I hadn't known him. I hadn't even spoken to him since freshman year. It was my health class and he had turned in his seat and asked if he could copy off of my homework. I said no.

Now I wished I had said yes.

He was tall, my head barely reaching his shoulder and he had smiled down at me with an impish glee, a note of sarcasm as he exclaimed: "You're a real peach, huh?"

Who said that anymore?

Scott does.

Scott did.

Past tense has never felt so imposing before. I wanna say 'he it' not 'he was.' He's a nice guy.

He was a nice guy.

He would laugh like everyone, he'd goof off like everyone, he probably procrastinated like everyone.

But not anymore.

I sat and thought about it tonight, momentarily forgetting the unfinished research paper for English class, and remembered how he had acted when I first met him. He had short hair then, cut close to his scalp, but still thick enough to gel into spikes on his bangs. He smiled with a hint of crooked glee, and exposed his teeth in a feral hello. He had brown eyes. They were dark and deep, and looked similar to browned acorns that had fallen off of a tree and just laid on the grown for a few days before changing colors from a bright green, to a dark chocolate.

I don't recall my first exact meeting with Scott, but I remember him because he was simply unforgettable. He was always a joy to be around, full of happiness and always willing to slap your back in an act of friendship. He was nice.

But why, suddenly, does nice feel so mean to say to someone like Scott?

My friends knew him, they say he was funny and sweet. He even helped Ethan with his homework once. He could dance like a white-boy, but it would always make you laugh, and I'm sure if he tried he could jump shot like a pro.

But not anymore.

Nice, is a belittling word when mentioning Scott, because he was a great kid. He was smart, he was sweet, he was fun, and he was kind. He was an extraordinary person bent for better things than a six foot bed and a soil blanket. His pillow shouldn't be made of stone and he shouldn't have a flower crown. No one deserves to die at seventeen.

Scott was a man above words, above my description for I did not know his grace or his charms as well as the rest. I smiled at him when his sarcasm scratched my wit, I laughed when he danced like a duck, I watched him grin at his friends, and I knew him for years without saying hello. Perhaps I'm a martyr, or maybe I'm not worthy to write this, but:

Dear Scott,


Thank you.

For everything.

Sincerely,
Nikki G.

Second desk behind yours.
Coach Brady's Health Class.