“Dude, you have got to be serious,” Davie shouted, feeling fond of being meaner than usual. “What is wrong with your clothes?”
Of course, there was nothing wrong with my clothes, though I did look down to check just in case. I loved to be a victim; I always did. I was born a victim, and I dreamed that I would one day die a victim. I walked across the school gym to where my lovely friends and teacher were situated, so lovely as to snicker to one another while their eyes occasionally pointed straight at me, as if to say that they were up to something.
I was not very fond of their covert hatred of me, or, as a matter of fact, them as people. It was an immense, sigh-worthy shame that my parents were too busy not to place me here to be tortured. Fortunately, I was smart enough to see through everything.
“Okay,” I said, knowing any response would be met the same way.
“Dude, it’s summer,” Davie said, sensing that I could be made an idiot. “What’s with the jacket?”
The other kids expressed agreement in various ways. It was baffling that they hadn’t realized I was aware that they would prefer me this way—as everyone knows my existence is contagious. No one would dare to enter my zone, unless by accident or to inflict physical harm.
The group consisted of my friends—Davie, Josh, and Mattie—and Mr Vance. Davie was bigger than me, Josh and Mattie were smaller, and Mr Vance was bigger than all of us. They were congregated around a point along the edge of the stage, almost in the middle but slightly off to the left, with a white bag or two on the stage, barely visible through the gaps between their stances. As part of the care program, Mr Vance was provided with all sorts of ridiculous gear, so the bag or bags could have been holding anything.
“Lose your jacket, dummy,” Mr Vance commanded. I removed the shield and put it where no one could be affected by my apparently terrible scent.
One of the bags—yes, there were two of them—turned out to contain many of the same objects I could not recognize. It was mechanical—made obvious by the sick, clinical white casing, the futuristic curves of the seams, and, of course, the buttons and the screen. I was given a brief instruction on how to use it, presumably abridged from the version my friends were given to save time. It was naturally mine to endure the fact that I was withheld for longer than expected. No effort was made to wait for me—and besides, my friends would have complained—and I was expected to be a perfect listener.
Each of us was given one of the machines—and soon my friends got it working. I held it exactly as I was handed it. Davie and Mattie formed a pair, and so did Mr Vance and Josh. As they were playing with the object, I was left alone to figure out its interface. Mr Vance was often puzzled by my general inability to understand things, as adults generally were, despite my seemingly deep, random knowledge in scholarly topics. After spending a while with me, most of them tended to realize that I was a complete idiot who was best left alone. I recalled his instructions surprisingly vividly, but I was left to doubt my memory as the machine refused to turn on. Mr Vance occasionally gave worrying and disparaging looks before going back to laughing and having so much fun.
“Do you need help?” Mattie shouted across the gym.
“Huh?” I shouted back, not having understood his words.
“I said, do you need help, idiot!” he repeated. It was a kind gesture of his to volunteer his and Davie’s time so he could offer help. It was a really funny joke, after all. Kindness seems to be the joke in fashion as it has been for the longest time. I did not understand my peers’ sense of humor. I declined twice, as this time he could not hear me.
It was an odd-faced machine, and I couldn’t tell how it was supposed to operate. The screen was obviously supposed to be an LED display, based on the ever-famous seven-segment design. Most of the buttons were laid directly below the display, which supposedly also could glow in their own right. It was motion sensitive as well, and I became increasingly frustrated with what might be the stupidest design decisions I have seen in my life.
The seven-segment design, by the way, is deceptively elegant and flawless; perhaps excluding the fact that some numbers—6 and 9—could be represented in multiple ways. Even some letters could be represented, although some only in either lowercase or uppercase. This is also partially helped by the graphic resemblance of some letters to some numbers, like O and 0, or I and 1. The capital letters A, C, E, F, G, H, I, J, L, N, O, P, S, U, Y can be represented fairly easily, although you would have to reach for an arched, ‘lowercase-like’ look for the letter N. The lowercase letters b, c, d, h, n, o, r, t, u are also fairly straightforward, and you could even have g, p, q, y by raising the descender to sit on the baseline. In fact, hexadecimal digits can be represented perfectly using the seven-segment design, which probably has applications beyond my knowledge. As a common example of the base seven-segment design being used for letters, the string ‘Error’ can be displayed without compromised legibility—which would have been nice to see on the display right about then, as an indication that at least something was happening. In fact, I was beginning to suspect that the machine simply lacked a power source.
“Um, Mr Vance?” I shouted, loud enough to be heard but soft enough not to draw unneeded attention. It was clearly not enough, as he did not acknowledge me.
“Mr Vance?” I shouted once more, all my friends briefly looking at me this time. He turned around with an annoyed look.
“What’s the matter?” he shouted back.
“Are you sure this thing has power?”
“Yes, I checked every single one of them beforehand.”
