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Nothing is ever black and white.

Everything can seem to be at first, but if you look close enough it’s all actually shades of grey. They only appear to be black and white; two completely divided shades, because we wish it. After all, who wants complexity when you could easily choose simplicity?

I can’t go back to that mindset, though. Not after grade eight.

All I see now are shades of grey. Some darker than others. Some so light that you’d swear it was pure white. But our eyes deceive us. It’s grey. Neutral, complex grey.

Things used to be black and white. Back when things were simple. I knew what I loved and I knew what I loathed. Bad was bad and good was good—black, and white.

Like our eighth grade classroom. The desks, textbooks, walls, and ceiling were all white. Even our issued uniforms were white.

The floor tiles, our shoes, and even chalkboard had been black (I mean this literally, it wasn’t green).

Everything had its place. It’s spot, its name.

He, however, did not…

His uniform shirt was white, but his pants were black. One shoe was white—but the other was black. The tie he wore was black-white stripped, as well. Even his face, you guessed it, as black and white. Ashen skin with black shadows (make-up, if I recall) around his black eyes.

Even his lips were painted black.

He had no name. We called him “The Mime”.

He was as weird as they came. The thing never said a word, ever. He used his peculiarly long and thin fingers and hands to talk to whom ever talked to him—which the majority of the time were only the schoolteachers. He used highly exaggerated facial expressions, too.

He was—you guessed it again—a mime.

And God did we ever hate him.

No one dressed like that. No one “talked” like that. He was a total freak! So like good little kids, we ostracized him. If he sat down at the same table as us, we all packed up our things and left him all alone.

“Leave The Mime to his silence.” Kids would sneer, scrunching up their face at the mere mention of his name on their tongue. And not once did The Mime ever go up to the kids who’d dare to say such snotty things aloud and tell them to shove it, or even just quietly sock him in the gut. He sat there, in all his unnatural muteness, and took it submissively.

As unnatural as he was, it somehow all became normal. It’d been like this since kindergarten, when our small town had caught our first glimpse of him. And when I say small town, I mean small town. We had all grown up together, from the cradle to the present day. Very few left and came—but when new people did come they’d eventually dig their roots deep into the ground here and prepare for a long stay.

When you grow up in a small town, you can hide absolutely nothing. Privacy was a foreign word in the dictionary no one but our English teachers used at school when they had to.

Back in kindergarten, when The Mime had first moved here, we knew nothing about him. The adults of the town had learned nothing about the family either. The Mime’s father, while friendly and social at work, never talked about himself and avoided any and all personal questions imposed upon him. The adults weren’t too happy having someone whom was like a stranger living in the family-like town. When word got out and around that his son was just like him, only to the extreme of avoiding any verbal communication, the frustration began to turn into resentment. What did they have to hide from everyone? Didn’t they trust their new community? Hostility passes through generations of people like a hereditary disease. Soon the whole town (or anyone that had any common sense, my older brother often told me) wanted nothing to do with them. The schoolteachers loved The Mime, so I guess they were one of the few without common sense according to my older brother.

And so it was for the next few years. Us shunning The Mime except for the occasions that we chose to acknowledge his existence, only to metaphorically and sometimes figuratively shove his face into the mud and him taking it submissively without a single word, or act, of protest.

Things changed in grade eight.

I was about twelve at the time. I was the ideal boy at the school—blond hair and blue-eyed. I was popular, good-looking, an athlete, and I was very social. Everyone loved me. Except the teachers. They generally hated me. I spoke without permission all of the time and half of the things I had to say were never productive or even appropriate. I rarely ever did my homework and I goofed off during class with the other boys instead of getting an education.

I was your typical popular boy. And just like the stereotype called for, I was failing.

It was halfway through the school year. The time of year when you were supposed to get your act together and get your work done. It’d be an understatement to say that I didn’t much care about work. My teacher was insistent that I work though—she was one of those new teachers. Young, inexperienced, and naïve. She still had the hope that children could reform with the snap of a finger and a bribing smile. She was blonde and blue-eyed too. But her eyes were a much brighter shade and her hair was so blonde it was almost white. All because of me, she soon learned one of the first lessons about being a new teacher: just because you tilt your head and smile while politely asking a student to do something doesn’t mean we’re going to give a crap and actually do it.

