by Alice Pung
There was this new girl who enrolled at our school at the beginning of last year. She was the type of girl who people thought strange and alien because she was different. Friend, do you remember how there are always those categories that everyone is put into – like the popular crowd, the nerds, the average kids who no one really notices? This girl didn’t fit into any category. She was highly intelligent in regard to school-work, but she was modest and kept her head down. She was athletic and liked to skateboard; she was quiet with a loud mind. I gave her the nickname of “Red Riding Hood” because of the red hooded jumper she always wore with her faded jeans. At first, she tried speaking to people and making friends, but no one wanted to “hang out” with her. During our first lesson on the first day of school last year, she was heading towards an empty seat when someone stuck their foot out and tripped her; the whole class laughed. Another day, about a week after the tripping incident, Big Bad Angelina approached her and hurled an acrimonious display of indecent abusive words. And then other people joined in. They called Red fat, so we stopped seeing her at the cafeteria during lunch. They called her ugly, so she never took her hood off. She had unknowingly journeyed into the Dark Wood and couldn’t find her way out.
I followed Red after school that rainy day. She walked to a nearby park and hid behind a tree. I saw her wrists. The wounds distracted me; they reminded me of what you did to yourself all those years ago, friend. I saw a fresh mark on her left arm. Fresh, open wounds are difficult to heal. I told her about you and that you left me. She thought that there was something wrong with her and confessed that she just wanted to be “normal”. I said that there’s no such thing as normal. Everyone is unique and different, yet they make a whole. People tend to slowly disappear when they try to fit in. That’s when she became my friend.
Depression is what it’s called. It’s what she felt. That empty darkness flooding her brain, invading her bloodstream and never leaving. That Dark Wood that enveloped her in a stubborn shadow, trapping her within its thorns and skeletons. That funereal creature that visited her when she was alone and reminded her that she was herself. She said that she was used to it. You said that too before I lost you. She was difficult. One moment she smiled, and the next she cried or hid. I found out later that all of those smiles were fakes. She was good at pretending. When people call you horrible things for too long, you slowly start to believe them. Even if you tell yourself otherwise, the sharp words just cut you again and again. They become the scars on your wrists. They come the blade, the razor, the enemy. She tried to leave it all as you did, but I stopped her. I couldn’t stop you. I told Red not to believe the bullies. I told her that she was beautiful and genuine and kind, and I meant it. I told her to look up at the rainbow in the sky. She did, and I said, “The only reason that that rainbow is there is because the storm has just passed.”
She soon started to stand up for herself as I’d stood up for her. It took a long while, but it happened. She escaped the Dark Wood. The bullying declined because we made the Big Bad Bullies leave her alone. They stopped calling her names and soon she found herself and started to believe in herself. She is different. She is unique.
She doesn’t have to hide her scars anymore. From time to time we look at them and think about the past. The wounds have healed, but the scars still remain there as memories, stories of the past. I’ve learned that you can never really judge a person before you get to know them. Red had never before shown her exciting, real side. She doesn’t hide herself in the oversized red jumper anymore. Now she wears a bright yellow summer dress and we eat lunch together in the cafeteria every day with our group of friends. Together, we’ve learned how to be brave and strong, to not inhabit the past and forget to live now. That was our first lesson.
Love Always,
Lucy Huntsman
GAME OF HATE
Shraddha Mehta
I scurry up to the counter in a frenzy, trying to fix up the load of paperwork in my bag. Muttering a quick thanks to the barista, I grab my hot chocolate, cursing loudly as the scorching drink spills on my hand. I let go of it quickly. A loud, obnoxious scream echoes around the once-peaceful cafe. “I am so sorry…” I yelp in surprise, trailing off when I recognise the girl in front of me.
*
It’s funny how the concept of friendship works, how you can love one person so much that they practically become your family. But when hearts are broken, when hurtful words are said, the person who was once your sister becomes a stranger and someone whom you feel should be avoided.
Sometimes, the two friends make up. They apologise to each other and hug it out. But when those fundamental bonds of friendship prove to be weak, you can never get that friend back. At least I couldn’t.
I first met her in Year Four. We were different, like fire and water. She observed her surroundings with those big raccoon eyes, harshly judging and analysing those around her with her fiery essence. I was the opposite; maybe that’s why I befriended her.
I wish I could say we overcame those differences but we didn’t. By the end of the year, I hated her. She hated me too. I think that’s where we went wrong: though our hatred was mutual, we still continued our “friendship”.
