Seeds of Hate

by Melissa Perea

  "Why do you care? I don't even know your name," he replied.

  I held out my hand. "Selah Wonders. Senior, loner, and lover of 70s rock and roll." I ripped open my jacket, exposing my vintage Eagles t-shirt. "Everything worth anything always starts in Los Angeles."

  A small smile cracked at the side of his mouth. "Nice name. Old shirt. I don't like LA. And I still don't get why you care."

  I walked backward several steps and started to spin in slow circles, letting my arms fall to my sides. After five spins, I stopped and faced him.

  "I don't really, but the truth is, if you leave then they've won," I said.

  "Who's won? And why are you spinning?"

  "Them. All of them. Or, in your case, Nathan. He seems to be the harbinger of doom for you." I placed my hands out at the side and swayed like a scary ghost as I spoke. "I'll tell you why I spin if you explain the shoelaces," I replied, answering his last question.

  "How would you know?" he asked. "And the shoelaces mean nothing."

  "I know because I'm an observer of life, not a participant. And you're lying about the laces."

  "So what, you just sit around and stare at the lives of others?" he asked.

  "Yep," I replied.

  "Sounds boring." He continued to kick at the laces, pushing them further and further away. Laces shouldn't make someone so angry.

  "Better than the alternative," I stated with a smile on my face.

  "Which is—?"

  I looked him up and down, pointed at the floor, and made a note of his banged up knuckles.

  "I'd rather be alone than a bull’s eye," I replied. "What did you do to Nathan anyway?"

  "Nothing."

  "Well, it couldn't have been nothing. He has you pegged for some reason."

  He took a deep breath before responding, "It's a long story."

  "How long could it be? We're only seventeen."

  "I'm eighteen."

  I blinked at him with annoyance. "Whatever, you get what I mean."

  Javier stopped fiddling with his books and slammed his locker shut. He eyed my hair, my shoes and my everything in-between.

  "And what, you've chosen to be a loner who loves 70s rock and roll, who has no friends, and no desire to fit in or be cool? No, you didn't choose this. You became this." His words grew sharper with each statement.

  "What the hell does that mean?" I asked.

  "It means you have a story too. And by the looks of it, it's longer than your seventeen years."

  Like he could tell anything about me by the way I dressed. He didn't know me. He knew nothing.

  "Well, I'm not the one screaming behind locked bathroom doors, or walking around without shoes on, or having my locker stuffed with hundreds of white laces. At least I keep my story to myself and don't burden others with it."

  Javier tensed and his eyebrows puckered at the edges. "You think I like this? You think I want this?" His hands shook at his sides, fresh droplets of blood coming to the edges of his knuckles as he flexed his fist.

  "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I won't go digging around your life if you don't go digging around mine. Okay?" I said.

  "You're the one who sat down next to me. I didn't ask for any help," he replied.

  A familiar voice rang out from behind us.

  "Javier, my office, now." Our principal stood there looking square and displeased.

  We turned back to face one another. I scrunched my nose and then picked up a pair of laces. "I'm sorry," I said as I placed them along with the others.

  "Whatever, I have to go." And with that he walked away—a trash bag full of shoelaces in his left hand and raw, exposed knuckles on his right.

  "Javier!" I shouted out, hoping to leave a better impression.

  He stopped and craned his neck back in my direction. There was a fresh gleam covering his eyes, but not a single tear formed.

  "Don't leave. I know you want to. I've seen that same face in my own mirror." He had stuck it out this long, what was another two hundred days of hell?

  His chin fell to his chest and he walked ahead toward the office.

  Maybe he'd be here, maybe he wouldn't.

  Chapter 8

  Mr. White

  (Javier)

  Punching Nathan got me an undetermined length of suspension. Taunting me, leaving my locker full of shoelaces, and basically torturing me for the past three years got him nothing. I walked home that day knowing what waited for me when I arrived—an angry mother, zero freedom and utter disappointment. Whenever something went wrong, the school notified her. It was a contingency they had put into place since two years ago. Another situation that Nathan was never punished for. He wasn't even haunted with the knowledge of it. Which was good and bad. I didn't want Nathan to have access to my darkest secrets. He had been punishing me for knowing his and the power of more retaliation would be imminent.

  When I reached my apartment, I saw the lights on and my mother cooking. Out of habit, I took a seat on the bench outside and took my slippers off. Gio would be walking by any minute, and my mother would leave soon for work. My ears couldn't take a second scolding. The principal had already done enough.

  ***

  "Javier," he said. "I can't sweep this under a rug. You assaulted a student." His hands gripped the side of his desk, as the ticking of the clock got louder and louder.

  "Why? Why couldn't you just walk away?" he asked.

  Because I was tired of walking away. Because I was tired of Nathan owning me. Because for once, I wanted him to feel reduced to the size of an ant in front of everyone who worshipped him. Because it felt good. Because I legitimately couldn't stop myself.

  You know, it's funny that teachers expect more from the good students and basically want to spear us when we finally make a mistake. There's no grace for the good. But the bad, the bad are expected to do horrible things and they aren't punished equally, in my experience.

