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The first time he saw Harold Wren was in the school library. He walked with a slight limp—car accident, the rumours said—and looked at you with tired eyes that seemed to see everything and look right through you at the same time.
He was twitchy, like his name, and like his name, he was elusive: you catch a glimpse of him through your binoculars, and as soon as you take your eyes off him—oh, there he goes.
He also seemed to sense when people were watching him. After John spent a few moments observing him, Harold turned and their eyes met for half a second. Then he took a sharp left that brought him into the aisle between history and arts and crafts. When John turned to follow, he was nowhere to be seen.
.
Harold had a handful of friends that he ate lunch with, or was seen in the halls with, but he was always a bit aloof. Like he was going through the motions—pretend to socialize, pretend to have friends, hide among the sheep—like an automaton. He never seemed to enjoy their company, except the odd instances he could impress them with a trick or some tidbit of knowledge. But even among those moments, he held himself back, like a parent entertaining a child, even while hiding them from the vastness of the real world.
No one noticed; Harold put exceptional effort into making sure things stayed that way. John did, but he liked to tell himself that it was because Harold interests him, that he wanted to figure him out, and not because he was afraid that he, in Harold eyes, would be sorted into the sheep.
.
John finally caught him again at the school library one day—doing his AP calculus homework with a ballpoint pen—and sat down across from him.
“Hello, Harold,” John said, agreeably.
Harold didn't look up at him, his pen didn't stop, or even pause. “Hello, Reese,” he said.
“We're in a few classes together, but we never seem to talk—”
“Let's not waste time with this,” Harold interjected. “What is it you want? Your homework? Perhaps an English exam coming up? Or is it," he finally looked up, his pen still writing as he met John's eyes for a cold second, "applied math?”
John felt his jaw drop. Somehow, in his meticulous note-taking and observance of Wren, it had never occurred to him that he had the capacity for this level of hostility.
“I think I'm hurt, Harold,” John said. “I was just trying to get to know you.”
“I know you have. You've been watching me. You think I haven't noticed.” He finished his homework and closed his book.
He gathered it up and stood up. “Extortion is unnecessary, Reese. If you want your homework done, simply give it to me when you see me. It should be no trouble at all.”
He turned to leave, but John's hand snapped out and he grabbed Harold's sleeve. Harold started, and looked down at the offending appendage. John looked at his own hand with almost as much surprise.
“Wait, no,” John said. “I really... I really wasn't asking you to do my homework. I just." He stopped. He was out of words, and Harold simply stared at him in that distant, sleepy way of his, as if he was too far above everyone to focus on anything.
“You're different,” John finally blurted. “I want to know more about you.”
Harold raised an eyebrow, and shifted slightly so that John let go of him. “I'm really not very different,” he said. “There's not much to know about me.”
He looked away, but didn't move to leave. John didn't move either.
“But if you insist,“ Harold finally said, after several beats, “my dad won't be home until 6. You could come over.”
John was almost afraid to move, to break this moment. “Alright, Harold,” he breathed.
.
Harold room was somehow completely ordinary. Oh, he had a few posters of space, a telescope and some general puzzles lying around, but it was all aggressively normal, as if the impressive lengths he went through to appear ordinary extends even to his home.
“So, what do you do for fun around here?” John asked, tossing his backpack on the floor.
Harold shrugged and sat down at the chair by his desk. “I read,” he said.
John shook his head and gave Harold an exasperated look, only to find Harold smirking back at him. “I don't doubt that,” he said. “Aren't there anything you do that involves more than one person? What do you do when your friends are over?”
Harold leaned his chin on his palm and looked out the window. “My friends don't come over much,” he said. He glanced over at John. “But you already knew that, don't you?”
“I figured as much.”
Harold smiled, as if pleased. Which was a ridiculous thing to be pleased about, but it made John sit up straighter anyway.
“Okay, fine,” said Harold. He stood up. “Here, I'll show you.”
He brought John over to another room and ushered him in, and he pulled the cover off the most complicated piece of machinery John had ever seen. He knew he was gawking, but he still couldn't help himself.
“What is this?” John asked.
“It's a difference engine,” Harold said. “I've been working on it.”
“You built this?”
“Yeah, it's not really all that practical, given but I thought it'd be fun.”
“Fun,” John breathed. “Of course.”
He was about to ask for a demonstration when the doorbell suddenly rang, and Harold glanced sharply at his watch before blowing past John and down the stairs.
An officer was outside, with a worried look on his face. “Harold, it's your father, he's at the hospital.”
John could see all the blood drain out of his already rather pale face. “Alright, officer.” He looked back at John. “Sorry to cut this... play date short,” he said. There was distainful twist in his look, and John could see all the walls he hadn’t realized lowered going back up.
“I'm coming with you.” John said.
Harold was genuinely surprised. “You, what?” he asked, startled out of his spiteful mood.
He herded Harold into the police car. “I'm coming,” he said, and clambered in after him.
.
Harold father had Alzheimer's, as it turned out, and was wandering around on the highway until he was clipped by a car. The drivers instantly pulled over and called the cops, but he has still ended up in the hospital to make sure he hadn’t sustained any serious injuries.
This seemed to be better news than Harold was expecting, and when he slumped down on the waiting room bench, the relief was evident.
John handed him a soda. Harold face had not changed, but the air around him was a far cry from the relaxed amusement he had shown at his house.
He wanted to smooth out Harold hair, and the tiny frown on his face. He wanted to tell Harold that everything will be okay. He didn't, because he didn't have the right to, and because everything will not be okay, especially not when a teenage boy's father has Alzheimer's.
“One time,” Harold said, ”when I came home from school, he thought it was a home invasion.” He closed his eyes. ”He was so scared. He was looking for me, because there was a robber in his house who was going to hurt his son.”
He wiped his eyes, and disguised it as pinching the bridge of his nose.
“‘Not everything that is broken is meant to be fixed,’ he told me.” A beat. “I don't buy that.”
John smiled grimly at him, and pulled him into an awkward half-hug. Harold, surprisingly, buried his face into John's shoulder.
“You're gonna change the world, Harold.” John said. He would probably be out of the picture by then, no doubt about that—there was no way he could keep up with his brilliance. But he was fine with that.
A world that Harold tried to fix would be a better one, no matter what.