I was her pretend friend and she was mine. She was always the better one – teachers loved her more than they loved me, classmates wished to be her friend but not mine. I don’t know where everything went wrong. Rumours were spread about me, nasty rumours. The people who had loved talking to me left me one by one; they left me for her. I was confused – couldn’t anyone see what she was doing?
At the end of the day, we couldn’t deny that in our game of hate, our dependence on one another made us destructive to ourselves.
By some unearthly miracle, I eventually made other friends. My happiness, however, was short-lived when she manipulated her way into my new friendship group. History repeated itself as my new friends left me for her. I knew I was a good friend. She was the one pretending. I could see that icy glint in her eyes, yet they all said her eyes were warm, like honey.
I finally found an opening when I noticed that the guy she so desperately had a crush refused to talk to her. It made me feel happy that someone other than me saw the monster she really was under that nice exterior. And it got me thinking. I went up to him and asked him to pretend to have a crush on her. He quickly agreed, a ghost of a treacherous smile shadowing his face. The joke went too far and before I knew it, the whole grade became involved.
She was over the moon with the jitters of being “in love”, as she called it. She would come up to me every day and thank me for making it possible for her to date her long-time crush. Slowly, a realisation caught up to me, making me see the evil behind my actions. I was playing with her trust and her emotions, doing the exact opposite of what I was raised to do. So, with a heavy heart, I went up to her and poured my feelings into a regretful apology.
She, like I’d expected, didn’t believe me when I told her the truth. She told me that I was a very delightful person who helps dreams come true. I denied it quickly, urging her to believe I was in the wrong.
After a lot of persuading on my part, she finally believed me. At that time of anguish, she told me I was malicious, loathsome and egotistical. I agreed completely. I felt like I was Slytherin’s heir.
The people I thought were my friends turned their backs on me. I didn’t mind, though, as I knew I deserved it. It was my decision to play with her emotions and now I was paying the price for it. As the school’s loner, I had no other choice but to play with little children. The innocence in their friendship made me wish desperately to go back in time and change our fate.
On the last day of primary school, I cornered her and apologised one last time. She accepted my apology with a slight nod. Her cold demeanour told me that she wished to never speak to me again. Forcing a smile, I walked away.
We became friends again – on Facebook. After six years, every time I see her name in a notification on social media, I still fee
l guilty that my mind was able to come up with such a devious plan to ruin another person’s life. Yes, I realised my mistake. Nonetheless I couldn’t deny that my intentions were to cripple her.
*
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, guilt lacing my voice. Her raccoon eyes widen, witnessing the spark of shame in my tone.
“Let it go,” she says, avoiding eye contact. I sigh as I tap her shoulder once, making her look into my eyes. Giving her a slight nod, I let go of all the guilt I was holding.
I made some poor choices when it came to friends, but that rocky friendship taught me the correct way to make and keep friends. Even though we didn’t work out as friends, I will always be thankful that she came into my life, for that incident shaped me for the better.
I will always be thankful to her for giving me my first lesson on being a friend.
THE LESSON NEVER TAUGHT
Niamh Formosa
I get attention. They all tend to care more for the perp than the victim. Each incident gets me a private interview with the headmistress and my parents, where their sole concern is yours truly, which is otherwise a very rare occurrence. “Goddamn problem” is the term most commonly used – not endearingly, needless to add, although I have heard “sociopath” once or twice. That one came from a peer. I still maintain he punched himself in the face. You may be wondering why I care so much about attention. Surely if a kid wants it that badly they could just join the drama club or something, right? Well, I’m the sort of student the teachers give up on pretty quickly. I didn’t get the concepts as easily as everyone else, and I never found the area I excelled in. No teachers took a special interest in this one. Of course, that was when parent–teacher interviews began to get interesting – not that my parents were there to hear it, but anyway. Reports said “a distraction”, teachers said “lazy” and parents, well, they just didn’t care.
My teachers wanted to see more work, so that’s what I gave them. Laura was the first to succumb to my charm. She generously agreed to share her maths homework with me for an entire term! Gosh, there are just some selfless people who have a light in their eyes and kindness in their heart – it really makes me tear up. When I started handing in the homework, Mrs Godfrey began to get suspicious. That woman has no faith in me, honestly. After some not-so-inconspicuous sniffing around, she realised that Laura had been found crying in the bathroom in the period before each maths lesson. Instantly, I got called in.
