Fate (Choices #2)

by Lane, Sydney

  I couldn’t help what happened next.

  I stood up from my seat and shoved my book into my backpack. Furious, I flung my bag over my shoulder. Mrs. O’Neil noticed my actions.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as she looked at the delicate watch on her wrist.

  “I’m leaving,” I told her. My voice was undeniably calm. It took all my effort.

  “Oh, no you are not. This class isn’t over for another thirty-seven minutes. Return to your seat!”

  I kept walking to the door. I could feel every eye in the classroom boring into the back of my head.

  “Joanne Brennan, if you walk out of here you can just keep on walking right to the dean’s office,” she threatened. I had my hand on the door by then and I took a quick look at the stunned faces of my peers before turning my gaze on Mrs. O’Neil.

  “Sit!” she screamed.

  I couldn’t go back to my seat and endure her abuse for another second. I had to make a stand. I stared at her angry sour expression and a strange sort of peace fell over me. I wasn’t mad anymore, as I realized how small she must feel to treat us the way she did. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Regardless, I was making this decision with a cool clear head. That fact alone made me feel even better about my choice, regardless of the consequences.

  “Why do you insist on disobeying me?”

  I was sure her question was merely rhetorical, but I answered anyway.

  “I don’t deserve your ridicule,” I said in a soft placid voice. Mrs. O’Neil huffed and sputtered, but no words came out until I started walking through the door.

  “How dare you?” she screeched. I stopped and turned.

  “No. How dare you?” I retorted, looking her dead in the eye, then I carried myself through that door, down the hall, and out of the building without a backward glance. I climbed onto my bike with a proud, defiant smile on my lips.

  That warm satisfied feeling lasted exactly five minutes. After that I realized how disappointed my mother would be. I had promised to stay out of trouble and there was no way Mrs. O’Neil would ever give me a break. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I still wasn’t sorry, but I knew a summons from the dean’s office was unavoidable.

  The call came quickly the next morning. I was in first period, pulling my textbook out of my bag, when a girl from the office walked through the door. I didn’t even wait for Mr. Michaels to call my name. Instead, I put my book back and looked at him expectantly. After a quick glance at the note he was handed, he shot me one of his typical arrogant smirks and pointed at me with one long pale finger. I sighed. I knew he was going to make a meal out of this.

  “Attention class. Stop what you’re doing,” he began. His voice rang with its usual haughty bluster and I resisted the urge to scowl or roll my eyes. “Your education will have to wait. It seems we have more important business to attend to. Why don’t we give Joanne our full attention? It appears she has an invitation to the dean’s office.” All eyes were on me as he spoke. I stood and threw my backpack over my shoulder.

  “Let’s give Joanne a round of applause, class. She loves attention. Let’s give her what she craves.” He began to clap loudly. The class hesitated, but after an angry noise escaped Mr. Michaels’ throat, my classmates followed his order and began to clap too. None of them looked at me now. I glanced at the girl from the office and she was standing by the door, clapping enthusiastically.

  “Bravo!” she cried when our eyes met and Mr. Michaels laughed. It was a revolting sound. I walked out the door at an even pace, ignoring the giggles of the girl assigned to escort me to the office. Despite Mr. Michaels attempt to shame me, I didn’t feel embarrassed.

  It wasn’t my first trip to the office, but I hadn’t been there in a while. I sat on an orange plastic chair for twenty minutes until Dean Sterling finally called me in. I knew I was in trouble and I wished he would proclaim judgment quickly rather than drawing it out needlessly. Instead he lectured, without looking at me, while I sat with my arms folded over my chest.

  “Mrs. O’Neil tells me you disrupted her class yesterday.” He paused as if he was waiting for me to say something. I sighed instead.

  “What seems to be the problem?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders, but didn’t say anything. She is a disgusting bigot who hates me almost as much as she hates herself, I thought.

