Golden Boy

Strolling onto the school stage, David accepted his seven awards for the previous academic year. “Sport”, “Music”, “Performing Arts”, “English”, “Latin”, “Charitable” and “Overall Achievement”, he might as well have had an acceptance speech, the amount of accolades he collected almost demanded some sort of dialogue with the jealous few who sat and watched him.

I hated David. My parents would always ask me why I “couldn’t be more like David” and how I had “wasted all of the school fees with nothing to show for it”. I was generally a content person, minus the fact that I had people like this to constantly remind me that I wasn’t quite top of the tree. I pulled the two sides to my blazer very close together, as tight as possible so as not to appear larger than my raw body weight. My hair I combed back, tucking my shirt in tightly and brushing my face every now and again, in between clapping for David, to ensure it was as pristine as possible.

David was embraced by his stunning girlfriend as he left the stage, her long blonde hair and unbelievably toned body draping over him as though she worshipped him like a god. His father, a leading businessman, gave him a high five, his Rolex slapping against David’s wrist as he did so. His mother, weeping with pride, embraced him similarly.

David’s prizes were the evening’s close, the school had ensured it so, and all 800 of the under-achievers filed out accordingly, with buzzes of “Isn’t he amazing!” around the crowds. I romanticized David as some sort of image to which I should adhere, something which prevented me from ever focusing on my own life. It was an unattainable image, David’s, he had absolutely everything.

Before I met my parents outside, who had come to pick me up, they hadn’t come to the awards evening out of “shame”, I nipped into the toilet for one last check of my entire appearance. I wandered in and looked at my inferior reflection, the face of failure, the face of defeat.

I heard a low mumbling cry from the left cubicle just over my shoulder. The door was unlocked, I could see from the reflection in the teasing mirror. I wouldn’t usually approach this, I’d leave people to themselves, and they’d sort their own problems out no doubt. But tonight was different, somehow I decided to go to the cubicle and check if, what was probably a Year 7 with a broken heart, was ok. The door swung open slowly, with a creaking sound as it did so. I found him crying uncontrollably, weeping, with sick down his pristine white shirt, and his tie dragged down. His eyes were dominated by his black pupils, a dark window to his soul. He had ripped up all 7 of his certificates, all in tatters across the floor.

“Are you ok David?”