We were 8, and our school had a rule that boys must wear a cotton vest under their white school shirts. One day, Tom came to school without it. The teacher said, “If you’re so desperate to show off your body, do it in front of everyone,” and started to rip the shirt off his body.
That’s when we were all horrified to see the deep, purplish bruises along his ribs. Faded yellow ones too. Some looked old, some fresh.
Tom’s face froze. Our teacher, Mr. Clive, stepped back like he’d touched a hot stove.
We didn’t understand everything at that age, but we knew bruises like that weren’t from falling off a bike. No one laughed. No one teased him.
Even the class clowns sat in stunned silence. After a few beats, Tom just stood there, shirt hanging from one shoulder, eyes blank. He didn’t cry.
He didn’t say a word. That silence hit harder than any scream would’ve. Mr.
Clive fumbled, tried to button Tom’s shirt back up, but the damage was done. A few minutes later, he asked Mrs. Kaur, the assistant head, to take over the class.
Then he walked Tom out, a hand lightly resting on his back. That day changed something in all of us. Tom didn’t come to school for two weeks after that.
There were whispers—mostly from kids who’d overheard things at home. “His uncle’s been arrested.” “Social services got involved.” “He’s living with someone else now.”
When Tom came back, he was staying with his aunt, Leena Aunty. She lived in the same neighborhood, but we rarely saw her before.
Now she picked him up every day, waited outside the gates, always smiling, but her eyes were red a lot. At first, no one knew what to say to Tom. Even I didn’t, and we’d been seatmates for two years.
We’d built volcanoes in science class together. We’d laughed till we had hiccups during school assemblies. And now… it was like we were walking on eggshells.
One afternoon, I just blurted out, “Wanna share my chips?” during break. He nodded and sat beside me under the neem tree. That was it.
That small act brought him back into our circle. Over the next few weeks, Tom slowly started to smile again. He’d crack quiet jokes.
He still got excited about dinosaurs and was always the fastest in P.E. But he’d flinch sometimes when someone shouted, even if it wasn’t at him. And he hated surprise touches—like someone tapping him from behind.
By fifth grade, most kids had stopped talking about what happened. But I noticed Tom got super good at reading people. Like, scarily good.
He could sense when someone was upset before they even said anything. He helped stop fights before they started. Teachers loved him.
Still, he kept his world small. Me, Jamal, and Siya were his main crew. We were like his circle of safety.
High school came, and we all drifted a little. Different subjects, new friends. But Tom never really opened up to anyone new.
Not like before. He had trust issues, obviously. But he hid them under this smooth, charming persona.
Girls liked him. Teachers relied on him. But I knew when he smiled too long, his jaw got tight.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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