Pollly & Jeremy - Chapter 1

The Number Twenty-Four

We are born without any meaning at all.

Perhaps that is our first and oldest condemnation: to arrive in this world without knowing why. From then on, we spend our lives trying to find meaning in something that, perhaps, never had any.

Life will always be sad and rare, even when we find happiness.

Sometimes it looks like a beautiful garden. Everything is in its place. The flowers are open, their scent fills the air, sunlight passes gently through the leaves. For a moment, we believe it might last forever.

But all it takes is a gentle breeze.

And everything can be destroyed.

For reasons that were small—perhaps even preventable—I have often witnessed life reduced to acts that seemed impossible to describe.

People enter and leave our lives. Most pass through us leaving nothing more than a vague memory. But some captivate us. They give meaning to our days. They offer affection. Respect. They make us believe that perhaps the world could be different.

And that is precisely where one of our greatest weaknesses lies.

We believe a person can change.

But some people do not change.

That hope is often less a promise to someone else than a promise we make to ourselves.

Jeremy Valle was inside the storage closet.

He had no idea how long he had been there.

The space was narrow, dark, and damp. The smell of mildew mixed with the metallic odor of the old shelves. His knees were pressed against his chest as he tried to remain perfectly still.

Laughter came from the other side of the door.

“Idiot!”

Another burst of laughter.

“Loser!”

Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut.

Maybe if he didn't answer, they would leave.

Maybe.

A scraping sound came from outside.

Then water began to seep underneath the door.

Jeremy looked down at his feet.

The water slowly spread across the floor, soaking his socks.

The laughter grew louder.

“Look at that!” someone shouted.

Jeremy said nothing.

Then came Miguel Fangio's voice.

“Fag!”

Miguel was the kind of boy who seemed to take up more space than he actually did. He was nearly six feet tall, with black hair, blue eyes, and an impatience that turned every place into his territory. He wore the school's black sweatshirt, a gray shirt, and athletic sweatpants.

He was surrounded by several other boys.

They were all laughing.

Miguel looked at the wall beside the storage closet.

A stripped electrical wire hung from it.

He tore it loose.

Jeremy saw only a shadow pass beneath the crack in the door.

Then came a sharp electrical crack.

His entire body tensed.

“Argh!”

His scream died inside the closet.

The shock tore through him.

Jeremy tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.

The boys laughed.

No one outside seemed to hear.

Or perhaps no one wanted to hear.

When they finally opened the door, Jeremy fell forward.

He was fifteen years old. Thin and short, with straight brown hair that reached his ears. His pale skin looked even whiter now. He wore a gray sweatshirt, a white shirt, and loose, slightly torn black jeans.

He remained on the floor for a few seconds, trying to understand what was happening to his body.

One hand grabbed him.

Then another.

Jeremy was dragged outside.

The corridor beside the gym was empty.

Miguel grabbed his arm.

“Gonna cry?”

Jeremy remained silent.

A punch.

His body staggered.

Another boy shoved him.

Jeremy fell again.

“Gonna cry?” Miguel repeated. “You got nothing to say?”

Nothing.

“Fag.”

One of the boys looked at Jeremy and, for a moment, seemed tired of the game.

“Enough. The fag isn't even saying anything.”

Miguel laughed.

Then they left.

They abandoned Jeremy there.

Their laughter continued for a few seconds, growing more distant until it finally disappeared.

Jeremy remained on the ground.

Mud clung to his clothes.

He looked at the sky.

Then at the boys disappearing in the distance.

For a few moments, he did nothing.

Then he noticed his notebook.

It was caught in the branches of a tree.

Jeremy stood up.

He walked toward the tree and began to climb.

His hands were shaking.

He managed to reach the notebook.

On his way down, he slipped.

He fell into a puddle of mud.

The notebook fell with him.

Jeremy remained still.

He looked at it.

Then closed his eyes.

He stood up.

Picked up the muddy notebook and walked home.

He left the school in silence.

No one followed him.

Tears ran down his dirty face.

Jeremy did not try to hide them.

He walked home.

When he arrived, he went in through the back door.

He did not see anyone along the way.

He went straight to the bathroom.

He turned on the shower.

Hot water fell over his head.

Jeremy stood perfectly still.

The mud slowly disappeared from his skin.

But there was not enough water to wash everything away.

His bedroom was small.

Posters of grunge rock bands covered the walls. Some hung crookedly. Others were already beginning to peel away at the edges.

It was an ordinary teenage boy's bedroom.

A place where no one should ever have to hide.

Jeremy lay down.

Closed his eyes.

And fell asleep.

The next morning, he arrived at school early.

Too early.

The hallway was almost empty.

Jeremy walked quickly, looking from side to side.

He was afraid of running into Miguel.

He entered the classroom.

Chose the last desk.

Sat down.

No one spoke to him.

Jeremy rested his head on his arms.

He was exhausted.

Little by little, the noise of the classroom faded away.

He fell asleep.

Time passed.

When he opened his eyes again, the classroom was full.

Ms. Angela had arrived.

She was forty years old, with long, straight brown hair tied back, brown eyes, and an expression that shifted between kindness and impatience.

She placed her things on the desk.

“Good morning, class. I hope you learned yesterday's lesson.”

Jeremy remained quiet.

The teacher began explaining the lesson.

Then she stopped.

“I'm going to call out a number. I hope whoever I call can explain a little of yesterday's lesson.”

She looked down at the attendance sheet.

The number was twenty-four.

A few students started laughing.

Jeremy lowered his head.

The teacher checked the list again.

“Number twenty-four?”

Silence.

She looked up.

“Twenty-four?”

The laughter grew louder.

“Twenty-four?”

There was impatience in her voice now.

Jeremy did not raise his head.

“Children! Stop laughing!”

The teacher sighed.

“I'm sorry. The office really needs to change that number.”

One of the students raised his hand.

“Teacher, it'd be easier to change his number than to change what he is.”

The classroom erupted in laughter.

Someone from the back shouted:

“Twenty-four! Twenty-four the fag!”

More laughter.

Jeremy remained completely still.

He didn't look at anyone.

He didn't answer.

The teacher slammed her hand against the desk.

“Enough! Stop tormenting him!”

The laughter slowly faded.

She moved on to another student.

Jeremy kept staring at his notebook.

But he was no longer paying attention to the lesson.

He picked up his pencil.

And began to draw.

Lines.

Shapes.

Figures that represented nothing that could be explained.

Or perhaps they represented things he still didn't know how to explain.

Time passed.

The class ended.

The students began leaving.

Jeremy remained seated.

“Jeremy...”

He continued drawing.

“Jeremy...”

Nothing.

The teacher approached him.

“Jeremy...”

He remained lost inside his drawing.

Angela touched his shoulder.

“Jeremy, wake up.”

He looked up.

“We need to talk.”

Jeremy closed the notebook.

The teacher pulled up a chair beside him.

“Jeremy, honestly... we need to improve your grades. You could fail this year.”

He remained silent.

“I know you're dealing with some problems,” she continued, “but the school can help you.”

Jeremy looked at his drawing.

The teacher followed his gaze.

“And your parents?”

Jeremy said nothing.

Angela hesitated for a moment.

“Do they know about your dyslexia?”

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