It Goes Like This

This is random.

It goes like this:

Jeremiah ducks, cheeks stained red as he tries to get past the group of men – no, he thinks, boys; boys he went to school with, last year – but before he can one of them has a hand wrapped around his collar.

Fear is etched across his features as he stares up into the familiar face of Michael Andrews. He thinks he’s never looked him directly in the eye before. It’s no better than focusing on the swastika etched in black onto the arm that holds him upright, knees buckling, and then there is pain. And darkness. Wonderful darkness.

No, that’s not right. This is how it happens:

They are only teenagers, readying themselves to leave school and bravely step into the real world, when Jeremiah first catches Michael Andrews’ eyes. He is sitting on a seat in a shop, another man bent over his arm. It takes Jeremiah a few moments to realise that it is a tattoo parlour. And that Michael is underage.

Michael sneers at him, and then there is someone behind him, one hand on his shoulder.

Jeremiah turns. Or, at least, he tries to, but—

No, no, that isn’t it either. Maybe it goes like this:

Jeremiah’s parents keep speaking of going away. Somewhere new, they say. What they mean, of course, is somewhere with a low rate of Nazi ideals. It hadn’t been like this when they’d first moved, all those years ago, but—well. Things change.

He doesn’t want to leave, because he loves his school. He loves his friends. There is a great amount of love in Jeremiah, and he thinks he might love it enough to forget about the rising rate of anti-Semitism.

But he is at school when he first meets eyes with Michael Andrews, and those eyes are cold, dead, staring back at him.

When lunch time comes around, he finds himself held by the throat – he can’t breathe, but he is at school, so someone will find him soon. Someone will find him soon. Won’t—?

No! Wait, that’s not how it ends. That’s not it at all. Maybe if we go back another year:

Jeremiah tries to appreciate that not everyone is raised in an atmosphere that breeds tolerance, but it doesn’t make him hate it any less. He understands – he really does understand – that many of these boys come from very poor homes, where parents do not act as parents should.

He wonders if it’s too late to do anything about it. He wants to help.

It is because he wants to help that, once he manages to make eye contact with Michael Andrews, the ring-leader of the anti-school subcultures, he smiles.

It is a bad idea. They’re in a classroom, but his teacher has turned a blind eye as the other boy approaches menacingly, and then Jeremiah is falling, and—

No, no. That isn’t right either. Back even further:

Jeremiah bites his lip as he looks out at the sea of unwelcoming young faces – thirteen-year-olds can be so cruel – and tries to find a place to sit. The teacher is little help, leaving him to choose his own destiny.

In a flurry of panic, he chooses the seat at the back, next to the boy in the dirt-streaked shirt. He isn’t wearing a tie, and Jeremiah hates ties. He hates school uniform.

When he sits down he accidentally meets the boys eyes and smiles.

I’m Jeremiah, he introduces himself. He’s uncomfortable in his own skin, growing too fast and too awkwardly, and the other boy looks just as unsure.

Nonetheless, he smiles back. It looks almost pained. Michael.

That’s it! And now, if we fast back forward:

Jeremiah ducks, cheeks stained red as he laughs – and Michael is right beside him, hands clasped tightly, smiling back.

Their eyes meet, like thousands of times before.