J12

The hallway smelled of shoe polish and the warm breath of radiators—an ordinary morning before the first period. You were in ninth grade. You were walking, clutching your bag by the handle, when you noticed a group of classmates surrounding a new student by the broken yellow window. He stood slightly hunched over, his shoulders hunched, clutching a worn sketchbook. On the back of his jacket was a patch: "W-12"—the very same mark that had already become the subject of gossip.

They teased him, nudged him, and laughed at his drawings. Their voices were hoarse and aggressive, like a pack of kittens with teeth. He responded little, sometimes pursing his lips, and his slightly frightened eyes were searching for an escape route. And it was immediately clear they were calling him F-12.