Seeds of Hate

by Melissa Perea

  I needed out. And soon.

  The stairs rumbled as I made my way up to the second floor of the La Vista Park apartment rentals. Home sweet home. Light came from just about every unit around us except Gio's. It was dinnertime, so families were gathering, meals were being made, and days were being discussed.

  I knocked on the door. Even the porch light was off.

  "Gio, are you there?" I asked.

  Feet pattered toward me as the handle yanked back and the apartment opened. He looked straight down. It was the first thing he noticed. His head tilted to the side and his eyebrows pinched at the center.

  I ignored his response. "My mom is leaving for work in ten or twenty, okay?"

  Gio's eyes wouldn't relax. His concern was etched deep into his skin, he knew more than I ever gave him credit for.

  "Okay?" I repeated.

  A small smile appeared, his chin fell and then he closed the door. I could hear his feet beat against the floor for less than two seconds. He would sit on his couch in the dark and count the minutes until my mom left. Our routine was becoming predictable.

  I turned toward my door, but my hand was yanked back. Gio stood there with a pair of black slippers. I flipped them upside down and saw the number ten and a half. My exact size.

  "How did you—" and before I could finish, he was gone and back inside his empty apartment. I put the slippers on and wiggled my toes. With the exception of white shoelaces, they blended in very well to my normal outfit. Interesting. Maybe she wouldn't notice.

  I looked back at his apartment door and saw the number twenty-seven hanging at a crooked angle. Walking up to it, I traced the number with my finger and straightened it. Then I turned and left to greet my mother, a smile I didn't create pulling at the edges of my cheeks.

  The night went by. My nightmares came and went and when I woke up, the sounds of violins and pianos greeted me. Gio's bed was already put away and his sheets and pillows gone as if he never came. Gianna must've come home. Sometimes I wondered what would happen if she didn't. Would he be better off? Would he miss her? Would she miss him?

  How much is our presence truly wanted by those around us?

  Chapter 6

  Two Weeks Later

  (Javier)

  My mother didn't have to be awake for a few more hours, but I always said goodbye. The carpet muffled the sound of my steps as I walked to the edge of her bed. She looked older than she was, but life had a way of speeding up the process. Beautiful still, but worn. I kissed her softly and pulled her blanket up. She couldn't hear, but I knew she was listening.

  "Good morning and good night. I love you," I whispered.

  I left her to sleep and headed to school. There was a note, a pink one, stuck to my bag.

  "I'm sorry. I love you. Forgive me. - Mom"

  I knew she wouldn't forget, but I thought I had made it clear. It wasn't her fault. It was mine. I wondered how school would be today. Considering my freak out on the first day, I knew Nathan would remember. He may not know the whole story, but he had written the first half.

  ***

  I found Izzy sitting against our wall, the red brick highlighting his pale face and dark features. He was holding two coffees and a greasy bag. I kicked his shoe.

  He looked up, frustrated and sad. "Are you ready to talk?"

  "About?"

  "The first day of school. You ran without a word. And haven't explained it to me since."

  I looked at the coffee and raised an eyebrow—one of them had to be for me. He handed it over along with the bag.

  "Thanks," I said and took a seat beside him.

  He pointed down at my feet. "You're still wearing slippers," he said.

  I could tell he was joking, but also curious. I didn't keep secrets from Izzy, but it also took me a while to talk.

  "What happened? You had me totally freaked. Plus, I didn't think you'd show today. You know, considering."

  "Yes, I'm aware," I said, pulling out my mom's pink note and handing it to him.

  Izzy's eyes scanned the paper. "Oh. Well, at least she apologized. That's nice. Right?"

  "She doesn't have a reason to apologize. It wasn't her fault. We've been through this." My words were a mixed combination of truth and unwanted martyrdom. I was selfish in my pain and didn't want to share it with her. It wasn't her fault.

  It was mine.

  Mine.

