Dominica Raggs and I spent both seventh and eighth grade in the same class.  For two whole years she sat directly behind me. There was a mere three feet between us, yet we were worlds apart. Finding out this quiet, hazel-eyed girl was the only other person from my graduating class to attend the same high school as me was mildly shocking.

Freshman year was, honestly, more interesting than difficult.  I didn’t think much of it the day Ms. Anderson canceled fourth period swim class due to a maintenance problem with the school’s pool.  She left a notice on the door informing us to report to Coach Torian’s gym class immediately.  

The change in scenery was ideal for me.  I’d been wanting to ball in the school’s gym all semester and wasn’t going to miss the opportunity.  I chilled in the bleachers with some of my dawggs, assured I was running next.  

As the game neared its end, I got up, anxious to play.  It was then that I noticed a commotion at the side of the bleachers.  From where I stood, all I could see was Walter Jones throwing what appeared to be hair to some dude I couldn’t really see.  Then I realized a girl was running between Walter and his partner in crime, trying in vain to get the hair they were keeping from her.  

I don’t recall what exactly drew me to this tasteless spectacle.  What I do remember vividly is the moment I was close enough to see the tear stricken face of Dominica being laughed at as she begged Walter and his friend to give her wig back.  Seeing the pain in her eyes and the absence of hair on her head, I suddenly realized that all the days she’d been absent in elementary school were probably because she was hiding how truly sick she was.

I felt a piece of my soul begin to decay as I stood there, and I knew if I continued standing there I’d never be whole again.  A compulsion overtook me, and I found myself standing over Walter after I educated him on the seriousness of the situation.  Walter’s accomplice dropped the wig and ran before we could discuss his participation.  

I picked up the disheveled hair and tried to straighten it as I gave it back to Dominica.  When she looked into my eyes, still crying, I knew I would never regret standing up for her.

Fifteen minutes later, I found myself in the principal’s office being suspended for fighting.  Eleven days into my two week suspension I learned from a friend that Dominica died.  She’d had leukemia.

When I attended the funeral, Dominica’s mom came over to personally thank me for my actions.  Someone must have told her who I was.  Then she asked me to speak a few words on Dominica’s behalf.  I didn’t have it in my heart to say no, and the words I spoke that day came from a place in my soul I didn’t even know I had.  In the three years I had known Dominica I learned absolutely nothing about her, but in the moment I stood up for her, our souls touched.  I’ll never forget her. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.  The author writes under the pen name Resolute, and although he doesn’t write often, the work he has shared here has been nostalgic and genuine, though both have been pieces about loss. Both have also been little windows into his past, and he has a very charming way of opening them.

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