Needless to say that didn’t bode well with her and like any responsible adult she kept me after school and gave me a long lecture about discipline and responsibility when it comes to schoolwork. When she smiled and asked me how I felt about that, I told her to shove her lecture where the sun never shines. She then stared at me vacantly, probably counting to ten in her head so that she wouldn’t scream at me for being a brat, than sat down at her desk. Then she did the last thing she could do. She called my brother.

Normally when teachers call home because of you or something dumb you did, they call your parents. My parents died when I was real young, only a baby. So instead I lived with my older brother. He was an awful older brother though. He went to the parent-teacher meetings only to keep the publics favor of the rest of the community, but it was pretty much lip service.

“Your brother doesn’t work in class. He gets along with everyone fabulously, but he can’t seem to concentrate on anything at all...” She would say while wagging her finger disapprovingly at me.

“Yes Ma’am.” Would come the normal drawl, the tone suggesting that his mind was already far-off in dreamland. He would just nod and agree with everything she’d say before bidding her good-bye and taking me home, angry at me for making him miss The Price Is Right and Deal Or No Deal.

This meeting was no different. Happened just about exactly as described. The only difference was that it dragged on a little longer than usual, so my apathetic brother missed the first half of Jeopardy.

Same old, same old.

The next day, however, changed everything.

Since it was halfway through the school year, my teacher decided that our class should have one huge project. It wasn’t real work, this project. It was more along the artistic lines. That year, every classroom was going to get to paint a certain section of wall in the school. The teacher thought it would be fun if we made it a class project by putting everyone into groups of two, where you would than make up your own design for our section of the school. Whose ever was the best would be the one we would do.

The catch was that the teacher was choosing the groups. The whole class had groaned in a collected fit of dramatic agony. No one usually liked who they got paired up with, especially because our teacher was so naïve and clueless too. She probably still figured that all kids liked each other and that there was no such thing as “personal conflict” amongst us yet. Ergo, no problems.

It was no problem, either. Until she placed her hand on my shoulder and pointed towards The Mime.

Naturally, I didn’t want to do it.  I was one of the popular and well-liked people, and he was…him. He was The Mime! He and I did not mix, like apples and oranges. Try all you won’t, it just won’t work. But the teacher seemed determined to and didn’t listen to a word of protest from me. The next thing I knew, I was sitting beside him while the teacher was handing out the slips of paper, explaining guidelines and rules for the project.

I was furious. It was embarrassing, sitting there next to someone who wouldn’t even talk to you when you talked to him. When people stared at him and I, my cheeks would go red with humiliation and fury. Stupid teacher. She knew nothing.

When everyone got a slip of paper, she went over the rules with us. I didn’t pay attention though. I was still too caught up within my own world, where I imagined spiteful ways to get back at the teacher and The Mime for putting me in this situation.

At the end of the discussion, she told us that this project was to be done outside of school, over the weekend. Which for me meant I was to be humiliated outside of school, too. Marvelous. This also meant that one of us had to go to the other’s house to work on it. No way in hell was I letting him at mine, nor was I going over to his. This project just wasn’t going to happen. He could do it by himself. I ignored The Mime for the rest of the day and went home, still in a rage but glad that I had made my decision.

Unfortunately, the word of that got out. Somehow the teacher found out about my decision to boycott the project. Either that or she knew me better than I took her granted for. The next thing I knew she had called our house. This time, after my brother answered, he actually got angry. Usually he kept to himself and didn’t care what I did—but something in his eyes that day had changed and the next thing I knew I as getting a lecture from him. When I asked him what his major malfunction was, he told me that he was sick of looking after “an ungrateful, no good, smart-ass brat” and that I should learn how to be useful and smart for once. I told him to bite me and that he had never cared before so why should he now? Besides, as if I’d let him tell me what to do. That broke the final straw though. He informed me that he never cared before because as long as I was passing, even by just a thread, I could do what I want. But as my homeroom teacher had just informed him over the phone, now that I was surely failing and was getting older, it was about time I actually got around to getting serious about my schoolwork. Ha! Right. Before I could storm off he told me that since tomorrow was Saturday, he would be driving me to my partner’s house to work on the project to raise my mark, whether I liked it or not. That sent me in a fit. How dare he force me to do something I hated? I told him that he was lying and that he really wasn’t going to do it. But he called my bluff. He smirked at me and told me that the teacher had given him The Mime’s home phone number and that he would call him himself to talk about work plans tomorrow.

Ugh!

After a long night and morning of continual arguments and slamming doors, some time in the early afternoon I found myself stuck in the backseat of my brother’s car, sulking bitterly as I watched the world on the outside fly by as he drove. I didn’t care about my marks, I would think over and over. I didn’t care about school, and most importantly, I didn’t care about The Mime.