  "Well, regardless, she's changed and for the better. She even remembered today. It may not be your birthday necessarily, but she's remembering important events. Small victories."

  Izzy took his coffee cup and clanked it against mine as if today was something worth celebrating. I played along, even though I could still smell the fresh asphalt from that night as if the tar was poured yesterday. It made me choke.

  "I got locked inside." I stared out, the herd of students flocking toward their individual grazing pastures.

  "The bathroom? Again? How is that even possible?" Izzy's voice raised with each additional question. The coincidence of it all wasn't lost on me.

  "I honestly think it was a simple mistake. No one planned it or set me up. The janitor talked with me briefly last week and apologized. Apparently, he was just locking up earlier than usual. He had someplace to be."

  Izzy's fingers combed through the curls on top of his head. "The chances of that happening are like, I don't know, impossible?"

  "I know. I thought the same thing."

  "What were you doing in there to begin with?" Izzy asked.

  My eyes squeezed shut as I accessed the memory and my reasoning.

  "Well, considering today was drawing near, I thought the best way to help me get over my fear was to be in the dark, in that same room again. I had the intention of exiting though. I didn't think the door would be locked."

  "So you flipped," he replied.

  "I flipped."

  "I see." Izzy continued to sip his coffee, calm and controlled.

  "What did everyone say after? Was it bad?" I asked.

  "Define bad," he replied.

  I finished my coffee, pulled my slippers up against my heel and stood. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch in a locker. I wanted to tell Nathan—to his face—the specifics of what I felt toward him. Instead, I bottled it up and let it pour out of me in whispered words built from vile letters.

  "Fuck them. Fuck them all."

  My eyes hardened as I readied myself to be unaffected. Unaffected by their whispers, their assumptions, and their opinions. I gripped the straps of my backpack and concentrated on my breathing. Then put one foot in front of the other and walked toward my locker.

  I could feel them staring. They had been since the first day. Until something else more enticing occurred, my position under their magnifying glass would remain. Our brick wall was far enough removed from social pastures that they could observe me like a science experiment. That's all Izzy and me were anyway. An observation of deviation from social norms. Izzy was normal in all the ways that mattered—looks, attitude, grades, and personality. He was just crucified by association. I tried to drop him two years ago and even after everything happened he still stuck around. Loyal, kind and caring.

  Everything I wasn't and more than likely would never be.

  I turned the corner to see a particularly hideous group of cows grazing by my locker. The pointing, whispers and consistent, "That's him. Yep. Did you hear? I think he's crazy. No parents. Probably on drugs. Maybe he's special needs?" continued to stream into my ears as I walked past my classmates. I focused back on my breathing.

  You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. They don't know you. They don't know anything about you. They don't matter.

  I kept chanting this over and over again. My hands slipped on the dial of my lock as I tried to access my books. I wiped them off on my jeans and kept breathing.

  You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. They don't know you. They don't know anything about you. They don't matter.

  I had resorted
to whispering it to myself, giving life to the words and better control to my emotions. The lock finally clicked and I slipped it on the strap of my bag so I could gather my books. I popped the handle open, and as my door flung back, a sea of white poured out from the narrow rectangular box.

  Shoe laces. Dozens, no hundreds of white shoelaces spilled out and onto the concrete beneath me. They covered my black slippers and piled up to my ankles.

  I closed my eyes. This was not happening. Not today. Not to me.

  There was a tap on my shoulder and I flinched, afraid to turn around.

  "Oh, here's one more pair," he said.

  It was him. Nathan. A conveyor belt of torture hidden behind a pretty face.

  I turned to face him, to give him a glimpse into the sort of pain he was causing me. To let him see. He was laughing. Smiling even. It was all a simple, harmless joke to him. Something to pass the time and make for a good story.

  "Just in case you need to hang something later." Nathan's voice flew from his lips and became a dagger as his words punctured my throat.

