"Everyone is a moon and has a dark side, which he never shows to anybody."

— Mark Twain

Irregularity. What was wrong with it? A lot of things, actually. Having something unforeseeable happen is one of the worst things that could ever happen to George. Sitting alone in the far left corner of the classroom was a regularly occurring pattern. Having a certain boy sit down next to him on a rainy Wednesday was what you called an irregularity.

"Um... Can you please move?" George asked quietly.

"Hm? Why?" Clay furrowed his eyebrows.

"I usually sit alone."
"I've noticed! That's why I sat here."

"It creates a static pattern of me sitting in the back with my right desk empty. You sitting down will disrupt that pattern."

"Where's the fun in that? Doesn't it get boring?" Clay turned to look at George. George looked away. He knew Clay wouldn't understand. Why even attempt to speak to him truthfully?

"Don't look at me. It bothers me." George put his hand to the right side of his face, away from looking at the glaring boy next to him.
"Sorry." Clay nodded and looked back at his desk. "I didn't know."

It was currently physics, a subject George hated with a passion. As far as George had heard, there wasn't a single person in the school who willingly liked physics. He wasn't even sure if the physics teacher liked physics. Oh well. Physics is physics.

The teacher had given them a worksheet and allowed the class to quietly work with the person next to them. Maybe Clay wasn't aware of the fact that George was dumb as hell.

He was twisting and looking through all the formulas he had written down for himself, but he couldn't find anything that would help him solve it. If he saw another tension-based pulley question again, he would find a gun and shoot his worksheet.

Unfortunately, unlike most Americans, George didn't own a gun; he just settled on a small sigh.

"Are you having trouble with something?" Clay peeked over to look at George's worksheet.

"No. Go away." George guarded his paper with his hands to save his life and pulled it toward him.

Clay gave a small smile and gently pushed George's hand away. George yanked his hand away to avoid Clay touching it.

"Oh. Yeah, that is pretty difficult, I'll admit." He peered over at the formula sheet on George's desk. "You have the formula right here."

Summation of force equals mass times acceleration. George didn't understand how the formula could help. It doesn't even have the gravitational constant, which was needed to solve the question. Plus, there were two masses in the pulley problem; the formula only had one. George scoffed. He didn't need Clay to waste his time anyway.

"Look, you need to find the acceleration, so you put a equals summation of F divided by m. From that, you take it and change it to m squared times g and divide it by m1 and m2, which are the two masses over here. I have the formula written down right here if you wanna copy it." Clay pushed his formula paper towards George. It was staring right at him, but George just scowled and turned away.

"I don't need your help; I could've figured it out on my own."

Clay sat in silence for a bit before slightly nodding. "Ah... Alright. Well, I'm here if you change your mind."

George rolled his eyes, but Clay didn't comment on it. George understood he needed that formula because time was running out and he had to get a good grade in this class. So when Clay went around to dig in his backpack, George quickly looked over and copied down the formula onto his own paper. Plugging in the numbers was easy, as was solving the question. He was pleased with himself when he found the answer. Acceleration equaled 3,56 meters per second squared, if anyone was wondering. He knew no one was, and he gladly forgot the answer or the question had even existed.

The bell rang when George was just about done with his paper. He was quite proud of himself. Well, for the most part. Clay did, in fact, help him with the pulley problem. Without him, he'd get at least a B-, and George was already struggling in the class with a whopping C. He wordlessly put his worksheet in a stack along with all the other students and walked out the door.

He eyed Clay when he walked by, and George's legs surprised him by beginning to walk toward the latter.

He immediately backpedaled and rammed into a person. Before he could even turn around and see the person he'd angered, George swiftly turned and ran in the direction of his next class. The problem was that Clay was there as well.

And Clay, yet again, took joy in the fact that he could personally ruin all of George's life around him by simply sitting next to him.