Bitter thoughts did nothing to slow time though because soon I was standing at The Mime’s front door, pounding my fist on the door to let him know I had arrived while my brother watched from the driveway in his car. The Mime opened the door, dressed in a snug black sweater and pair if white jeans. He stepped back and gestured for me to come inside the neat and normal-looking house. With one last long and harsh glare at my brother, I reluctantly entered the house.

He had already had everything set up and ready for the project. Paints of just about every colour and shade, paint brushes, a few sheets of white bristol board, rags for cleaning, smocks, and everything else you’d imagine an artist had. He was still smiling proudly as I stared at the prepared room. When I had finally noticed that he was staring at me, I gave him the same harsh glance I had given my brother and proceeded to sit down on the floor in a moody huff. I watched him under critical eye as he rushed to gather some paper and a pencil to write down some ideas. When he sat down beside me, I scootched over, adding at least two feet of distance between us. He didn’t seem to notice though. He only wrote our names down on the top of piece of paper.

“Marshall?” I had sneered. “That’s your name?”

He looked at me and nodded. I snorted and rolled my eyes. Some name. He continued to stare at me though, as if expecting something.

“What?”

He blinked, his dark eyes staring into mine. He pointed to the paper and the pencil.

With a roll of my eyes I answered exasperatedly, “Yes I see the stupid paper and pencil. What’s your point?”

He picked up the pencil and doodled a flower on it, than a rainbow with some clouds. He turned his attention back to me than held the pencil out.

I stared at the doodles bemusedly. “…You want ideas? For the project?”

He nodded. His mouth slowly curled into a grin.

I groaned. “I don’t have any ideas.” I pushed the pencil roughly away from me. “You do it.”

His eyebrows furrowed a little, almost turned upwards with sadness. But he did as I told him and went about doodling some more on the paper. I dozed in and out of my own world but when I snapped back into reality I noticed that he had drawn a kid in profile with their mouth wide open. A wavy rainbow was spilling out of the mouth and was circling all around the kid, filling up much of the background. I stared at the picture, awed at how realistic it looked. I said nothing though and only watched.

After a while he paused, the pencil barely touching the paper. I looked at him and watched his mouth become tiny and hard line. His eyebrows gathered in a frustrated bunch. He was stuck, I guessed. I looked back at the picture, wondering what it was exactly that he was stuck on. A few minutes passed like this. His face looked the same, still frustrated and concentrating. Out of sheer boredom, I snatched the pencil from me and took over. If he wasn’t going to finish the idea, than I would.

I don’t know what possessed me to draw what I did, but I began to draw some people in the background. They were nowhere near as good as the kid that The Mime had drawn, but they were pretty decent. They weren’t in profile though, they were all standing, some with their back to the kid and others only half-turned away. Nothing special. Just some people standing around, like they had nothing better to do.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch The Mime watching me slowly go about drawing the tall onlookers in the picture. He seemed almost mesmerized by it. Intrigued. He tapped me on the shoulder and stops me. When I turn to snap at him to bugger off, I notice his hand clasping and unclasping, reaching for the pencil. For a moment I keep my mouth closed, unsure what he wants, than it hits me. I look at the picture than hand the pencil over to him, wondering just what exactly he had in mind. He quickly shades the rainbow in different extremes of black, than goes over the people I did in the darkest shade he could manage. When he pauses and decides to stop, we both stare down at the doodle that had taken over the whole page. He was smiling proudly at it. I stared at it, amazed by it—but as if I would tell him that.

He looked at me and gestured at the picture. It took me a moment, but finally I got what he meant.

“Yeah, we’ll use this.” I agreed. Good. And the sooner this was done, the sooner I could leave. The sooner I would pass and the sooner I could pretend that this never happened.

Just as The Mime was getting a large sheet of white bristol board ready to start the actual project, I heard a car drive into the driveway. Thank God. Only when I looked out the window at the driveway, I realized that it wasn’t my brother. The front door opened. I looked over my shoulder and caught sight of what must’ve been the infamous father of The Mime. Clean-cut and orderly looking, he didn’t look the type to cause so much gossip in town. As he walked through the hallway, his footsteps were almost like a giant’s step. Loud and thunderous. They were heavy steps. The Mime froze on the spot and looked over his tiny shoulder, eyes wide at the tall man who stood in the doorway.

