I Just Don’t Forget

People say I have a good memory. But certain things, I think, I just don’t forget. Like when Benny shattered the window in our second period classroom by hurling one of the desks through it. Dale had been dead for two and a half weeks, the only thing he left behind – a sentence long suicide note saying Benny was his best friend. There were only twenty-two of us in the class. And twenty-two desks. No one ever came to take away the empty one. It must have made Benny crazy, the ghost in the room, until finally during one lecture he silently picked up the desk beside him and heaved it, the shards slashing the air and splattering the courtyard with the high pitched notes of mangled wind chimes. When he came back to school a week later he came in and without a word sat on the floor where the desk used to be. Our teacher never asked him to get up.

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