  Without even thinking, I gathered my fingers, cocked my arm and punched him straight in the face. He flew back, unexpected and unguarded, and fell straight into the round, brick planter holding freshly planted flowers. The only thing that entered into my mind at that exact moment was...

  He deserved worse.

  I leaned down, picked up a handful of the laces and threw them over his body. Then I spat in his direction and walked away toward the back of campus, into the dark corners where only the "group" rejects ventured. The only place I imagined would bring me peace.

  About halfway across the blacktop basketball courts, I began to run. And run and run.

  I couldn't get away fast enough. My toes curled as I felt my slippers falling. I refused to lose them. Not now. Not after everything. I needed shoes now more than ever to keep the last threads of my sanity.

  I turned the corner around the last building and fell against the wall. A picnic table held about a half dozen students, and several more students were littered amongst the fallen leaves.

  They stared, nodded and went back to their conversation. Not a single soul really paid me any attention. My head rested against the wall and my body dropped to the floor. I reached down to tighten my laces, but they weren't there. My fingers grazed the black fuzz of my slippers and I cried. For the first time in public, I cried.

  Covering my eyes with my hands I let myself be—be who I needed to be.

  Broken. Angry. Alone.

  Chapter 7

  It Started Early

  (Selah)

  I saw him. We all saw him. And yet, none of us, not a single person out of our group of rejects said a single word or offered to help. Was it out of solidarity? Respect? Privacy? Fear? I wasn't a crowd follower, yet here I was following the crowd. A small crowd, but nonetheless a crowd of people who didn't want to help or didn't want the burden of being bothered. I moved down the orange bench—no one ever joined me—and slid closer to get a better view.

  It wasn't a surprise to any of us that it was him. Javier Rios was a very troubled person. Not always, but these last years, definitely troubled. I had sort of been watching him ever since I came to this school. Sometimes you stumble upon a person and you just become intrigued. He intrigued me.

  I was an awkward fourteen. Heck, I don't know a single person who isn't awkward at fourteen. Javier was the only person that smiled at me that day. It was a smile of encouragement, of acceptance and kindness. It said, "I know what you're thinking and what you're feeling—being here, around all these new kids, is intimidating. I get it. But you're fine. Just smile along with me and everything will be okay." Yes, his smile said all of that and it lasted two seconds. Neither of us had ever spoken to each other, but I repeated those words to myself, with his face in mind, often.

  High school, from what I had observed over the past three years, hadn't been easy for him either, but then is it really easy for any of us? And for those who say it is, are they really lying to themselves just to sound cool? I wanted to know how many of the popular kids cried themselves to sleep at night or wondered when they woke up in the morning if they'd be accepted or rejected. It was a dicey time of life. One I didn't wish to repeat.

  I watched as his hands covered his face, and by the shaking and vibrations of his body, he was either manically laughing or crying. Considering that he wouldn't remove his hands, I decided on crying. A boy crying in the middle of the day on a high school campus—social suicide. Not that he had any social status worth saving, but just because you were the lowest mark on the food chain didn't mean you wished to be eaten. Or did he?

  I guess it would make more sense. Why try to fit in and partake of normalcy when you found yourself in his shoes or lack thereof? Another oddity. I witnessed him walking on campus barefoot on several occasions. See, he intrigued me. Odd, abnormal or interesting behavior didn't put me off or scare me. It was the normals that I feared—the head cheerleaders, ASB presidents and captains of everything. High school students with any amount or sense of control should be feared like meth heads. One could never be too sure when they would turn on you.

  My lunch sat half-eaten and less desirable by the minute. The surrounding rejects continued to ignore Javier. I seemed to be the only one who wouldn't look away. Couldn't look away. He was a ten-car pile up on the freeway and I couldn't help but stop and stare, hoping to see what happened. I tossed my lunch, walked over to the wall he had thrown himself against in his fit of rage and sat beside him.

