Chapter 4: The Beginning of Something Great

Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises
~Demosthenes

It didn't get any easier. Sherwin had long ago learned that it rarely did. If anything, the more firmly embedded in the 'weird' category he became, the more comments were thrown his way.

"Maybe he's stupid and that's why he doesn't talk?"

"Does your neck get tired from just nodding to everything, Sherwin?"

"Must be hard, holding a conversation with all of your friends if you can't speak. Oh, wait – I guess you wouldn't have that problem since you don't have friends."

The speakers of such comments always seemed to think themselves utterly hilarious. Sherwin smiled mechanically alongside them when he could manage; to do otherwise would only exacerbate the taunting. He knew that from experience.

Not that he always managed. Always, the instinct to hunch his shoulders, to curl in upon himself, was paramount. To drop his gaze and escape the smirks, to hasten from the room with the hope that he wouldn't be followed.

It was always going to be hard – but Sherwin had his moments of brightness of a morning to help him get through the day.

Character is habit long continued, the proverbs stated, and Sherwin accepted himself and his failings a little easier for it, right alongside, Keep no secrets of thyself from thyself.

There were Plato's words, that Courage is knowing what not to fear, and it birthed the contemplation of fear itself – for Sherwin wasn't scared of the kids in his class. Not really. And maybe that was his own kind of courage?

And then there was the week were the whiteboard-writer delved into Aristotle's words of wisdom. Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies, rung with him the entire day, sweetly painful with the longing of even a friend, despite doing nothing to seek it for himself. Sweet… bit a little bitter at the same time. And then the one that he clung to like a lifeline: that Anybody can become angry - that is easy. But to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power, and is not easy.

It was a long quite, slanted text dominating a significant portion of the board, but it was one that clung to Sherwin for days afterwards.

He'd never been one to grow angry. He considered it likely a deficiency in his nature, and just as likely to be a failing on his part. But resentment – that was something else. It became very, very tempting to withdraw from Tyler, the Apple Boy who sat in front of him in home room and still walked silently alongside him to Science, or to disregard Loretta's often yet still unexpected smile as being 'an accident' that she 'didn't really mean'. So easy. The reminder to recall the Who and the What served to stem the urge just slightly.

Sherwin's first month at his new school didn't become any easier, but that little spark of brightness was sufficient to light the recurring darkness. Things would change, he knew. After all, change was the one of few things truly permanent.

That change presented itself exactly one month into attending his new school.

How Sherwin recalled that it was his book he wasn't sure. How he was even left with it as a responsibility was even more astounding. It was likely a combination of factors – distracted, as Sherwin always found himself, and then forcibly slowed in leaving the classroom when a boy he'd grown to know as being called simply 'Digs' swept past him in his departure with a muttered, "See you later, Roach. Don't cause a ruckus on your way out."

Sherwin paused in the midst of slipping his books into his bag. Roach. He'd grown to hate that name. He hadn't even know why he'd been dubbed it until barely days ago when those who taunted him informed him that, "It suits you, so quiet and bug-eyed and scuttling all over the place."

Sherwin didn't have anything more against cockroaches than the next person, but he'd grown to hate the thought of them.

Motions slowed to a stall, Sherwin was only just lifting his bag onto his shoulder when the last person disappeared through the doorway. Mrs Hamilton, stacking her books on the desk with the neat precision her perfectly manicured nails always did, spared him barely a glance as he started after the departing student.

"Have a good afternoon, Sherwin," she said, much as every other teacher did. Sherwin didn't know why, but for whatever reason, his teachers seemed to have communally decided to go the 'extra leg' with acknowledging him. As though they felt the need to speak up for his silence.

Sherwin wasn't sure whether he should be confused or grateful for the fact. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

He nodded in his own usual acknowledgement when she spared him a glance, then paused in step when she frowned and tipped her head forwards. "Oh, someone forgot their book." She clicked her tongue, shaking her head, and sighed with a final thump of books onto her pile. "The forgetfulness of some people. You wouldn't remember who sat there, would you, Sherwin?"

