He was just there sitting. As if someone or something was awaiting his presence. The room was silent. Pencils scribbling away, pages being turned. Everyone was working. All except him. His arm spread across the table, grasping the edge of the wood. His scars and marks might just give a story. A story that would be too daunting for the quiet boy in Math class. He stares at the projector screen, upon which displayed a mathematic reference sheet. But me, I stare at him carefully examining him with my eyes.
He tries to work. Stuck. He's lost. " What should I do?" is his thoughts. 20 minutes left of class. I tap my pencil against my desk. "HURRY UP!" Is what I'm trying to discreetly tell him. But he is in a trance. A trance upon which was broken by the booming voice of our teacher. He becomes startled. Trying to finish the test that would place him in his math class for our next year. His pencil bubbles and circles a random answer, trusting it's wisdom to find the correct answer. She stops at his desk, tapping her foot impatiently. Her pudgy hands takes the test.
His hands clench to the white of the bone. "I'm sorry." Is my thoughts that I try to tell him in the tense atmosphere of Math class. The bell rings, dismissing our class. I want to run and tell him my sympathy. For he is the new kid on the block. But, that would be pointless. He becomes lost in the sea of students. I try to follow, but a wave of my classmates make me lose him. I want to scream in anger and frustration, but think otherwise.

Tomorrow will be a new day and I can try again once more.