Quiet Jamie's Secret

-- Do you guys remember Jamie L.? From sophomore year?

Kat asked it like she was scrolling through old yearbook photos in her mind, but I could already tell by her tone that she was leading us somewhere ridiculous. Jess glanced over her iced latte, uninterested at first -- until recognition clicked.

-- Jamie... wait. The one with the buzzcut and those giant running shoes? Always looked like his backpack was going to tip him over?

I laughed.

-- Yes! And he never talked. Like, not even to teachers. Just sort of nodded at the floor and disappeared when class ended.

-- Oh my god, yeah. I'd forgotten about him.

But I hadn't.

Or rather -- I had, until that moment. And then it came back all at once.

The locker room. Late afternoon. After cheer practice, when we were changing and gossiping and pretending not to be out of breath from running drills. I'd dropped my phone -- or a scrunchie, something -- and crouched to get it. When I looked up, there was this perfect, accidental gap between the tall, dented lockers on the boys' side.

And through it, I saw Jamie.

He was facing mostly sideways, completely unaware. Stripping off his gym shorts, methodically, like he was doing it by instructions. I remember the weird calmness of it. His shirt was still on, but he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down in one slow motion.

That's when I saw it.

His dick.

I'd never seen one before -- not in real life. And I swear, for a second, I thought it hadn't fully come out yet. Like... maybe there was more coming. But no. That was it.

A tiny, pale, shy-looking thing, tucked up against him like it was trying to hide. Soft, dangling -- not even really dangling, more like... hovering. It looked almost unreal. Like a peeled baby carrot taped above two marbles.

I remember staring. Then blinking. Then leaning back behind the locker like I'd seen a ghost.

-- I didn't even know they could be that small -- I whispered now, looking between Kat and Jess.

-- It looked like someone accidentally folded it in the wash.

Jess gasped, choking on her drink. Kat's eyes widened, and then they both broke into laughter, loud and messy, drawing glances from the other tables.

-- Oh my god, shut up!

-- Wait -- was it like, really that tiny?

-- I'm telling you. It made my pinky feel bulky.

And just like that, we were gone in laughter, again seventeen, again standing behind lockers and covering our mouths. Except this time, the matchstick had a name, and the memory had teeth.

After that first time, I couldn't not see him.

It wasn't even on purpose -- at least not in the beginning. But the image had burned itself into my brain. That tiny, soft pink thing swaying slightly when he shifted his weight. The way it just sat there, so... apologetically. Every time I passed him in the hallway after that, I couldn't help but glance down, like some part of me expected to see it peeking past his waistband in the middle of algebra.

And then came the whispering. The worst part -- or maybe the best, depending on how you look at it.

I told Kat.

I shouldn't have. But we were in the bleachers, bored, and I said something like, "You know what's weird? I saw Jamie changing once." I kept it vague, just enough to make her curious. And of course she asked. And I caved. And I described it -- the size, the color, the weird little curve it had when he bent over to grab his shoes.

She didn't laugh at first. She blinked. Then her face cracked, and she let out the ugliest, loudest giggle I'd ever heard from her.

-- Wait, wait, what? Are you sure it wasn't just a fold in the fabric?

I just shook my head. I knew what I'd seen.

Within a week, it was a bit. Not school-wide, no -- it wasn't cruel like that. Just between us girls, a tight circle. Me, Kat, and Ava. And we never told anyone outright. But every time Jamie passed, we'd glance at each other with that look. A slight tilt of the chin. A twitch of the mouth.

Sometimes we called him "Matchstick." Sometimes "The Shrink." Once -- just once -- Ava leaned into my ear during a lunch break and whispered:

-- Do you think he even knows how small it is?

I remember going quiet for a second. I hadn't thought of that.

He probably didn't. That was the worst part. He moved like someone who didn't know he was being watched, didn't know his body had become comedy. We'd timed it. He always changed in the same spot. Same locker. Same order of undressing. We'd angle ourselves near the water cooler, pretending to look at our phones.

And if we were lucky -- if he didn't shift too fast or someone didn't block the gap -- we'd get a glimpse.

A glimpse of something soft, unsure, and so profoundly unimpressive that we had to bite our tongues to keep from laughing out loud.