“Afternoon Marsh—…Oh, hello.” He mumbled quietly, staring directly down at me.

“Afternoon.” I muttered back, my eyes wavering between the giant and The Mime. Why was he acting so weirdly?

“…School work?” The giant asked, one eyebrow rising.

The Mime nodded furiously, his face incredibly passive and blank looking.

The giant nodded, grunting, “That’s a good boy. So,” As he walked into the kitchen to get a drink, he asked me, “Are you staying for dinner or something?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly five.”

“Nah. My brother’s going to pick me up any time now.” I answered. Wow, time sure had flown by. That was good too. I didn’t want to stay here any longer than I had to.

“All right then.” Then the man was gone, disappearing down the hallway and into one of the rooms. I looked at The Mime, who suddenly seemed to relax a little more though some tension still remained in his shoulders. He looked almost a little frightened. Meh, whatever.

A few minutes later I heard another car driving into the driveway. This one had to be my brother. I got ready to leave when The Mime tapped me on my shoulder.

“What do you want?”

He pointed at the bristol board that barely had a mark on it yet.

“Yeah, what about it?”

He pointed at the clock in the kitchen and at himself, his face still passive.

“…What?” I groaned. Just what did this kid want?

He rolls his eyes and picks up a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil. He scribbles a bit on it and hands it to me. I read what he had written.

“Oh. Tomorrow?”

He nodded.

“Maybe.”

He crossed his arms and tapped his foot expectantly. He cocked an eyebrow and stared at me with almost a maternal impatience.

“I said maybe.” I reminded him. Of course, maybe usually means no. He stared at me for a few moments than sighed mutely. He went back to the bristol board, which meant back to work for him. I rolled my eyes and left, ready to go back home and do something fun. When I got into the car my brother asked me how much we got done. I told him we got lots done, which wasn’t a lie. He asked if we were done.

“Hell yeah.” Was my relieved response.

He didn’t believe that either, though. And before I knew it, he was already going on about my going back tomorrow to work on the project and getting it done. I groaned. Great. Just great.

The next day when The Mime opened the door to let me in, he earnestly looked surprised. I guess he didn’t expect me to really come back. But it was a long walk from my house to his, so I as stuck here. I walked past him without even muttering a hello and went back into the same room as yesterday. Only this time there were no paper and pencils everywhere. There was just the bristol board and a whole bunch of paint. I stared at the bristol board. It was already covered in a much larger (and better) version of the picture we had drawn yesterday. There the kid stood, much more detailed looking. The rainbow was a little wavier, and the people standing in the background were much more realistic looking. The project was already nearly done. It looked like he had spent hours on it with the details he went into.

“It’s almost done?”

The Mime nodded, grinning ear to ear.

“Ha. What’d you do, stay up all night and work on this?”

He continued to smile proudly, not answering my question.

I just shook my head. “Man, I don’t even need to be here. This sucks.” I took a seat on a nearby couch. My brother wasn’t coming back for a few hours though. Damn. Another perfectly good afternoon ruined.

The Mime picked up a nearby smock and put it on over his head, to protect his clothes from the paint. I was about to zone out into my own world when I heard a few clicks. I glanced over and saw him standing at a rather nice looking stereo. He was taking a CD out of a CD case.

“What CD?”

He turned and showed me the CD.

“Rob Zombie?”

He nodded.

“You like Rob Zombie?”

He nodded again, this time beaming.

“Huh.” I mumbled. “I didn’t know that…”

He gestured to the CD, tilting his head slightly with an inquiring look.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I like Rob Zombie, too.”

He held up a free hand, with only a few fingers point up. The number three.

“The third track?” I asked. He nodded again. “Yeah, I like track three.”

He smiled and turned back to the stereo and put the CD in. There was a moment’s silence. He pressed a button a few times. A second later, the third track came on. My all-time favourite Rob Zombie song.

Huh. Kid had good taste. In music, at least.

I tapped my foot to the beat while I watched him get the paints ready for the painting. I expected him to use all of the funky and cool colours he had for the rainbow, but to my surprise he painted the rainbow a whole bunch of different shades of grey, ranging from the lightest to the darkest without it blending into black and white. When he was finished with the rainbow that spiraled all around, covering every inch of the bristol board, I caught onto the idea that he had going on. Getting up, I inspected it closer as he began to paint the people who stood in the background pitch black.

“Not bad.” I said. I glanced over my shoulder at the time. Only two PM. I looked back at The Mime. “I’m kind of thirsty. You mind if I go and get a drink?”

