Having received his tray of malodorous lunch, he proceeded to the cafeteria tables, sitting down with his only friends, at the farthest table from the others. As always, they were silent while they ate, other than the occasional discussion over the latest schoolwork, or perhaps a new book he had acquired. Generally, he tried to avoid the other groups of students, for reasons quite self evident. The “cool” tables, densely populated with the most proficient athletes in the school, never afforded him any attention, and he preferred it that way. It always seemed, whenever something came up, like the food fight before the winter recess, he was the popular target, and, lacking the authoritarian command of action the others had, and he was unable to do anything about it. The same tended to go on in some of his classes, particularly those in which students were selected for scheduling concerns rather than academic merit. Throughout health class, being surrounded by self-proclaimed “cool” kids, he was the undeniable target for everything from spitballs to whispered insults and taunts. The teachers even knew about it, and, out of respect for the school’s athletic teams, which brought a sense of success to the otherwise mediocre academic institution, did as much as humanly possible to ignore it. It wasn’t for a lack of trying he was the favorite victim, however, but his methods were quite laughable to the others. Once, after a particularly brutal lunch period, during which he was subjected to torturous hail of tater-tots, which the lunch-ladies so kindly provided to the other table for this purpose, he retorted “you’re so dense, light refracts around you”. The effect entirely lost on the degenerates, who had no more knowledge of euphemisms than they had of the concept of density, they proceeded to taunt him again, adding “loopy”, a word they were proud to have remembered from the incessant vocabulary drilling in their remedial English class, to their repertoire. Seeking refuge from this barrage, he retreated to the school library, where he would hide in a corner, engrossed in homework or studying, and perhaps discussing a particularly challenging exercise with his friends. This was where he would spend most of his free time, as few of the others would enter for academic purposes, as, he supposed, most were not interested in reading anything beyond that prescribed by the courses they are enrolled in, or, perhaps, they are incapable of reading at all. And so it was quite understandable that, faced with this oppression, he would react to situations in an at least somewhat abnormal fashion. His parents having gone out yet again on a prolonged business trip, one of their three cars, a somewhat worn, but still not significantly rusty 1960 Ford Thunderbird, in satin black, was left in front of the garage. The interior, a custom installation of a deep burgundy, gave the impression of a coffin, with the stark contrast of the white stick shift and other implements, as the shadows cast upon the car heightened and darkness set upon the estate. His guardians found, by means of a somewhat less than informative telegram from the police stating they ought to “return immediately”, and from the newspapers, the tragic account of their adopted son. The police too came to the conclusion that indeed, it was an accident, with there being no plausible reason for such a gifted child to do such a thing. The local paper said the brakes must have somehow came off, in a freak mechanical failure, when he was playing in the cabin of the Thunderbird, or perhaps retrieving some library books, upon which the car rolled down the driveway, miraculously maintaining its bearing, down a hill, upon which its collision with a fence offered some resistance, before the drop off the cliff. And so, James Wilson and his friends were not at school the next day, after which the others had already forgotten of his existence, and moved on to a new victim.