Chapter 1: The Forty-Year-Old Boy
My name is Chris. My real name is Christopher Vance. To most people, I am just another face in the hallway, but to myself, I am a walking contradiction. I am currently a student in Class 8 at St. Jude's Academy. In our classroom, there are forty-eight boys and girls chasing dreams and grades, and then there is me—sitting at the very back, holding onto roll number forty-five.
Physically, I am nothing impressive. I am not tall, I am not wide; in fact, I am quite small for my age. I look like a thirteen-year-old boy, but inside this small frame, I feel like I am dragging the weight of a forty-year-old man.
I know that if someone were to truly listen to me, they wouldn't believe a word of it. They would laugh and ask, "Why would a boy in the eighth grade think he's forty?". But it is the cold, hard truth. I haven't exaggerated a single bit.
The clocks stopped for me when I was ten years old. I was in Class 5 then, a happy kid with a future, until my father, Arthur Vance, died in a jagged mess of steel during a car accident. Three years have crawled by since that day. On paper, I have moved up three classes. But in reality, every one of those years felt like a decade of suffering. What a normal person experiences over ten long years, I was forced to swallow in just twelve months.
In the last three years, I haven't just grown up; I've aged thirty years in spirit. I think with the weary, heavy mind of a forty-year-old—an old person trapped in a child's skin. I don't know what will happen when I actually reach old age, but I have a feeling I'll be in the ground long before that ever happens.
Not many people understand why I've withered so quickly. Those who observe me from a distance think I simply lost my mind after the accident. I don't blame them for thinking that; I've given them every reason to.
Before the crash, I was the golden boy. I wasn't just good at my studies; I was incredible. I didn't just come in first; I made sure that whoever came in second could never even touch my shadow. Now? Now I am just fighting to survive the exam. I've slipped all the way down to forty-fifth place. Next year, I doubt I'll even hold that spot. I'll likely be the boy stuck in Class 8 forever.
I've lost my grip on every subject—except for Math. Numbers are the only thing that don't lie to me. But everything else—my behavior, my character, my very personality—has rotted away. I don't speak kindly to anyone anymore. I've learned how to use words as weapons; I've mastered the art of terrible, biting abuse.
And if words aren't enough, I can fight. I'm not strong, but physical strength is a lie anyway. To win a fight, you don't need muscles—you need the raw courage to not care if you get hurt. These days, I even find myself threatening the older boys in the senior classes.
The "good" kids at St. Jude's stay far away from me. The girls are the worst—if I so much as lock eyes with them, they look like they're about to burst into tears of pure terror. I walk through the halls in dirty clothes, my hair a matted mess, wearing a mask of constant, jagged frustration. No one looking at me now would ever guess that I was once the "Little Prince" of this school. I used to recite poetry with passion. I used to win debates. I even have a silver medal tucked away somewhere for playing the Little Prince in the annual school play.
That boy is dead.
My older siblings, however, are still very much alive and "perfect". My sister, Lydia Vance, is a university student so beautiful that the neighborhood boys can do nothing but stare and sigh when she passes. My brother, Julian Vance, comes home from college in his crisp T-shirts, cricket bat in hand, while the younger girls whisper and giggle behind his back.
Then there's me. No one turns their head for me.
People who don't know our family well assume Lydia and Julian are my mother's only children. They look at me and see the spoiled, ungrateful son of some poor, distant relative that the Vances were kind enough to take in. At first, my brother and sister were uncomfortable with the lie. But now? They've settled into it. They've accepted the roles. They are the real children, and I am the outsider—the ghost living in their house.