Sherwin drew his gaze towards the desk two before him, to the book left abandoned in the corner. He shook his head in reply to Mrs Hamilton's words before crossing the room towards it, because that book… it wasn't their English book. The Three Musketeers wore a boringly plain cover that stood in stark contrast to the bright yellow of the abandoned book.

Sherwin recognised it. He recognised the book, and he was reaching for it before he'd thought otherwise. One of the book boys had been reading it that morning, he'd seen. Reading, and entirely engrossed, as though it told him the meaning to life itself.

"Would you be able to give it back to them?" Mrs Hamilton asked as she formed another pile of papers.

Sherwin barely heard her. He felt his eyes widen slightly as he read the title of the book, the author, and comprehension dawned. Aeschylus' Prometheus Bound. He knew of Aeschylus himself only for the quote that had been written on the board the previous day.

Time, as it grows old, teaches all things.

It had become almost habit to research, now. Habit for Sherwin to jump onto his computer when he returned home every afternoon and even before starting his homework, to click through the list of explanations for that day's quote. It didn't take masterful powers of deduction to consider that the writer of the quotations had an avid love of Greek literature, or at least its philosophers.

Sherwin swallowed, glanced up at Mrs Hamilton where she'd finished stacking and turned her back to him to wipe at the whiteboard free of its smear of messy notes. She wouldn't have seen, but he nodded anyway. Then, tucking the book to his chest, Sherwin hastened from the room.

He'd never visited homeroom after school hours before. He'd meant to, had intended to, but the thought of actually meeting the whiteboard-writer was as nerve-wracking as it was exciting. Sherwin was almost scared to meet him, because what would it mean if he did? Did he want to become the other boy's friend? Did he think they would share something, that Sherwin would be able to express somehow, without speaking, that he so greatly admired and appreciated the words that surely weren't specifically for himself, but felt a little like it regardless?

Sherwin didn't know. He hadn't the answers to his own questions, but it suddenly didn't matter. Time had taught him, and that teaching had prevailed upon him that maybe, just maybe, it was worth a try to at least know who was the writer was.

Though I already know, Sherwin thought as he glanced down to the book wrapped tightly in his hands. I remember him reading it this morning, even if I couldn't read the title on the cover. I know, but…

He had a book to return, after all.

The corridors weren't empty when Sherwin left his English classroom, but it was blessedly free of his own classmates. He'd almost feared – almost, because courage taught him to be fearful of the right things – that they would be waiting for him with sneers and taunts of "Roach!" But none were visible, and Shewrin set off at a quick step that became a trot in the direction of his homeroom.

He could feel his heart skip a beat before climbing into his ears to drum with a heavy pounding. Excitement, it was. Excitement, and nervousness, and just a little self-reprimand for the foolishness that had him so excited and nervous and hopeful. Sherwin could feel a touch of heat rise in his cheeks, but no amount of effort would ever vanquish it, so he didn't try. The warmth remained, the rapid thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump a consistent companion, as he turned to corner and nearly skidded to a stop before his homeroom.

Sherwin paused. Took a deep breath. Took another just for good measure. Why am I so nervous? he asked himself, and couldn't fathom the answer but to acknowledge that he was. He knew who the boy was. He knew, and yet… knowing didn't make it any less daunting.

A final breath before, with the hand not clutching Aeschylus' book, Sherwin pushed the door open.

For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to look inside. Sherwin was almost more nervous that there would be no one there than that he'd have to confront them. That he wanted to confront them. But that fear dissipated into a mixture of horror and delight when he turned immediately towards the whiteboard.

The back of the boy's dark head, hair still as perfectly combed as it had been that morning, nodded slightly as he wrote. The arms of his blue school jumper – jumper, not the uncomfortable blazer that Sherwin wore – was shucked to his elbows. He stood straight-backed and attentive as he wrote in his slanted script across the very centre of Mr Simpson's board.

