Treehouse: We’re actually not afraid to mock him to his face—the silence is intentional
So yeah, we got out of class like an hour ago. Sensei had us doing kata drills until my legs were shaking—you know that burn where you can’t tell if you’re getting stronger or just… breaking down?
Anyway, me and the guys, we all walked back to my place.
Just the usual crew.
There’s this kid in our class. I’m not gonna say his name, but… we talk about him. A lot, actually. Like, a lot. Down in my basement, it’s like he becomes this whole thing. Someone’ll rip one—just let it fly—and we’ll all be like, “Dude, that’s for him, man, that’s a gift for when he walks in,” even though he’s not even there. And we’ll crack up. Someone makes a face, does this stupid impression of the way he bows to Sensei, all stiff and trying too hard.
We’ve got this photo of him on the wall. I don’t even remember who printed it out, but it’s been there for months. We draw on it sometimes—mustaches, devil horns, stupid stuff. Childish, I know. But it’s like… I don’t know, it’s our thing. It makes us feel… together, I guess? Like we’re in on something.
(He pauses, runs his hand through his hair)
Today I had to go outside for a second—my mom needed me to grab something from the car—and he was there. Just walking down the street. Right in front of my house. And we made eye contact. I gave him this… smile. Not a friendly one. Just this little smirk, you know? Didn’t say a word. He didn’t either. We just… looked at each other. And then I turned around and went back inside.
The guys were still down there, still laughing about something, and I just slipped back in like nothing happened.
(He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers)
He probably thinks we’re too scared to say all that stuff to his face. Like we’re cowards or whatever, hiding in my basement, talking trash when he’s not around. And maybe… maybe that’s partly true. But it’s not the whole truth.
The thing is—and I don’t know how to explain this without sounding messed up—but it’s better this way. When I see him and I don’t say anything, when I just give him that look and stay quiet… there’s this feeling. It’s like… tension. Like a rubber band pulled tight. He knows. I know he knows. And I know that he knows that I know. It’s all just… there, hanging in the air between us.
If I actually said something to his face, it would break. The tension would snap, and then it’d be over. It’d be real. It’d be out in the open, and then what? We’d fight, or he’d tell someone, or I’d feel bad, or… I don’t know. It’d become something I’d have to deal with.
But this? This weird, silent thing? It just sits there. It lingers. And honestly… I kind of like it. It makes me feel powerful in this way I can’t really describe. Like I’m in control of something. Like I have this effect on him without even trying.
(He stands up, looks at himself in the mirror, still in his gi)
I don’t think I’m a bad person. I mean, we’re just messing around. It’s not like we’re actually hurting him. It’s just jokes. Just guy stuff. Everyone does it.
But sometimes, late at night, when everyone’s gone home and I’m alone… I think about that look on his face today. And I wonder what he’s thinking about right now. If he’s in his room, replaying that moment, trying to figure out what it meant.
And part of me feels… something. I don’t know what. Guilt? No, not quite. Maybe just… awareness. That this thing we do, this game we play—it’s real to him. It matters to him in a way that it doesn’t to us.
But then tomorrow comes, and the guys come over, and we’re back in the basement, and it all just starts again.
(He shrugs, half-smiling)