#choosing2see

Iver and I wait until most of the other students have pushed their way out of home room before we walk past a haggard Mrs. Push wiping down the white board.

“So you just move here?”

I slide my leather messenger bag over my shoulder and nod. “Yeah. My, uh... dad and I just came here.”

“Oh yeah?” Iver glances at me sideways, always with that smirk. “What does your dad do for work and stuff?”

I nearly freeze. This I feel I cannot say. I don't know if I even want to say. Because it's a mess to even bring up really. My dad isn't my favorite person on earth, and the fact that I'm stuck living with him here in this hole bugs me more than I can even say. But I have to come up with something. So far Iver is the only person even bothering to talk to me and I can't screw this up. God knows I need as many friends as I can get here. So I just say the first thing that comes to my mind.

“My parents divorced last month. And... I got stuck with my dad here. He got some low-level job at a coffee shop on the far side of town.” I shrug. “But it doesn't really matter much. I mean, parents generally suck anyway.”

“Yeah.” Iver just nods like he understands all of this. “My dad. Works all the time, doesn't get it, and doesn't care. And you know what? Neither do I.”

It makes more sense than he even realizes. Not that I'd ever actually explain that to Iver. Or anyone. It's too complicated for probably anyone to ever understand. We chat about random stuff like school and snowboarding and the mountain not too far away and how we should hit it up sometime. And there is this part of me, as we sit in history with Gleason droning on and on about the United States and the Civil War, that thinks I may have just found a good friend. A friend I hope I can keep.

We pretty much stick together and end up at lunch. But here's the weird thing I've been noticing: nobody else ever seems to talk to Iver. Sure, people see him and stuff. And I mean, no homo, but he's definitely not the worst looking guy there ever was. So part of me is beginning to wonder what's up. Why doesn't he have any friends whatsoever? He's pretty friendly and outgoing... and I honestly don't really get it. Maybe he's just one of those people who's too cool for everyone else or above the system or whatever that crap is.

I stab a piece of lettuce with my fork. “So how long you been at Reynolds?”

Iver has a brown sack in front of him, and he's busy spreading humus over a piece of flatbread when he looks up. “Me? Oh man, I've been here forever. Since freshman year. I've always been stuck in this freaking town and it's about enough to drive me insane.”

“What do you mean?”

Iver waves his flatbread around the lunchroom. “I mean you've got everything here. Losers, freaks, hipsters, religious crazies, everything. They all do the same crap. Over and over and over – hate on people for no fricking reason. And I'm sick of it.” He leans forward. “But you know... honestly, Garrison. You seem kinda different from all that crap.”

I laugh. “Yeah... I guess I'm a good kind of crap?”

Iver laughs too and stuffs his face with humus. “Yeah. A good kind of crap. That's a good way to put it.” He glances up at the clock. “What do you have after lunch?”

I slap a hand across my forehead. “Ugh. P.E. Really not looking forward to that.”

“Yeah... I don't enjoy that one either. Thankfully I got out of it this semester. So good luck with that.”

A part of my stomach drops a little. Iver has become a little bit like my anchor in this crazy place. And going through something like P.E. is not my idea of fun. But it might have been bearable with friends.

“Where are you going?”

“Art, man. Favorite part of the day.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? You any good?”

Iver shrugs. “I can hold my own. And Mrs. Push is in there.”

“She teaches art?”

“Yeah, man. She's freaking amazing actually. You should see if you can still get in or not.” Iver finishes off his flatbread and crumples up his lunch sack. “You enjoying that salad? Because seriously, I'd never eat food from this place. You gotta buy local, man. It's the only way to live.”

I swallow a reddened piece of lettuce. “Yeah... I'll keep that in mind.”

“I gotta go.” He slides his iPhone from his pocket. “What's your number? There's this sweet band playing tonight over on the east side – if you're interested, we should hit it up.”

After rattling off my number, Iver smirks and turns and walks off, leaving me by myself at the lunch table. And I'm feeling excited. About making a new friend, about maybe hanging out with him after school and thinking for the first time that maybe this whole move isn't so bad after all. Maybe it's just what I needed in my life.

But there is this slight fear somewhere deep in my gut. What will my dad think of someone like Iver?

Stories are all around us.

The question is: are we choosing to see them?

Who are the hurting people on your street corner?