"Because we hate each other so much?"

It is on my usual bench at lunch that I find myself wanting for words.

I face away from the crowds, groups magnetized and reminding me of television specials focused on penguins in winter.

But it isn't winter, even. We're working on autumn still, only just cold enough for a sweater in early morning.

Clear blue sky finds its way around parked cars and through trees, and fallen leaves (there are very few, as trees don't shed for the winter here) are tossed by the breeze.

I have to turn to see what's going on, but it isn't anything I can relate to. People are situated in their groups and I merely sit here, my sweater folded beside me. Every minute or so someone turns the corner outside the cafeteria and passes me on a patch of sidewalk.

I don't have the courage or desire to join the group I try to associate with across the quadrangle; Dobbin is close at hand, and this is my only alone time all day. When it gets colder I may have to relegate myself to the library at lunch like last year, but I'd like to avoid it. I'd like this weather to stay, because it helps me feel alive.

I can use all the help I can get.

In Psychology the desks have been realigned into rows and I have to navigate where I will sit.

"Am I chairless?" I ask the members of my group, thinking I may have to sit on the other side of the room.

"No," one of them says, "Gerry isn't here today, you can sit behind Ruth."

"Best day ever!" I say as I sit, making little of the fact that Dobbin is directly behind me.

Meanwhile, Bowl Cut Boy waves in my direction.

"I know, Peter," I say mournfully, "you're so far away from me."

"I was just saying hello," he says, a little defensively. He sits in the next row, a few seats ahead.

"Hey Peter," says Dobbin, "you want to trade seats?'

"Why?" asks Bowl Cut Boy (aka Peter, though his name is not Peter either).

"Because we hate each other so much?" I say as I swivel around to face Dobbin. I smile tightly and turn back around in my seat, busying myself by putting my sweater back on.

A minute later he gets up and moves across the room, closer to the television that will soon play a fascinating video on blood circulation (demonstrated by tango dancers!).

"I was too alluring," I joke to the Ruth, who sits in front of me. "He hated himself too much so he had to move."

"No, don't make him feel bad. You're just too awesome." She goes along with it, but she's friends with him too. They all are, and though my words make me feel better, it unnerves me that he will say nothing to me directly.

I realize that I am more than this.

I would like to understand this boy. I would like to let go.

I would like a lot of things.