In eighth grade there was some sort of tension between the skaters and the jocks. I had just found my way into a superficial friendship with the skaters because I owned a video camera and would follow them around taping them. They asked me to sit with them at lunch once, to leave my spot at the table of in-between-funny-guys-who-don't-fit-in-anywhere-else. I declined the offer, and to this day I'm proud of not leaving my real friends.

The conflict manifested itself in random fistfights that would take place off school grounds, down behind the White Hen Pantry in an old lot. I've actually written about this day before, but about a different part of it.

Jason Losa and Andrew Sim were scheduled to fight that day. For what, I don't know. Because of the spectacular Flossie vs. Craig Straiz, there was a particularly large turnout at this fight, but Jason never showed up. This led to the events of the second story.

Instead, our Vice Principal came down to break up the gathering, reportedly due to Jason ratting out the skaters. Though not named publicly, when we were lectured about our fighting at lunch the following day, some "anonymous tipster" was rewarded for telling.

We spit a lot of venom about Jason after that, the skaters. I did when I was with them.

Ten years later, tonight, I'm at a small party at someone-I-don't-know's apartment. It turns out she is Jason's girlfriend, and he shows up a little after me. Across the kitchen we spot each other, and we stare for a minute, before engaging in "Hey man, I haven't seen you since Middle School!" "How are you?" "I'm doing okay, you?"

When I messaged my younger brother about running into him, he responded "He's actually nice." Later on when I actually picked Dan up, he told me that Jason worked at his gym, and that he asks about me all the time, saying that he hasn't heard from me in a while. The thing is, we've never actually spoken. He's such a quiet, good guy, Dan says, that hangs around with loud douchebags.

And reflecting on the party, yeah, Jason is that quiet, guy. He was in Middle School, the one who saw through the clique bullshit and macho-teenage showmanship. The jock that isn't actually a jock. Maybe like the skater that wasn't actually a skater, maybe even a better person than that.

What I want to have said as I left the party was, "What you did in eighth grade, that was one of the most mature and noble acts any twelve year old could have done." Instead I shook his hand and said good to see you, he said the same, and I walked out the door.

<<<<<<< | >>>>>>>