  He kept talking, while I stared at his big white mustache moving along with his lips. He tapped all his fingers one after another over his big wooden desk. It didn’t matter if I tried to defend myself. He was just going through the motions.

  “Well, girl, I guess you’ve got nothing to say for yourself,” he said as he ripped a sheet of paper from a small pad and started writing. “We don’t tolerate insubordination here. Your right to attend this school is a privilege that children of your… standing don’t generally appreciate or understand. Your little disruption just earned you a three-day vacation. I’m sure that was your aim from the beginning.” He handed me the slip of paper and waved his hand at me to leave.

  “I suggest you use that time to decide whether or not you plan to graduate in June. Bring that back signed by your mother,” he said. I took the paper and shoved it in my pocket without a glance.

  Moments later I was outside. I crouched beside my bike, unlocked the chain, and scowled at the large sign above the double doors that read: Redcrest High School.

  “I hate you!” I shrieked as I yanked my bike free from the rack. RHS was my own personal hell and I prided myself on my lack of involvement in even the limited number of activates I was allowed to join. The school was divided just like every other school, by color, or more appropriately the lack thereof. The world I lived in wasn’t the one I’d pictured in the old books I’d been lucky enough to read. Their text hinted at a gentler time. My world was one that defined me by the pigment in my skin. You see, I’m a Pig.

  Pigmented.

  Colored.

  My label in this world defined me. My character and intelligence were judged before a word ever left my lips. It didn’t matter what I did; I would always be considered inferior. There was once a time when racism ran rampant all over the world. They taught us about it in our limited history lessons as if it were something that has long been eradicated, but the hate associated with that kind of prejudice remains. People think racism has disappeared, but it’s only been replaced by other “isms.” Pigmented people knew it. We lived it. But Albinos act as if they are far superior to our brutish ancestors.

  They’re not.

  I think the only reason they taught us anything about that part of our past was to illustrate how much better life was since the Albinos had taken over. For the most part, our lessons only extended to the place in time when our society was rebuilt. We knew that war had led to the destruction of civilization and that somehow mankind had survived, but we were left with no knowledge of the conflict and even less understanding of how people managed to endure. Most of our history was lost during that time and it is still referred to as the Dark Days; the interim years between the fall of our predecessors and the rise of modern society.

  It was the Albinos that finally restored the government and our way of life. They brought an end to the Dark Days, but ushered in a different kind of darkness for pigmented people like me. Our tinted skin was a symbol of our disastrous past and we lived in the shadow of it every day. History was one of the few classes where I tried to listen, because my dad used to say that if we forgot our history we were doomed to repeat it. Whatever circumstances had caused my life to be so difficult should definitely be remembered and never, ever repeated.

  Minutes later I was on my bike, heading home, when a Redcrest black and white police cruiser slowed on the road beside me. I ignored it until the lights flashed and the officer inside called out to me.

  “You! Stop right there,” he demanded and I did as I was told. I knew my bad morning was about to get significantly worse. I climbed off my bike and held it at my side,
waiting. The officer took his time getting out of the vehicle and my heart began to pound. Yes, I could stand up to a callous teacher, but a police officer was one of the few things that really scared me. I had seen too many needless acts of cruelty over the years.

  Eventually a lanky middle-aged man with ultra-white hair and flawless pale skin exited the car. He sauntered around the vehicle and came to stand before me, folding his arms over his chest. His nametag read, “Officer Bain.”

  “Let’s see some identification.” Bain held out his hand. I reached into my purse and pulled the small rectangular ID card from my wallet. Written diagonally over my photo, the word “Pigmented” seemed to appear twice its actual size.

  “Seventeen, huh? What time is it?” he asked. His white eyebrows lifted. I knew why he asked the question. I should be in school right now. I looked at my watch anyway.

  “It’s a quarter past eight,” I replied.

