Mysterious No Name Girl

I have been there when people have approached Ian, stopped to regard him with their head coming to a gentle tilt. It's always a painful few moments to everyone except the oblivious outsider to our situation, as they try to form the words that always, inevitably, come next. I think Ian may be cursed. Someone always has something to say about his appearance, regardless of where he is. He dresses nicely, and tries his best to fit in by speaking little and listening well, but eventually a stranger will always say something, like...

"You're very short. How tall are you?"

"You look kind of like a rat, with that big nose yours and sticky-outty ears."

"Your eyes are too far apart, aren't they?"

"Have you ever been under 200 pounds?"

Like any of that is any of their business, or even something you should say to *anyone.* And Ian takes it now by staring at them coldly until they back down and leave. He doesn't want me or any of his other friends to step in, and he gets offended if you do. He used to respond by spluttering and turning red, mincing words hopelessly before turning promptly on his heel and leaving whatever place we were to hide at home in shame. He doesn't leave immediately now, but he does try to excuse himself sooner than the people he's with, to go home and go through the motions of shame again.

I've started insisting I go with him, because I know I can cheer him up if I'm there. If I'm not, he ignores any well meaning texts and wallows in self pity. Now he expects me to come with him, though knowing his understanding type, he wouldn't be offended if I couldn't. These days after someone comes up to him, and leaves under his icy glare, he looks over at me for assurance and I nod to tell him I'm with him. We don't talk about what just happened until after we get to his house. I tell him, "That person was an idiot. I mean, what a fucking douchebag," or something to that affect, and I always mean it.

Then I say, "Hey, wanna..." and propose a distraction, and we do that. Sometimes the distraction is talking about something he's interested in. Like me, Ian writes, and unlike me he composes music on the guitar and ukulele. He's skilled, and getting even better, and I find the more I know about what he's working on the longer I can listen in a warm silence on my part, stopping to tell him what I thought and give him suggestions if he's open to it. Sometimes what he needs is just catharsis, not constructive criticism, and I can do that too. He likes hearing about my interests as well, and sometimes that's the distraction he wants.

"Tell me about the maggot boys," he says, propped up on both arms with his legs out in front of him on his bed, me seated on the foot looking back at him fondly.

"I didn't think anyone would ask!" I joke, and begin to detail the half maggot, half human monsters I've made up in the sixth grade and continue to entertain the idea of, adding details and tidbits as I've grown up and my interests changed.

"Tell me about the zombies characters you've been working on." "What was that story you were doing? About empathy for monstrosities? Could you tell me more?" "You said you're playing Skyrim again, a while ago. Are you still doing that? How about Left 4 Dead?" He loves listening to me talk as much as I love hearing him do so. I've found, and then realized it somewhat uncomfortable, that he likes hearing me speak about ugly things. It’s been a long and ongoing journey for me, but I acknowledge that I romanticize the grotesque, and then later I realized he related himself to these things. That is what makes me uncomfortable, that my friend sees himself as grotesque. It hurts, in its own right.

He has grown a fascination through me of my opinions on things no one else finds pretty. He admitted, after I told him, before I realized the connection he felt between me and the things I like, that he wondered if I liked *him* because I felt bad for him. Since middle school my favorites of categories were chosen because no one else liked that specific one, and I felt that it deserved love, so I chose to give it. The color orange, Marvel's character Toad, the number 13, the hideous boomer from Left 4 Dead, and so on. I assured him, no, of course not, he's my best friend because he's kind, not because I'm sorry for him.

Ian has earned my friendship through his compassion. I trust him more than I trust my own mother, to most extents. When people at the mall, or whatever, call him ugly by those ambiguous means I become livid, and then vent it out by showing the immense compassion for Ian that he deserves. Of course he deserves good things, he's the nicest person I know! He's intelligent, and empathetic, and creative. He deserves more than to be called "the rat boy" to his face and behind his back. I don't let Ross around Ian, because as Ross continues to call me Tabitha as he has since he first met me, he would only call Ian "Ratty." It's infuriating.

"So you don't mind?" he once asked me quietly, after a movie ended and we sat in darkness, me nearly falling asleep despite myself.

"Mind what?" I had returned in that mumbly voice characteristic of those dozing off.

"Me," he had responded very gently, with compassion glowing in the nasal depths of his voice, as he leaned across the couch to see me through the darkness.

"What?" I replied, eyes nearly closed.

"You don't mind me. You really don't mind me."

It wasn't a question, this time. He was stating this like a grateful truth. I didn't answer, I don't know, I don't remember. I fell asleep on his couch and woke up the next morning with the blanket from his bed, and him asleep on the floor with nothing. *Ian.* Why didn't you get yourself a blanket? I know he has more, in the closet in his bedroom. I don't know the answer, but I'm not sure I want to know. I'm worried my friend puts me on some kind of pedestal because I'm kind to him, and I'm not sure what to do about that. I'm no kinder than I think he deserves, and no less so than I think I should act. I'm decent, that's all. I'm just decent.

WHO