Like “Megan,” “That Boy” was written as an in-class assignment for my Intro To Creative Writing class. This assignment was meant to represent Image (how we see a character or a setting, I suppose). We were supposed to take a picture of ourselves as a kid and write about what we see or what we imagine going on in that photograph. As you can probably tell, I don’t think very highly of myself.
Look at that boy.
Lips pursed into a smile. A fake smile. A nervous smile. Biting his lip (perhaps?) as if he would rather hide in a corner than have the camera eat his soul and puke it out.
Look at his face. A pale, peach face. Clean and smooth. Untouched by the impurities of acne, the turmoil of puberty. Untouched by the growth of facial hair, hence why he does not need to shave. A face not stained by tears, not pulled and twisted by years of laughter and frowns. Big cheeks, like a chipmunk. Slightly extended, as if he were holding a breath as the camera flashed, as if he were waiting for that moment to die so he could get on with his boyish life. What an odd face.
Look at those lively gray eyes that convey the childish innocence of his youth. Lively eyes that reflect the light of the camera. Sparkling eyes full of memories. Memories of friendships come and gone, goals met, successes made, troubles caused. Memories that would evaporate, an innocence that would die, several years down the road.
Look at the boy’s nose. His large nose that splits his face down the middle. A feature that he would later christen as one of his greatest faults. That big, pointy nose. What a big, pointy nose. A big, pointy nose with big nostrils, ripe for booger picking. Smile for the camera, Big Nose!
Look at those ears, like two beacons on the side of his head. Big ears. Sensitive ears. Sensitive ears that would cause him great discomfort. Holes in his ears big enough to actually stick fingers in when that discomfort reared its ugly head.
Look at his hair. His brown, curly, boyish hair. Curly as if his very head harvested a forest of ferns. Curly since his mama first saw his face. Another distinguishing feature he would later regret having.
Look at his shirt. His ugly shirt. Horizontal rows of strips and stripes, cascading down his shirt like a poorly drawn waterfall. Repeating patterns of maroon, black, and olive green, each spaced out by a line of squiggles. Black collar. What poor fashion sense.
Look at that boy. All smiles for the yearbook. Young boy. Little boy. Silly boy.
So much untainted innocence. Forgetful of the past, optimistic of the present. And now, your ignorant future looks at you with tears in its eyes.
“Look at that boy,” it says. “That stupid boy.”