  “Eight fifteen in the morning and you’re traversing town on your bike? Can you tell me what’s wrong with this picture?” He looked me up and down then pulled his night stick from its place on his belt. I stayed silent as two dark haired men scurried past me. Their eyes flashed to my face then to their shoes. I couldn’t formulate an appropriate response with that weapon in his hand.

  “I…”

  “Save it!” Bain spat. He stepped closer to me. A snide smile suddenly lifted his cheeks. “Ditching school…” He clicked his tongue three times, shaking his head. “Little pigmented girls could get into a lot of trouble for that. Couldn’t they?” I fought the urge to cringe away from him.

  “Answer me.” Bain held the stick from its leather strap and casually swung it around and around at his side. I knew he was just trying to scare me. He was doing a good job.

  “I don’t know,” I replied and the officer caught the handle of his nightstick and held it aloft.

  “Would you like to find out?” Bain asked as he dragged his stick from the base of my throat, down the center of my chest, stopping at my navel. I froze. Bain’s eyes sparkled as they registered the fear in mine and he licked his lips. I wanted to run, but I held my ground.

  From the squad car, Bain’s radio blared. “We’ve got a possible three-ninety in Ward Four. Requesting back up at Sixth and Jay Street.” He looked over his shoulder then back at me.

  “Go home. Don’t let me catch you skipping school again. Do you understand me?” He jabbed the stick against my sternum making me gasp.

  “Yes,” I squeaked and Bain smiled. Mission accomplished, I thought. I was thoroughly terrified. The officer chuckled as he quickly rounded his car and got in.

  “Ten-four, Dispatch…” Bain began then the cruiser sped off.

  I stood trembling in place for a moment, rubbing the sore spot in the center of my chest, thankful something had pulled his attention away from me. I didn’t like that hateful gleam in his eyes. Eventually, my fear gave way to anger and I was glad. Anger was an easier emotion to digest. If there was anything I truly hated, it was feeling weak.

  I climbed back on my bike, fuming. My mind was full of colorful mental images, including the possibility of snatching that nightstick from Bain’s hand and using it against him. I imagined all the windows in the police car smashed. I even thought of the two men who had passed me on the sidewalk without a second glance. How could they just leave me there? They had to know what was happening! I shook my head. This wasn’t the way to handle these feelings. One of Dad’s aphorisms popped into my head. Violence begets violence. I sucked in a huge breath and released it, hoping to vanquish some the negative emotions.

  I used the ride home to calm down and ready my side of the inevitable argument with my mother. She was going to be pissed about my suspension from school. I walked up to the front door and stood there for a moment staring at the crackled, flaking paint. I didn’t want to go in. I felt emotionally unstable and I knew Mom would flip out the second I walked through that door. We didn’t see eye to eye on anything anymore and I didn’t feel prepared to handle her reaction. With my back resting against the adjacent wall, I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. I wanted to stand there forever, but no amount of stalling was going to make this any easier so I took a few deep breaths and reluctantly opened the door.

  “Hey Ma,” I called as I walked in.

  “Jojo? What’s going on? Why are you home so early?” Her tone was anxious. It was time to face the music.

  I threw my purse and book bag on our ratty old couch and walked the few steps into her room. It smelled. Her room always smelled like roses and medicine. Roses, because she loved perfume and she sprayed it on ten times a day. Medicine, because she was sick. They said it was some kind of auto-immune disease. Her body’s own immune system had turned on itself. The doctors couldn’t be bothered to explain anything to me so I didn’t know much about it, but there’s no mistaking the effect it had on her body. She was weak as a kitten. Barely able to close a button on her blouse or run a brush through her hair. She took a dozen pills a day, yet she was in constant pain.

  It was a common belief that pigmented people received poor health care. I didn’t want to believe it, but everyone said it was true. I wasn’t sure if the biggest problem was our inability to pay or just a blatant disdain for the pigment in our skin. Whatever the reason, my mother suffered because of it. She went from walking to sitting in a wheelchair to spending every day in bed in less than three years and all I could do was stand helplessly by her side.

