A girl with long blond hair, a form-fitting tank top, and short shorts smiled at him.

  Timothy stared through the cracked open door at the prettiest, most popular girl in school. He frowned and asked, “What do you want?”

  One week earlier

  Timothy’s head slammed into a locker. A group of seniors his age walked by and kept laughing at him.

  “Duck Face!” Someone yelled back.

  He had let his guard down, forgetting to look around the hallway as he grabbed his math book. He rushed through the hall, hoping no red mark was on his forehead. Throughout his entire high school tenure, he was the first to enter his first-period class, this year, it was math class.

  The math teacher, Mr. Witman, was stoked to see him and tried to cheer him up with an optimistic greeting. “Timothy!” he said. “Good morning.” It’s one of the reasons he became a teacher, to help uplift those who are down, not just teach.

  Timothy didn’t respond while looking at the seating chart. Instead, he b-lined it straight to his desk and put his head in his arms.

  “How’s your morning?”

  Timothy didn’t lift his head.

  Mr. Witman figured it was bad, so he left it at that. He knows Timothy, and he had him as a sophomore student in geometry.

  All the students coming in didn’t mind Timothy with his head down. They’d all think he slept before class started, but that didn’t stop anyone from conversing around him.

  His head stayed down until just before the bell rang. His body was still used to waking up early from summer. In front of him, at the end of the aisle, stood Sarah. Despite sharing multiple classes through the years, she’s never said a word to him. It was assigned seating, the only way a girl like her would ever sit near him. If it were open seating, the slackers would have congregated near him. She hesitated as he watched her walk to her seat right in front of his. If only he had courage because he wanted to say hi, but couldn’t.

  “Yo, Timothy!” Mr. Witman said. “Come up and solve this.”

  That startled Timothy as he had drifted off into a daydream. Timothy approached and kept his distance from the teacher as he grabbed the marker. Mr. Witman stood, thumbs hooked out of his slacks, and his long sleeves rolled up on the forearms, and he paid close attention to one of his favorite students. Timothy studied the derivative formula. It’s not too hard, and he knows he can do it. The marker squeaked on the whiteboard as he solved the problem. And then he felt something in his nose.

  Oh God. He hoped it wouldn’t be a lot. But he was wrong. The acne medication he’s been taking has substantial side effects, drying out the skin, which has meant easy nosebleeds. He dropped the marker, covered the culprit's nostril with his fingers, and hustled out, grabbing tissue off the desk as he passed by. The class laughed, and Mr. Witman hushed them.

  At least the bathroom was empty. Wads of toilet paper after wads of toilet paper, he managed to stop the bleeding. Though he spotted in the mirror some on his shirt, he decided to wear his gym shirt later for the rest of the day. The medication showed improvements, just last Spring semester, he’d hear a mixture of pizza face or Duck Face. Now it’s just Duck Face.

  He arrived back in class with 20 minutes remaining.

  “You spilled something on your shirt,” someone said as he walked by. It was Liam. Mr. Witman’s son. Mr. Witman snapped at him, and Liam lifted his hands in a what did I do gesture.

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  He ignored it and sat down.

  In gym class, he stood in a line, everyone except for two, and the two boys took their turns picking their peers to be on their dodgeball team.

  Liam stood taller than the rest, taking his turn to pick his team. After picking his girlfriend, Sarah, he went on. Alan, Everret, Stephany, Levi, Ian…

  “Ah man, I don’t want Duck Face,” Liam said. “We’ll play 11 versus 13.”

  “Cut it out,” the gym teacher said.

  Liam rolled his eyes with no acknowledgment despite Timothy walking to his side of the gym.

  Timothy wasn’t bad at dodgeball, he didn’t approach the line to throw the ball, but was good at catching and dodging, unlike Liam, who threw as if he had a rocket attached to his arm. With many of his teammates knocked out, he’d have to start throwing. Postured awkward stances, the direction on where he threw the ball was always obvious, and he never hit anyone. Liam always aimed for the feet to prevent a possible catch. But Timothy couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. After a failed throw, Timothy readied a dodge from the other side, as he arched over a ball, a nudge pushed him into it, and he fell over and got hit.

  The gym teacher didn’t say anything, and no one did if you don’t count the laughter from the nearby students. He sat at the end against the gym wall with a wide berth and wrapped his arms around his knees.

  For English class, he only changed out of gym shorts, and this time, he deliberately hung outside the room in the hall, pretending to be doing something important on his phone. He hustled in before the period start-bell and sat down, avoiding the teacher.

  The class has been reading Huck Finn. “It’s about continuing the journey west. Huck Finn loved being an adventurer,” the teacher said. “Being civilized wasn’t his style. Does anyone want to add anything?” She acted as if she didn’t have an idea of who she was going to pick on. “Timothy?”

  He raised his head. The teacher stared back at him with her mouth open, making fun of him. After some laughs, Timothy said. “I think he leaves civilization because he knows slavery is wrong, and slavery is a part of civilization. He doesn’t want to be civilized with horrible people.”

  Not bad, a college-level analysis, any other teacher would have said. But Mrs. Witman noted, “The sentence is clear, he wants to go somewhere he hasn’t been before. Nice try, though.”

  He put his head back down. Aside from the occasional glance over to Sarah, they’ve never interacted much. Neither did paintings or artwork speak to a visitor in an art gallery, but it’s still enjoyable. Except for that one time, she sat beside him for a school project, with the desks close to one another. She said, “Ew,” and scooted herself over before they started.

  After school, he rode his bike home. He passed all his peers in the parking lot. Many of his peers will pass him in their cars. Some days, they yell Duck Face louder than others.

  Riding by the large football stadium, it always loomed, and its shadow kept half the school in the shade the entire day. It was an open stadium, but a partial ceiling covered most of the stands. On Friday nights, people could see the stadium lights for miles, creating a mini-professional arena. Nearby, a second field was used for track, soccer, and gym. He continued riding, passing the train tracks and along a converted mixed apartments and restaurants building that was a turkey factory years ago. The ranches nearby were lively, and the sidewalk would end here for a stretch of a mile, where Timothy watched horses and buffalo graze as he rode by. The other side of the street was the back end of several tech buildings with parking lots the size of a city block and acres of solar next to it all.

  “Duck Face!” An all too familiar voice called out. He ignored it, but couldn’t ignore the force that sent him off the road, tumbling off his bike and into a ditch. Dirt got all over him, and his arms got scratched up. He spat what debris he nearly swallowed, brushed himself off, and got back on his bike. “Easy.” He peddled off again. At least this time, he didn’t break a leg like he did junior year when Liam chased him off the road.

  He turned into a part of Clearspring that the locals called old town. Large Ash and Oak trees were evenly planted along the sidewalk for several square miles, with cute homes and mostly under 1600 square feet. All old, all brick, many ranch brick homes, many allies, and a main street with charming local stores and restaurants.

  At the far side of Old Town was his home, where his poodle waited. Almost as tall as he is, Twain hopped up on his hind legs, and Timothy took him for his walk.

  Dinner was just him and Twain, with a basketball game playing in the background. Timothy loved basketball. He imagined being one of the players, playing with other people, with athletic ability, and a crowd of adoration—a dream. A dream never meant to be. He was horrible at basketball and didn’t play with others.

  He has no friends.

  His mom came in. Twain greeted her, and she grabbed the leftover dinner and joined him on the couch, still wearing her scrubs.

  “You worked the day shift?”

  “Yeah. Day shift all week, then back next. How was school?”

  “The bike ride home was fun.”

  She chuckled.