Tom's Choice

We all have two identities - a true identity, and a fake identity. Usually, we act out the fake one, to protect the true one, unconsciously.

It was the first day of a new semester. Nothing had been changed. Wearing the same uniform - not warm enough for the freezing winter, I took the same route to the same small high school located in the city center. As I stepped into the classroom, I pursed my lips into a perfect-smiling curve, fulfilled my eyes with enlightened brightness, almost automatically, got ready for greeting. My classmates seemed too enthusiastic from my common knowledge about them, as if they encountered Jay Chou on the street; yet, I noticed that all eyes were concentrating on the same spot.

I turned around, and I saw him. He was wearing the same dark-blue uniform as we did, with well-shaped muscular body and neatly-cut black hair. “oh, a new student”, I recognized, “that’s why everybody is over-reacting”. The perfect smile still dangling on my curving lips, and after several careful glances, I came up with a conclusion, “he is nothing special”. He was sitting in the corner of the classroom by himself, plain face without any expression at all; holding a thick book, head bent down - did not bother to greet any of his new friends. And I came up with another conclusion, “another book warm”.

The new comer, Tom - I acquired his name from my friends, as common as his name, did not bring any change to our school lives. However, in some ways, he was not common, for his refusal attitude. “Hey Tom, we are going pooling tonight, you coming?” I heard the boys’ invitation. They had invited him several times since the beginning of the semester, so his depressing, overly- simple, yet consistent answer, “no, thanks” did not frustrated them. The boys showed no sign of disappointment, and headed out of the almost emptied classroom.

I packed my bag, ready to go back home. “Excuse me,” politely, I said to Tom, his huge stack of books on desk almost blocked the narrow aisle. He moved the books inward slightly, but with the miscalculation of my over-sized bag, I heard the crash of his books falling on the ground. “Oops!” I composed my expression, turned around, grinned sorrily, and squatted to pick the books up. When I saw that page, I believed I just discovered his secret. It says, “… thank you for your generous donation to the ‘Poor Children’s Fund’, as well as your constant visits to our children…”. Our eyes met. Mine, surprised; his, complicated - cold, warning, panic-stricken, uneasy. Tom lifted his index finger to his lips, “Sh…” I smiled slyly. “Sorry”, and walked away as if nothing had happened.

I respected Tom’s choice on what identity he wanted us to know.