  As soon as I walked into Mom’s bedroom, her tired, caramel brown eyes were on me. I pulled Sterling’s note from my pocket and handed it to her. She quickly perused the page before turning to glare at me.

  “Joanne! Seriously?”

  “Let me explain…” I began, but she interrupted.

  “I don’t want your explanation. You promised you’d stop this kind of behavior. You can’t keep doing this. You need to learn your place,” she said.

  “How can you say that? Dad would’ve never said something like that to me. How many times did he lecture me about standing up for myself? He would be proud. Can’t you see that?” I argued. I knew she couldn’t deny it. She had been privy to the same lectures. I watched her anger fade to grief. Bringing up Dad was a low blow.

  “Hand me that pen,” she whispered, all the fight knocked out of her. She was so frail she could barely grip it. As she scrawled her name on the slip, regret washed through me.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “No you’re not,” she said weakly. I went to my room.

  I felt like crying as I closed the door behind me, but I never cry anymore. Maybe I’d just grown too obstinate for tears; whenever the urge came I would try to let them out, but it never happened. I hadn’t cried in a very long time, not since my dad died seven years ago. I cried so much after he died I think I used up my lifetime supply. For days and days, I sat in this very room sobbing. I was inconsolable; my mother was unable to reach me.

  I was ten years old at the time and my dad had been everything to me. He died at work when a huge piece of metal dropped from a crane and crushed him. My mother didn’t receive one dime from the company because they said Dad wasn’t wearing a hard hat. As if that would have made a bit of difference. In the seven years since then, I had not shed a single tear, not even when my mom got sick. I willed the tears to my eyes, but they wouldn’t come.

  “How can it be wrong to stand up for myself?” I muttered out loud and flopped broodingly onto my bed.

  Chapter 2

  Three days later I was back in school, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to figure out what I had missed while I was suspended. Apparently I had missed something major, because there was a buzz of excitement in the air. I felt it the moment I walked through the door that morning, but I hadn’t cared enough to ask anyone about it.

  I scanned the cafeteria. Most of the noise was coming from students at one table. They were obnoxiously loud and laughing like hyenas. I wondered what it would be like to sit with t
hem, the social elite. Not because I wanted their company, far from it. What I really wondered about was how they could sit there day after day trying to impress one another, making plans for the future based on whatever happened to be trendy at the moment. It was embarrassing to witness. I rolled my eyes, but I knew I shouldn’t judge. My future’s already decided for me too. It’s just decided by society rather than the unimaginative whims of a bunch of arrogant teenagers.

  I had to sigh.

  “What’s on your mind today, Joey?” my best friend asked shrewdly. That’s why I loved her: she knew me so well. I’m lucky to have such a wonderful friend so aptly named, Kind.

  I continued to stare into space, too lost in a tangle of unsettled thoughts to answer. The last several days had been difficult. I didn’t mind missing a few days of school. That part was fine. The difficult part had been dealing with my mother when she was angry with me and the nightmares I’d had thanks to Officer Bain and his nightstick. The dreams had been much scarier than the actual event that triggered them. Absentmindedly, I rubbed at the purplish bruise still on my chest and shivered.

  “Joanne Brennan!” Kind pressed. I swung my head back to meet her incisive wide blue eyes.

  “Just wondering about today’s hot topic. Something’s got them all worked up over there.” I threw my head in the direction of the hyena table. As if to validate my speculations, a flurry of giggles exploded from its inhabitants.

  “Wow, Joey, you are slow today.” Kind straightened her glasses and put her nose in the air. “We have the great honor of having a new student with us today, class,” I hear Mr. Michaels’ overdone bravado as she teased. “Grey Redcrest, son of Mayor Eli Redcrest has finally graced us with his presence. Blah, blah, blah.” I had to laugh as even the ‘blah, blah’s’ came out with panache.