I remember Anthony Shea. He was a boy that went to school with me throughout elementary and middle school. He had short orange hair and a multitude of freckles that were scattered against his pale skin. He was always nice to everyone and teachers used to say “he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.” I occasionally chatted with him about school work and such. I got invited to his tenth birthday party at the local pizza place. His mom was a helper in the middle school library. She had remembered me from the birthday party I guess because she always said hello when I was in the library. She was always so nice also and I supposed the personality had been inherited.

I remember one time we all went to the grocery store. You and me and Mom. This particular trip couldn’t have been more than a month after my twelfth birthday. I remember seeing Mrs. Shea. I remember feeling confident with you beside me. I wanted to show you I knew people, show off almost. I approached her as our carts crossed paths and asked her why Anthony hadn’t been in school for two months. Everyone’s eyes went to the floor. Except for yours which were always wide behind your glasses. “He’s… he’s at camp,” Mrs. Shea stuttered out after a moment. Her lips pursed into a fake grin. She looked like she was trying to act like everything was okay. But I could see she was falling apart.

“But it’s not summer?” I pressed for a better answer.

Mom made gurgling noises in her throat like she was trying to stop me from continuing. She was trying to get me to drop the topic.

But Mrs. Shea smiled and waved away Mom’s restraints. “Anthony went away for awhile. He wasn’t feeling well. But he’ll come back soon.”

I got the feeling that she wouldn’t get anymore specific than that. I got the feeling that I shouldn’t have asked in the first place.

Later that week, when you weren’t there, I asked Mom what Mrs. Shea had meant. She wasn’t quick to respond. She was choosing her words carefully. “Anthony is special. He isn’t like the other kids. He needed to learn how to fit in. He’ll come back soon.” I was confused because I never saw Anthony as an outcast. He had more friends than me. He had no trouble fitting in.

Anthony did come back. He was different, but he didn’t fit in more. He fit in less. He didn’t speak and his eyes always seemed to roll around his head like he couldn’t control them. He was very distant. I tried to ask him why he left. “My parents caught me doing something bad. They had to fix me.” He said it in a soft, almost whispery tone that made me wonder what he had done. I asked if he was feeling better. “I’m a righteous person now. God will save my soul.” It didn’t answer my question.

I guess he wasn’t feeling better though because a month later he was dead. Hung himself by his father’s favorite leather belt. I couldn’t help but think why he would have done such a thing. I know now.

Our family went to the funeral. I made sure your tie was tied and your socks matched. Mrs. Shea cried a lot and I even saw Mom shed a tear or two. In the casket, I could still see the deep burns in his neck from the Italian leather. Anthony’s pastor didn’t speak like I was told they usually do. He just sat with a somber face in the corner. I think he was praying. I don’t think he believed Anthony was making it to heaven. Not after what he had done.