Sherwin stared at him. He felt the flush in his cheeks, but for the moment it didn't matter. He felt the excitement, the thrill, as well as the tremble of fear welling within him, because this was the boy. This was the one he'd been wondering about since the first day he'd arrived at school. This was the owner of the quotes that had struck him with unexpected profoundness.

Thu-thump-, thu-thump, thu-thump, reverberated deafeningly loudly in Sherwin's chest, but for the moment he didn't care. He was almost, almost certain he was the only one who could hear it; the boy would surely have turned around if he could, too.

Which he did, eventually. Slowly, and after taking a step back to study his 'i's circled dots and the looping tail of his 'g's. Then he turned and, starting in much the same that Sherwin couldn't help himself from doing, staring him with widely blinking eyes.

Blue. Sherwin had never noticed that Jonathan had blue eyes before.

"Oh," Jonathan said, surprise evident in his voice. "I didn't even hear you come it."

Sherwin swallowed. He shook his head, bit his lip, and then swallowed again. Jonathan shifted in place, as visibly awkward as Sherwin felt, and he spared a glance over his shoulder again for the words he'd written on the whiteboard. Sherwin followed the line of his gaze.

Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises

It struck. As it always did, the words struck Sherwin and held fast. Demosthenes' words, someone that Sherwin didn't yet know, but they resounded.

An opportunity. Something small. And the beginning…

Striding across the room, Sherwin was shoving Aeschylus' book towards Jonathan before Jonathan had even fully turned back to wards him. Jonathan started again, just a little, and nearly stepped backwards. But he didn't. He didn't draw away, and whether accidentally or intentionally, that meant something to Sherwin. He didn't know Jonathan; he'd admired him before he knew who he even was, but he didn't know him. Even so, the urge to do something – anything – welled within him in an uncontrollable urge.

"Mrs Hamilton wanted this dropped back to you."

For a second, the room rung with the whisper. Just a whisper of a croak, barely audible, but definitely words. Sherwin, chin tucked and unable to meet Jonathan's eyes, stared down at the book he'd pushed into Jonathan's hands and felt a slap of surprise strike his like a blow.

That was…

That was…

Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump.

He almost couldn't believe he'd spoken. He'd spoken.

"Oh," Jonathan said. Nothing but surprise touched his tone, until, "I didn't even realise I left it behind. Thank you."

Sherwin felt his cheeks flush once more. His hands fell to the strap of his satchel and clutched his bag. Mingled shock – because had he really, truly said that? He'd spoken? – and embarrassment warred within him, but it wasn't enough to still him from raising his gaze. Just barely. Just briefly.

Just enough to see Jonathan's slight smile.

Had the warmth in his cheeks been any greater, Sherwin thought they might have burst into flame. As it was, they didn't. Not quite. His tongue leapt into action once more, however, wagging as it had barely even considered doing for so long. "That's okay," he said, still in barely a whisper that he likely couldn't have managed louder had he tried. "I don't mind."

And then he was turning. Then he was striding from the room, and then running down the corridor in a tumbled of yet more embarrassment, but also delight, and excitement, and amazement.

He found the writer.

He'd spoken.

But more than that, Jonathan had smiled at him.

Sherwin didn't know quite why that fact felt so unutterably special, except that it did. With the memory of Jonathan's surprised blue eyes, the hint of his smile, Sherwin fled from the school.

Small opportunities…

He'd taken it, and for whatever reason, it felt almost as though something had become of it. With his own smile spreading across his face, Sherwin fled the school. He did, however, leave just a little piece of himself behind.

A/N: This is the final chapter! I hoped you liked this little short story; if it's even partially reminiscent of the film, I'm absolutely delighted!
Please let me know your thoughts with a review. I'd love to hear what you think!