimpses between scrolling lines of green code.
We were 12 years old and seated next to each other at a beige school computer in homeroom. We’d started talking that October, never looking at each other when we did, for no other reason than the alphabetizing that seated us at the same table.
All preteens are ridiculous pupae, and his particular affliction was that he looked perpetually sullen and pouty, perhaps because his face was composed primarily of cheeks. As for myself, I pulled my socks up too high and talked like a tiny Carl Sagan. None of the other boys in the class could make any sense of us, and we made none of them.
Bill disliked everything, and I was disliked by almost everyone.
* His name and a few minor identifying details have been changed.