  He didn't move. So I sat and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Lunch ended, but classes continued. He didn't move. Classes dismissed as I sat next to him, and now I felt awkward. I was afraid he'd look up and freak out, not realizing I had sat down.

  My face began to make weird gestures all in an attempt to say something, but nothing came out. I couldn't even utter a loud sigh. Maybe this was a bad idea. Memories of everything I had collected about Javier over the years rolled about through my mind.

  I knew the following to be true—he was kind, he was loyal and he was hurting.

  Most people feared him because he was quiet. He rarely said anything unless he was talking to his friend with the dark curly hair. Izzy Goldstein. I had a hunch he was Jewish, but I never asked. I didn't care. He was nice, so in my mind, I had placed him as a part of the five acceptable life forms on our campus. You're probably thinking five? Yeah, I know. This school actually had some decent people. In junior high there were zero acceptable life forms. Zero in my entire life, not just school.

  I began to throw tiny rocks, my pathetic attempt to make noise without scaring him or breaking the awkward silence. By the twentieth rock, he finally looked up. His eyes were gentle at the core, but rimmed with loathing. I didn't expect him to talk, but his face spoke many words. I thought of introducing myself, but he probably didn't care. No one else did.

  He continued to stare at me. His skin was dark, so even though he had been crying, you couldn't really tell. He just looked heated, like he had been running. The tips of his black eyelashes were still wet and it made him appear rather pretty. Odd, but attractive, as if he had applied mascara. His nose was angled and sharp. Not soft like his cheeks or lips. It was interesting. I'd never seen him this close up. My observations were always done from a distance, synonymous with the rest of my life—viewed, enjoyed and suffered from a distance.

  "So how was your day?" I asked. The answer was obvious, but I figured I'd approach the whole random situation that I put myself in with a calm and simple question. As anticipated, he didn't reply, but he did look away. An answer without speaking.

  "Does this have anything to do with the first day of school?" I continued a bit heavier. I was leaving campus when I heard the screams coming from the bathroom. I ran and got the janitor before he left campus and had him open the door. That's when I watched Javier fall to the floor in a panic, covered with scraped kne
es and hands. He always wore dark jeans and black shirts, which lessened the severity of the blood, but it was dripping on the floor. It was bad.

  My question caused him to flinch. He pulled his knees to his chest and turned toward me.

  "What about?" he asked. His tone was serious, but curious.

  "Well, I'm assuming that whatever made you come over here today is more than likely related to the minor incident with you and the locked bathroom," I replied.

  I didn't want to push. If he wanted to talk he would, not that I really wanted him to, but he obviously needed something or someone. The guy was a mess and I was a sucker for hopeless individuals. Do unto others sort of deal. Just because the world was mean to me didn't mean I had to be mean to the world.

  His legs relaxed and his head fell back against the wall. School had officially ended and the sky was starting to fade. Fall would be here soon. I turned to look at him again, straight into his eyes, but they were closed. His lips moved against the cool air, but I couldn't hear a single word.

  The movements were repetitious and held a pattern. Maybe he was crazy. I continued to stare as his words grew in sound. They started as a whimper and morphed into a scream.

  "I want to leave. I want to leave. I WANT TO LEAVE. I WANT TO LEAVE!"

  I leaned away from him, afraid he might lurch or need some sort of physical outlet. Females might be unpredictable with their emotions, but males were unpredictable physically. He held still though, until he uttered those words one last time. And then he opened his eyes.

  "Are you okay?" I asked.

  "No," he replied.

  "Can I do anything?" I pulled my cheek to the side and started fiddling with a loose thread on my skirt.

  "Do I know you?" he asked.

  "No, but that doesn't really mean much. No one really knows me, and besides, do you really know anyone?"

  He moved to stand and brushed the dirt and leaves off of his pants. I followed him.

  "Don't leave," I said. His steps were long and quick as he headed straight to his locker where dozens upon dozens of shoelaces littered the ground. He began to dump the remaining ones in his locker onto the floor with the others.