He then turned around to continue playing with Josh. They were laughing, just like before—only differing by the fact that I had just given them a prompt for jokes. I looked around the machine once again, and saw what was beginning to look a lot like a door to the battery compartment. It was fixed with a screw, and I had just enough distrust in Mr Vance to motivate me to take a quick look. I needed to find a sharp object that could slot into the groove and turn it.
I quietly walked towards the storage room to the left of the stage, being cautious not to be caught. There was a wheeled metal cage full of balls, which probably had a real name. The room was full of objects I could not properly name. A lot of them were old and metallic, the fact by which I was made confident that there was probably a broken one as well. There was what looked like a simple depiction of a rack of some sort made entirely of metal, with a fragile body. It had ribs as well—and they could be detached with some amount of force. They were thin, silvery sticks, rusted in places, the ends of which were cut unevenly. Although unwieldy due to its length, I found one which could plausibly work as a screwdriver.
I lifted it and turned it vertical, which made it almost touch the ceiling. I lay down on my stomach, supporting the stick with my shoulder—which was not sufficient to hold it perfectly in place, but it was good enough for me and good enough for the situation. It occasionally slipped out of the groove because of its weight and because of the inherent instability of its physics. I was careful not to hurt myself, and it paid off.
However, as the screw came loose, I let go of the stick in such a way that it grazed my finger just deeply enough for it to bleed. As I had more important things in mind and I could not risk it being seen, I sucked the blood with my mouth and pressed it against the floor. Slowly lifting the door, I saw what I had seen all along—an empty chamber. Just then, I was jolted alert by a loud, penetrating sound.
“What the fuck are you doing?” shouted Mr Vance, as the sentence echoed throughout the small, packed room.
“I…”
“Why are you breaking the machine?”
I looked back at the machine and realized two things: one, that the stick had broken the battery compartment door; and two, that I looked like an absolute fucking idiot. I knew that I was about to freeze, and I would stay an idiot that way. I decided it was time that I broke out of it.
“You—you knew,” I said. “You knew there weren’t any batteries in it.”
Mr Vance stared at me.
“You did it on purpose. You wanted me to look stupid. That’s why you gave everyone else the correct instructions first, before I got here. That’s why they were all laughing.”
“What?”
“You think I can’t tell. You all think I’m stupid. You all think it’s funny to make me look stupid. You all look at me and laugh at me like I’m an idiot. Did you think I was never gonna find out? You—you think I don’t notice it because I’m stupid, but I do notice it. I notice everything. Or—or, maybe you already know I know, and you still do it, because you want me to think I’m stupid. You want me to think I deserve everything. I—I don’t want to see you ever again. I’m going to tell my mom. I’m going to tell all my teachers. I’m going to tell everyone. I hope you die. I’m going to walk home alone in the dark. Fuck you and fuck your face.”
I thought that I had put it stupidly, but I knew I had said enough facts for there to be no comeback. I did not care about theatrics or eloquence; only the argument. I especially liked how I insulted his face, because usually physical insults are only ever given to me.
He sighed to suppress his dipshit smile.
“Hey, man, that’s for the auxiliary power. The whole thing is charged with a charger because it’s got a main battery inside. I specifically didn’t give them instructions before you arrived because I wanted us to play with it together. They all got the same instructions as you did. You just didn’t listen as closely as your friends did. We were laughing because I was telling a joke to kill time. It was about my wife and me. We weren’t laughing at you”
I froze in place as he continued.
“Look, if you want to think you’re stupid and incompetent, that’s fine. That’s your problem. Don’t take it out on us. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s—that’s not true. Mine is still broken; it’s unresponsive. I still can’t get it to work. You gave me a broken one on purpose.”
He sighed once more. He grabbed the machine from the ground—now missing a piece—and held it upside down. He followed the steps exactly as I remembered them, and this time the display lit up in bright red. He handed it back to me and gave me a look to signal something that I could not decipher. Perhaps it was pity, or perhaps it was a declaration of his victory.
“These cost us a lot of money. I should really call your parents about it, but I won’t, because I think you’re a nice kid inside. You should be thankful. If you want to play with us, you still have time.”
I was left with an unbearable amount of shame by the end of his sentence. Perhaps it was because I had lost, or perhaps it was because I had realized there was a possibility that they might be right about me being an idiot. I left through the side door without a word.
On the long way home, appreciating the view that I’ve only ever seen through car windows, I ruminated on what happened today. So many people in my life have the bizarre ability to control the narrative, such that when only given the facts, I appear to be the crazy, unreasonable one. Despite everything, though, I was glad. I was glad because I did remember everything; I remembered that these were bad people. I remember when all my friends—Davie, Josh, Mattie—pushed me to the ground, circled me, and stepped on me until the start of the next class, and I was forced to pretend nothing had happened. I was glad, because if I were to forget, I would be convinced that I am actually an incompetent idiot who lashes out unreasonably. I am sure glad to remember everything, and I hope to never start forgetting.