To this day, I remember the slight bounce it had when he pulled his underwear back up. Like it was trying to wave goodbye.

That stupid little thing gave us months of inside jokes. And he never knew. Or maybe he did. Maybe he felt it -- the heat behind our eyes, the whispering that never made sense.

But he never said a word.

There was this one day -- early spring, maybe March -- that I remember clearer than most.

We'd just finished stretching after practice, still in our uniforms, all sweat and static cling. Ava was redoing her ponytail, Kat was trying to steal my lip gloss, and I was stalling. I remember looking at the clock, knowing Jamie's team would be coming in any minute.

We weren't being subtle by that point. We'd grown too confident, too used to the routine. We'd lean against the lockers like we were just tired. But all our heads would turn, just slightly, at the same time. And when Jamie slipped in -- always second or third in line -- we'd shift, slowly, like moths following heat.

I remember the exact moment I saw it again. Clearer than ever.

He pulled off his hoodie. His shirt stuck to his stomach. He looked small in the way boys look when they haven't filled out yet, like a sketch of someone not quite finished. Then the shorts dropped -- and there it was again.

Floppy, barely moving, with just the tiniest lift at the base that made it look like it was embarrassed for existing. The skin looked soft -- like it had never been touched by anything but regret.

And I remember Kat leaning toward me, whispering:

-- Does it even do anything?

Ava chimed in, not missing a beat:

-- Maybe it's decorative.

I had to bite my fist to stop myself from laughing. Not because I hated Jamie. Not because I was cruel. But because it was unreal. Because I couldn't believe this was a real person, a real boy, who had no idea three girls were treating his most private part like a punchline.

There was no anger in it. No hatred. Just this weird, high school cocktail of power and disbelief and shared secrets. Something about seeing a boy so exposed, so small, so vulnerable -- it made us feel... bigger. Not sexually. Just socially. Like we'd found a glitch in the hierarchy and were quietly pressing our fingers into it.

And Jamie? He never looked up. Never saw us. Or maybe he did and just didn't dare react.

Maybe he felt it -- the heat of our eyes. The way silence shifted when he walked past. The giggle that wasn't quite hidden. Maybe that's why he always changed so fast, like he was trying to outrun his own body.

But I don't think he knew what we called him.

Not then.

Not "Matchstick." Not "The Blip." Not "Junior Mint."

He was just Jamie. Quiet Jamie. Forgettable Jamie.

Except we never forgot.

I hadn't thought about it in so long. Not really. Not until Kat brought it up that day at the café. And now, sitting there with my legs crossed under the table, warm foam melting in my cup, I realized something that made me feel weirdly guilty and weirdly amused at the same time.

We never told a soul outside our trio. But we remembered everything. How he stood. How he folded his socks. How that tiny, shrinking little thing bounced once when he coughed. It was burned in -- not as trauma, not even as fetish -- just as one of those ridiculous, too-clear teenage moments where shame, power, and comedy collide in perfect silence.

Jess wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still laughing from what I'd just said about the "decorative" theory. Kat leaned her elbow across the table and grinned at me like she was fourteen again.

-- Do you ever wonder what happened to him?

I shrugged.

-- Not really. He probably works in IT. Or teaches physics. Still quiet. Still wearing oversized hoodies.

-- Do you think he ever grew into it?

I snorted.

-- If he did, it was a miracle stretch. I mean, Kat -- it looked like a strawberry stem. I've seen toddler thumbs with more presence.

That did it. They both wheezed laughing again, doubling over the table like it was too much to hold in.

But behind the laughter, something strange flickered in my chest. Not guilt exactly -- not shame either. More like a realization that we'd taken something incredibly intimate from someone, even if he never noticed.

We saw him, and he didn't know he was being seen.

And maybe that's why it stuck. Why I still remembered the shape, the color, the weightless little flicker of his soft dick against his thigh. Because it wasn't just his exposure -- it was our power. The first time we were witnesses, not objects. Observers, not observed.

It made us feel older. Taller. Sharper.

He was a boy we forgot to be kind to -- not because we hated him, but because we didn't know any better.

Kat raised her glass.

-- To Jamie. Wherever his matchstick is now.

We clinked glasses and laughed again.

But this time, I didn't laugh as hard.