Yet George didn't tell him to move this time. His throat was clogging up with the thought of actually having to talk to him and thank him. But he'd refused help at first; it would be ridiculous for him to snap at Clay and then apologize to him thirty minutes later! Okay, say George actually was that stupid. What would he say, anyway?

"Hey, sorry for being rude earlier, but you really helped me with that formula! I would've had a bad grade in the quarter if it wasn't for you!"

No. Too friendly. Too inviting.

His bubble seized in size at the mention of invitation. George made sure to cross his right leg to face away from Clay and devise his plan.

He thought pretty hard. But nothing seemed to fit.

Too kind.

Too stuck-up.

Too welcoming.

And very much admitting defeat.

George pondered over the one sentence he'd have to say eventually, just twisting and turning it, only to come back full circle with the same phrase he started with.

Even a blunt "thanks for showing me the formula" didn't fit right. George just needed one phrase to quickly tell Clay and just walk away. Pretend it never happened.

So he thought about it for one lesson. Two. Three. Four.

He didn't even eat during lunch and sat hunched down at his stairs, head in his hands.

Thanks for taking the time to show me the formula.

Thank you for helping me with the question.

Thanks for the formula.

George even tried to remember the name of the formula so he could use it in his word of thanks, but frankly, he forgot the formula even existed after he walked out of the physics classroom.

Thank you for showing me the blah-blah formula.

It sounded way more professional, something to show he wasn't entirely useless, but alas, he really was nothing without his physics formula sheet.

He searched and scoured in his notebook and textbook; he couldn't even remember the original formula Clay had pointed out to him.

Three point... something... acceleration

It's really all he had to go off.

Acceleration... It was a pulley problem, so it had mass and force involved...

Looking through his phone gave him completely different formulas he didn't even know existed and ones he didn't need.

Ugh... Now I'd just look stupid if I walked up to him five hours later and thanked him for helping me with something he probably forgot happened.

The final bell rang quicker than he wanted it to. George's palms had been excessively sweating all day from the task at hand. He wanted to thank Clay today since he'd for sure be a complete and utter idiot to thank him days, weeks later.

He saw Clay leaving for the parking lot and walking to his car. George stalked closeby and would've called out for his attention if not for a boy to come up and get Clay's attention first.

Sapnap was a friend of Clay's. They had quickly gotten close over their shared love for sports and videogames... or something. Not that George kept track of what Clay was doing.

They exchange small greetings and a brief hug. George didn't feel the need to eavesdrop; he didn't understand what they were talking about anyway. But whether it was a blessing or a curse, their interaction quickly ended, and Clay continued on to his car.

George shut his eyes and reached his hand into his pocket. His stress ball was abused a couple of times in the palm of his hand before George held his breath.

It was a rule he had for himself. If he was sure he could easily do something within a couple of seconds if not for his anxiety, he just held his breath. George could hold his breath for a bit, so he had around thirty seconds before he needed to stop and call out to Clay, or he'd run out of breath.

And when he thought he'd just let Clay go and wither away in the school parking lot with no breath in his lungs, George inhaled again.

"Hey!" He called out. His decision was immediately regretted the second Clay turned around to look at him.

"George! Hi!" He gave a sickeningly enthusiastic wave that made George want to throw up and walk in the opposite direction, but he set a task for himself.

He walked closer to Clay, and they met up near his car.

"Um... hey."

"Did you need something?" Clay put his forearm on top of the opened car door.

"Yeah, I-" George stopped in his tracks, his mouth slightly open. He nervously looked at the asphalt below him. "Um..."

George nervously bit his lip, as if it would help him remember, but he bit so hard that he felt iron slowly seeping onto his tongue.

"Yes?" Clay's small responses to get George to talk weren't helping at all. George wanted him to stop talking; maybe then he would be able to remember.

"I uh..." George spoke uselessly. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment. He should've just let him leave; he obviously didn't know what this was about.

To give himself something to do, George rushed a shaking hand through his hair, putting all his passion and force into it until he felt his fingernails scraping through his scalp.