  I raised my chin and didn't reply. My blank expression and lifeless body told him how I felt. I was tired of high school.

  He tapped the large ring he wore on his right hand twice on his desk and then stood tall.

  "I expected more from you. You're better than this," he said.

  See, I told you. But how did anyone know if anyone was really better than whatever "this" was? My mother didn't really know me. She pulled from what she had the chance of observing, more often than not, the mistake of observing. Izzy had been through a lot with me, but even with him I was scared—scared to really reveal what my mind processed throughout each day. I felt that only Gio really knew what I could or would be capable of, considering the situation. And we mostly shared silence, but in his silence I knew he was listening.

  Slinging my bag across my back, I stood and left to exit. Principal White, under most circumstances, had been understanding of the situations I found myself in, but I had lost my cool.

  "Mr. Rios." Principal White's voice crawled across the ceiling and waited at the edge like a spider about to drop from its web.

  "Are you going to leave without explaining yourself? Explain why there were dozens, if not hundreds, of shoelaces jammed into your locker? Explain Nate's face? Explain anything?" His suit was extra stiff today, fresh from the cleaners.

  No, I wasn't going to explain myself or anything else. You either explained it all or nothing. Otherwise, lies were bound to unfold.

  I turned around and stared at the carpet, counting the invisible holes where my laces should've been woven into each shoe, had I been wearing them. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen holes and then I looked up, blinked once and grabbed onto his eyes.

  "No. I will not be explaining myself," I stated.

  He took a seat into his leather, ergonomic, executive chair and crossed an ankle over his knee.

  "You're suspended until I invite you back onto this campus. You will handwrite an apology to Nathan and his parents for your disrespect and have it ready by the day your presence is required back. Understood?"

  I no
dded once as my official reply.

  "Fine, you're dismissed." The wheels of his chair squeaked as he pulled himself up to his desk and began to work. I grabbed the edges of my pants by my knees, pulled them out to the side and curtsied like a Disney princess. Only the chime on his office door bid me goodbye.

  ***

  Shadows now lined the sidewalk, and the only sounds detectable were the clanking of dishes and the mumbling of families gathering for dinner again. I walked down the black asphalt, my bare feet wiggling against the chill and cleared my head of my impending doom at home. Focus on the things I could change, not the things that were out of my hands. Decisions. Mistakes. Past choices.

  If my father had taken responsibility of me, would who I am today differ very much or would I still be the same? I went through a period during my first year of elementary school where I repeatedly asked my mother, "Mama, why don't I have a dad?" The first time shocked her. She didn't have an answer prepared and returned my question with a question, "Want to go out for ice cream, mijo?"

  Naturally not one to push things, I accepted, until another week passed by and I asked her again. This time she had thought it over and figured out a concrete response. "Mijo, I have more than enough love for two parents." She got down on her knees and pulled me close to her chest, stroking my head all the way down the back of my neck. "Why does it bother you so much?" she asked, her eyes flicking around me, taking in the details of my appearance.

  "The other kids at school who don't have dads said they see them only on weekends or that they're dead. Is my dad dead? Or is he just busy on weekends?" I had asked.

  She didn't answer. Instead she kissed my cheek, wiped away her lipstick and stood up. "Javi, you don't have a dad. No more questions." And with that she returned to the kitchen, cooked dinner and I never asked again.

  I looked to my left and saw Gio walking up the stairs to his apartment. He caught my eye, looked down at my feet, frowned and walked on. He entered a dark apartment—no dinner, no mom, no dad.

  The light from our kitchen window still held my mother's silhouette. I put my slippers back on and headed home. My backpack dropped to the floor as I closed the door behind me. When I turned the corner, she stood waiting for me, her foot tapping silently against the linoleum.

  "I don't know your side, but either way it doesn't look good. I'm late and I know you hate hearing that, but it is what it is." She grabbed her purse after giving me a good hard stare.

  "We will discuss this later and I mean it. The school said you're suspended until further notice, Javi." I already knew this, but my mother had a way of wanting to repeat things. She rubbed her lower back and placed a plate of food for me in the microwave. "You have nothing I can take away and no important plans that I know of for the weekend, so I can only say this—no Gio." Her last word sucked the air out of me. No Gio?

  "Why are you punishing me by punishing him? That's not fair." I raised my voice—I had never spoken to my mother like this before.

  "And that's exactly why," she said, her hands digging through her purse. "Life isn't fair. Your choices affect others and that's not fair. I raised you better." She found her keys and left. I looked at the wall connecting my apartment to Gio's and walked over, placing my knuckles against the plaster. Lifting my hand, I stopped mid-air and brought it back to my side.

  Did she really raise me better? Or did she just want to believe she did.

  Two minutes ticked away and I wrestled with listening to my mom. I brought my hand back up to the wall and tapped twice. Footsteps shuffled on the other side in the distance and then another two taps reciprocated my own.

  My eyes squeezed shut and my mouth opened.

  "Hey, I'm tied up tonight. Got things going on and stuff. Won't be around. You gonna be okay just chilling at home?" I had both fists braced against the wall, expecting his hands to come through and slap me in the face. What I got was worse. Silence, silence, and more silence.