He shook his head, still occupied with painting the bystanders black. I muttered a sincere thanks and went into the kitchen to find something to quench my thirst. I was shocked when I opened up the refrigerator door. All at once, it hit me. I looked all around inside, wondering just how many beer bottles and cans there were stashed in here. There had to be thirty, max. After a little maneuvering, I got myself a can of Coca-Cola—and because for once I felt a little nice, another can for The Mime in case he was thirsty too. I sat it down beside him and caught the quick smile that flickered across his face as a sort of thanks before he went right back to concentrating on the project. I settled back down on my seat, opened the can up and took a sip.

I got bored real quickly though. There wasn’t much to do, really. And The Mime seemed content with doing most of the project, and I was content not doing it, so I didn’t disturb the balance. Still, with nothing to do for a few hours, it gets really boring.

I began to ask random questions. Nothing real personal or anything. Just yes or no stuff. Maybe if I asked enough questions, time would pass again and I could go home again.

“Do you like art?”

He nodded.

“You like this project?”

He nodded again.

“You really like black and white, don’t you?”

Another nod.

“So, you hate colour?”

He shook his head.

“Than how come you’re not using it.”

He just shook his head again.

I snorted. “All right.” I took another sip of my beverage. “Whatever.”

Somewhere down the hallway, I heard a door open. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the giant that was The Mime’s father entered the room. He grunted a greeting to us and continued on his way to the kitchen. I wrinkled my nose at him. He smelt like beer and looked almost like he had slept in a ditch…he looked like he had been up all night, drinking. He hadn’t changed his clothes and there were bags underneath his eyes, like he hadn’t slept well. And his hair was a complete mess. I watched him leave the kitchen and return to the same room as yesterday with another beer can in his hand. I went to roll my eyes at that when I noticed how tense The Mime looked again. I watched him watch his father leave the room. His face looked blank like yesterday, but his tense body betrayed his real feelings. I stared at him for a few moments, my own face become somber.

“Hey…”

There was no response.

“Hey. Marshall.”

He snapped his eyes on me, looking almost startled.

“I have another question.”

He frowned slightly, his mouth becoming thin again.

My fingers tapped against my can of Coke a bit, wondering how exactly to word this. “This is probably none of my business…but, how come you never talk?”

He shrugged and returned to the painting. I huffed, defeated. I wasn’t stupid; I knew when I was being ignored.

A few hours later the panting was finished. The kid was painted in a neutral shade of grey, right in the middle of the scale of white to black. The bystanders were all black, and the multi-shade rainbow as complete. I had no idea if the class would even like this, but whatever. I liked it.

Feeling a little restless, I actually helped The Mime clean up things. We sat the bristol board down on a nearby table to dry for the night. Next we had the easel that he had used to keep the painting up while he had painted. We began to fold it up, pushing the legs in so that we could carry it elsewhere. One of my hands slipped though and one of the legs fell down, right on my foot. I yelped in both surprise and pain, accidentally dropping the rest of the easel on my side. The Mime couldn’t hold the whole thing up by itself, so the whole thing fell down onto the floor with a loud clatter and thud.

“Ouch…” I grumbled, rubbing my foot. “That totally sucke—”

“What was that out there?” Came a loud holler. We both froze on the spot at the loud and anger shout. Turning towards the door, we stared in shock as the giant wandered a little clumsily into the hallway, his smoky eyes aflame with anger. Every step he took was like thunder, loud and almost echoing.

“What’s goin’ on out here?” He demanded, staring down at us, his eyes like two hard black rocks.

“Nothing, sir.” I answered. “Just dropped this by accident.”

“Hmpf.” He grunted. He turned back around and made his way back into his room, slamming the door a second later. I stood as if still frozen before I slowly turned towards The Mime, who looked like he was shivering in fright.

“…Hey…”

He jumped and clamped his hands over his mouth, as if to keep from shouting out in fear. He turned towards me, his eyes wide and surprised.

I glanced back at the room where the giant stayed and swallowed thickly. “…The reason why you never talk…” I whispered, a little scared myself to make any loud noises. I was unable to finish the question though. Really, how could I ask that?

The Mime lowered his head. Silently he tiptoed into the kitchen and came back into the room with a pen and a small piece of paper. He scribbled something furiously on it, as if embarrassed to write it, than handed it to me quickly with his head and eyes still downcast. I looked at the small piece of paper.

I swallowed hard.

