Spent my junior year
at a prep school
where I ran with a bunch
of other problems
in letter jackets —
spoiled kings
looking for footmen
to serve us
and lackeys to punish.
We had our regular targets,
and Andrew Dillon was one.

Something
was off with that kid.
We felt it, he felt it,
it showed in all things
from locker to dorm

but his sweetness,
so obvious
behind his clumsiness,
protected him from
our worst rages. His eyes
would trickle a little
each time we’d threaten
casual violence
for his social screw-ups
and awkward moments,
and we’d be shamed
into just slapping his head
or throwing mock punches
till he ran,
and we’d laugh.
Eventually
he became our
mostly ignored mascot,
primarily (I think)
as a way to survive us.

One day
just for shits and giggles
we made Andrew
fight his best friend
in front of us during lunch.
They threw sad little blows and tried
to wrestle to some outcome
they thought would satisfy us.
We urged them on,
pushing them back together
when they separated,
snot and blood
thick and sticky
upon their uniforms.

Andrew’s fat little adversary
landed one hard on his jaw,
screamed as he did it,
a shrill primal rip
in the air around them.
I saw a tooth fly in a red arc;
I saw Andrew go down;
I felt myself panic;
I let myself run with the others.

Andrew had a lightly broken jaw,
lost two teeth,
and was suspended for fighting.
His friend was expelled.
We got a talking to from Coach
and the head master yelled at us
but because there was a game
that weekend
we had detentions for two weeks
and because we won
that was all
anyone wrote.

As for sweet Andrew,
he stayed away from us,
and the likes of us,
forever after.