How can a boy be so strange?

Lenny has a reputation at school—just not a good one. It’s easy to earn one when you’ve got those huge, bug-eyed peepers, pupils the iciest shade of blue imaginable. Add the shaved eyebrows and his terrible fashion sense and the complete disinterest in socializing, and, well… people talk.

He’s not mute, just unwilling to waste words. He doesn’t seem to enjoy anything—talking, eating, sleeping. Lunchtime usually finds him in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, alone, staring at the styrofoam tray in front of him, its contents stirred into an unappetizing, biohazardous sludge. In math, he lurks in the back, doodling on his desk, those unblinking, oversized eyes locked onto nothing in particular. Teachers have long since stopped calling on him.

Lenny is weird. Lenny is unnatural. Ask anyone, and they’ll say the same thing: That kid’s a freak. Should probably be locked up.

But he’s not violent. Yeah, he once hacked at his own hair with scissors in the middle of art class, claiming he wanted to look like a British punk rocker. Sure, he pierced his ears himself during science. And okay, maybe he gives himself stick-and-poke tattoos in health class, hunched over like a mad scientist, giving himself crummy tattoos so that he can look like his favorite musicians. But he’s never hurt anyone. Never threatened anyone. Never even raised his voice. He’s in fact bullied… pushed around and punched by bigger dudes, some of his bullies are even younger than him. They don’t believe he’s a senior.

Lenny is just a fucking weirdo.

And now, there he is—sitting under a tree during his free period, his enormous eyes fixed on nothing. He barely moves, save for his overly ringed fingers, twitching in the grass, rubbing the blades between his finger pads. The autumn wind ruffles his uneven hair, strands falling into his face, but he doesn’t brush them away. His shirt is stained with ink, his fingertips smudged with Sharpie, little designs creeping up his wrists like vines.