“Children are to be seen. Not heard.”

I blinked a few times, staring at the words. I wasn’t sure how to process that…without thinking I crumbled up the piece of paper and tossed it aside. Without another word, we went back to cleaning up the room as quickly as we could. This time, not a single sound was made. We were so quiet; we’d put mice to shame. Not too long after that, my brother came to pick me up. I gave a small wave good-bye to The Mime and left. I was still quiet when I got into the car. My brother asked me if I was all right. I just nodded my head and kept quiet. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled the car out of the driveway. I looked out the window of my car back at the house where The Mime lived…and suddenly felt guilty for wanting to leave that place so badly.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

The next day, Monday, I went to school in a bit of a moody and grouchy mood from my lack of sleep. I was eager to get back into bed. What I was not eager for was to see The Mime again. Not because of the social stigmata, but because of what had happened yesterday…I didn’t want to remember what had happened. I didn’t want to remember the look of fright in his eyes or the harsh and thunderous voice of the giant.

When I saw him in class, I immediately looked away. I wasn’t sure what to do. I wasn’t sure whether his father had yelled at him after I left, or if nothing else had happened that night. A part of me didn’t want to know.

The Mime just sat at his desk; more solemn looking than I’d ever seen him.

When it came time to present our projects, ours was the fourth to go. I slowly got up and stood at the front of the room, beside The Mime. We didn’t say anything about ours. Other groups had gone on with excuses about theirs, or why theirs was beyond fantastic. We just set ours up against the black board and stood back and let their young eyes soak it in.

“Oh my. How lovely!” The teacher exclaimed. “You both must’ve worked very hard on this.”

We said nothing.

We left our project up there and returned to our seats, both of our heads hanging a little. I guess he was really tired too, especially after all of the work he did. I suddenly felt guilty for not having done much, besides coming up with the idea of the black-painted bystanders.

At the end of the project presenting, the teacher said that we’d all vote tomorrow for which one we’d use for our part of the school. I got my things and got ready to go home, feeling worse than I had felt when I had gotten there in the morning. I felt beyond guilty and tired…when I reached the front of the school, I saw The Mime sitting on a bench out front, waiting for something. A drive home, I figured. I stared at him and moments later; he caught my eyes and stared back. I heard someone call my voice and saw my friends crowd around me, all asking me silly questions about what to do after school and such. With a shameful sigh, I turned my back and left with the group.

I felt like I should’ve said something to him, like I should’ve gone back, pulled The Mime aside and said, “Hey man. That’s not right. None of this is right. You have a voice inside you—use it.”

But I couldn’t. And I knew that The Mime couldn’t, either.

The next morning at school, I received what would be the worst news I’d hear in a long time.

The seat where The Mime sat was empty.

There had been an accident the next before. Cars were involved. Alcohol was a factor. That was all I needed to hear to know what had really happened.

The whole class had gone silent when the teacher had delivered the news with wet and red eyes. I stared blankly at her, bits and pieces of the things she said slowly sinking in. She left the room when she began to cry even more. The kids broke off into little groups, already speculating about what happened. My friends surrounded me like yesterday, but I broke off from them. They watched me with confused eyes when I approached The Mime’s—no…Marshall’s desk. I pulled the seat out and sat down and looked around the room.

He had a pretty nice view of the room. A nice view from the window to the outside. Something in his desk caught my eye. I reached in and pulled out a grey hat, the exact same shade of grey as the kid from our project. I sniffed and shook my head, ignoring the unusual pressure and sting behind my eyes. I took the hat and put it on my head. It felt snug and warm on my head, like it was meant to be there. I crossed my arms and rested my head on his desk.

The next day, I came to class wearing a completely grey uniform that matched the hat on my head. Everyone stared at me, eyes criticizing everything on my body. But I didn’t care. My teacher stared at me, confused as well. I sat down at Marshall’s desk that day and every day afterwards.

For the school project, the class chose the project Marshall and I did (though no one would say which they actually voted for). Along the bottom of the finished piece on the wall, we put “In Memory of The Mime, Marshall”, half of the letters black and the others white.

People expected me to become really quiet when I began to dress weird. They whispered that The Mime had gotten to me before he died, like his influence was some sort of deadly disease. I shrugged all of it off though and surprised everyone when I answered questions in class and talked, just like I normally did. Only now I work in class. Now I take things, and people, more seriously. Now I talk for the both of us.

Now I wear shades of grey, in a seemingly black and white world.

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The End