Talk... talk... What did he want to talk about?!

"Give- um- give me a sec- actually- yeah. Sorry. You can go. No. Sorry." George went to turn around, but hands grabbed his shoulders and brought him back.

"What's wrong, George? It seems to be really bothering you. I won't judge." Someone spoke to him.

George wished he could say it. Wished he could remember the words that he rehearsed all day. Wished he remembered who he was meant to be talking to. To remember what occurred.

He gazed down at the dark grey mass on the ground and two pairs of thick sticks he could barely make out, some right under him and some in front of him. The sticks seemed to be standing up straight, clearly attached to George. He let himself go in the heat of the moment and quickly felt his vision expand. The grey mass seemed closer now; there was more noise. Something was touching him. He didn't want that. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be in his room.

"George! Are you okay?!" He finally heard something that passed his underwater threshold.

George looked around, only to see a blur of dull colors.

"George! Look at me! Can you see me waving my hand?"

He looked around to see something rapidly flashing in front of him.

See my hand...

"What are five things you can see, George?" He heard Kristy's voice in his ears. George looked around. Grey mass under him. Someone talking to him.

He couldn't name anything.

"Backpack!" He gasped. "Pills in my backpack!"

Something got torn off his back immediately, but he assumed he'd be able to get his hands on it soon enough. George got back to trying to see things in front of him. There was a moving figure, which he assumed was a person. He was talking to someone. Why? He didn't talk to people.

"Here! Drink it!" He felt something small being shoved down his throat, and the rim of a water bottle was stuffed in his mouth. He drank anyway. Drank until he couldn't anymore. He'd closed his eyes. He didn't want to see what was happening — the blurriness, the noises, the shaking, everything!

"George?" He heard a soft voice break the silence.

George blinked his eyes open and looked up at Clay. He took a deep breath. He tried to get out a thank you; he definitely owed him that, but he just gave a brief nod.

"God, you scared me! What happened?" Clay moved from sitting on his knees in front of George to sitting against the side of his car, akin to the shaking boy.

"I had a panic attack. You helped me." George mumbled, but Clay heard him anyway.

"Do you want me to hug you? Would that help you feel better?"

George immediately shook his head.

"What if I held your hand?"

He shook his head again.

"Thank you." George finally sputtered. "For um... that formula. During physics."

"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?" Clay softly smiled.

George cringed at the way Clay expressed it. He knew he was weak, and Clay felt the need to show him pity, sympathy. But he didn't care. He knew he wouldn't talk to him again after what just happened.

George gave a nod.

"Any time. I'm glad I could help. Are you feeling okay?" Clay readjusted himself to the uncomfortable asphalt.

George felt a bit relieved that he wasn't ridiculed or pitied.

And, um, the... panic attack. Sorry, I frightened you; you aren't supposed to know." George put his forearms on his knees and rested his head on them. "...No one is supposed to know."

"That's alright. I'm glad I could help."

They sat in silence for a long time. George's phone was stuffed in his backpack, which was left abandoned a few feet from him. Birds tweeted lightly, communicating with each other. George didn't understand them but listened anyway. He liked the sounds of singing birds. His bus probably left a bit ago, but it's fine; he could walk home again.

"Are you feeling better now?"

"...Yeah."

George hesitated for a bit before standing up with a grunt and picking up his backpack.

"I'll be off, then. Thanks."

"Wait! You're not gonna go, are you? All the buses have left by now, probably."

"That's why I need to go. Wanna get home as soon as I can."

"I can drive you up to your neighborhood. I know where it is. C'mon, you can't just walk."

"I'm fine; thanks, Clay."

"But- well, you at least owe it to me. Let me drive you home."

George paused. He didn't like being in other people's debt. It could make Clay angry. Then he'd have an enemy. He's had enough of those; they're arguably worse than having a friend, and having a friend was terrible.

His bubble pulled him away, but George pulled forward.

"Okay." He whispered. "You can drive me."

-

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