  "Gio?" My voice echoed through my empty apartment and then was absorbed by the green carpet. One small tap hit the wall and then his footsteps retreated.

  "I'll catch you later, okay?" I yelled out. "We'll go out and do something. Grab food. Something." I pressed my forehead against the wall and whispered into the plaster, "I'm sorry, Gio. I'm sorry for letting you down." I wouldn't be going out until I was admitted back into school, and I'm sure going out included Gio staying over.

  The memories I held with Nathan grated against my actions from earlier. I walked into my bathroom and stared at the shower enclosure. I stepped toward the glass door and ran my fingers across the patched wall where the old holes used to be from the previous curtain rod. Then I turned around, leaned against the wall and slid down onto the floor. I sat there and thought about my past, my present and what I hoped would be my future. The neckline of my t-shirt began to tighten as my thought process became suffocating. I peeled it off and threw it into the corner. Small drops of sweat bubbled across the surface of my skin as I rubbed my hands down the back of my neck and around my throat.

  "Calm down, Javi. Your life has potential. Your life has potential." I chanted these words as Izzy had said them to me over the last year. It was the first thing he told me every morning when I saw him at school. I accepted them and although I never responded, internally they helped me get through each day. A continual reminder that someone found worth in me. All a life needed was one person.

  One person to count on. One person to love. One person to believe in you.

  I was that person for Gio. The next week wouldn't destroy him, but he had no one. I needed to be better. If not for myself, then at least for Gio. I wanted to give him what I never had. What my father took away when he decided I wasn't worth it. What my mother tried to give me, but couldn't do on her own.

  What Gio's mother didn't even try to give him.

  Hope.

  Chapter 9

  My Home is a Mobile One

  (Selah)

  He didn't show up the next day. I watched his friend, Izzy, come and go and sit in his usual area against the brick wall, but Javier never came. I wandered outside my normal zones to see if I could hear anything being passed around, but campus was dead. No whispers, no gossip, no asinine stories with even the slightest truth being shared.

  Leaves scuttled about the air and I shivered, pulling my jacket closed. The warning bell signaling the end of lunch shot throughout campus, and like good trained animals, we responded. I stomped my toes against the pavement as I headed toward my last class and looked back at the brick wall.

  Would he come back?

  ***

  "Selah, dinner, now please." My godmother's voice, steady and strong, hit the door of my bedroom with polite force. I threw my books on the floor, put my shoes on and headed to the dining room.

  "Seven years now, Selah, seven years and I still have to remind you?" Her hands rested on her hips and the white, ruffle-edged apron she donned every night while cooking was speckled with red sauce.

  "Remind me about what?" I asked.

  Carolyn Caldwell tapped her shoulder twice with her index finger, the tip of which was painted the perfect shade of dusty mauve.

  "Yes, my apologies. I got hot." I turned around and walked back upstairs, grabbed my small white cardigan and put it on. I sat down the same time my godfather, Frank, took his seat at the dinner table. I watched him intently as he thumbed through a stack of legal papers while sipping on his decades old Scotch. He didn't speak or make any acknowledgment of my presence.

  The swinging door to the kitchen popped open and Aunt Carolyn—what I had begun to call her over the years—placed a piping hot casserole onto the center of our eight ft. dining table. The six crystal candelabras were all lit and a ten-tiered glass chandelier sparkled off of the dim glow. The sun had been smothering the clouds all day, but as my aunt sat down and gave thanks for the food, a cold chill swept under the table.

  As she prayed, Frank picked up his fork and continued to thumb through his
paperwork. Twenty minutes passed by as we ate in silence. I took my last bite, excused myself and then exited into the kitchen. Turning on the faucet, I washed, rinsed and dried my plate before thanking Aunt Carolyn and heading back to my room—my only home.

  I threw my body onto my bed and burrowed my face into the pillow. My fingers searched underneath for a tiny envelope and upon finding it, I rolled over, breathed deep, and stared down at the folded letter in my hands. The paper was threadbare and had been opened and closed more times than I could count. Seven long and torturous years had gone by since I originally received it. Since I had been abandoned. I knew that using the term "abandoned" might be a little theatrical, but when your parents decided to up and move to a completely different continent without taking you along, what did you call it? I felt abandoned, discarded, orphaned—no matter how pure their intentions had been.

  Leaving me behind, however, created a different problem. If they didn't want me, why did they have me?

  Their original plan was just to go for a single year, but that single year turned into two and two turned into four and now seven years had gone by since I had lived under their roof. Shared their love. Enjoyed their attention. Felt wanted.

  I frowned. Even after all the frustration and bitterness, I still missed them dearly.

  My godparents were nice enough. Frank and Carolyn both came from extremely wealthy backgrounds and had very high-end taste. I had assumed over time I would get used to the luxury and opulence, but I hadn't. The heart wants what the heart wants and for the last 2,146 days I had ached for my scratchy sheets, cheesy kitten posters, and glow in the dark star decals that my mom and dad had affixed with painstaking precision to the ceiling above my bed. They, of course, no longer existed. When my parents left, they sold everything they had accumulated over the years.