So here I am waiting for the headmistress. Again. Ms McCall’s office is large and sterile. Everything is white and orderly, there are no pictures of family or friends, no accolades or prizes, not even any sounds. Her room resembles a hospital. You’re sent here to be “made better” but there is no concern for you personally; you’re just another case. I do literally mean “made better”. According to the education system, those who don’t fit in are abnormal and those who are abnormal are sick. In fact, those two categories are very different things. But I suppose those words don’t sound as convincing coming from a student who doesn’t do their work. Who’s also known, apparently, as a sociopath. The system’s favourite treatment is a dose of reality, and Ms McCall is the best at giving it. Blunt and bleak, it tastes terrible going down and often leaves an aftertaste in the mouths of students for weeks. But unfortunately I was not having the desired response to the treatment. My mystery illness was proving fatal.
The austere clopping of high heels echoing through the silent corridor alerts me to Ms McCall’s advance.
“Miss Parks.” She speaks monotonously, as if my visit is an inconvenience that she has been waiting for all day. It is clear she is disappointed but not surprised, a tone I am very familiar with. “It seems as though this heinous behaviour is becoming an unfortunate habit.”
“Only so I can see you, Ms.” I smirk.
“A comedian. How original.” She sits down in her chair, her rigid posture adding to the sterile atmosphere. She radiates detachment, much like her office, and when talking to students she often responds like she is running a code. She will fix the problem but not understand the emotional charge behind it. Her nails tap on the chair’s arm, as though I’m wasting her time and it’s causing her physical pain. Her creator has obviously programmed her to be efficient. She sighs. “I have told you time and again that in order to be successful in life, this year is imperative. Your ATAR becomes your identity when you’re trying to build your future by going to univer—”
“And if I don’t want to go to university?”
She smiles but her eyes are asking me whether I want to amount to anything. My eyebrows attempt to jump off my forehead. School has felt like I’m drowning while those who were supposed to help me sat around laughing. Why on earth would I want to go to university?
“If you are not careful, Miss Parks, I’m afraid you will one day be as old as myself and your memory will be an inescapable fire that burns each time you recall all the chances you threw away when you were young. You will regret not giving everything to your marks in this final year.”
“I’m touched by your concern, Ms, but don’t fear – I’m well versed in Stop, Drop and Roll, so fire shouldn’t be a problem.”
Sighing again, as if releasing her overflowing disappointment, the headmistress stands. “Two weeks’ detention. If even one more student comes forward with a complaint against you of this nature, your parents will be called in.” Her condescending tone implies she’s made a threat, but I can’t quite place where it is. She pauses, considering whether she has any more breath to waste on me. “I don’t know what else we can offer you, Miss Parks. The teachers here constantly go above and beyond to assist all of their students.”
My audience is clearly over. I leave feeling confused. I can recall all the efforts that the teachers have directed towards the child prodigies. The academically gifted. But for the one drowning? Perhaps I’ve missed that lesson.
A SOUTHERN ROSE
Odessa Blain
I am old now and I have let many moments fall from memory. Yet I can still recall the heat of that summer, and the look in Abigail Jones’s eyes the day I made her eat one of Mrs Shelly’s roses. Those crimson roses were our town’s pride and joy, all the folks would brag about them being “as pure in colour as the red stripes that adorn our Union flag”. But that year, they were a faded, sickly pink, all sad and crinkled, with no one wanting to care for them.
It was 1862 and my whole town seemed to be wilting under some unseen, oppressive strain. Joe used to tell me that when it got hot like that, you could fry an egg on the railroad tracks. Dogs lay collapsed on front porches, their tired panting following me through those empty streets. Paint was peeling off my front porch and Pa didn’t whistle as he left for work each morning. The heavy silence was no longer peaceful and the days seemed to stretch on for weeks.
I was the prettiest girl in town, but I was a terror. Everyone wanted to be with me. I knew how to use my pretty smile and charming laugh and I also knew how to be callous and cruel. I knew how to fit in and I knew how to lead.
Abigail was new and she was a Southerner. Oh, how I hated Abigail Jones – she did not belong and she would never be one of us. Abigail was a tall, cumbersome girl with that drawl of an accent. She walked to school alone, just behind all of us. Often, her blue eyes brimmed with tears. I remember that her ma used to braid her hair so perfectly with two red, white and blue ribbons tying it at the bottom. And her lunch was always packed with such care and her dresses were always starched and ironed. Often, I went past her house on the way to school just to see that white picket fence and neatly mowed green lawn and large shady oak tree. It all made me so angry.
Mary told me that Abigail’s family had moved North for political reasons. That her father had made a lot of enemies down South and they had to flee. I told Mary that didn’t change who they were – they would always be Southerners and it would always be because of their kind that our folk were dying in this war.
“We are for freedom,” I would s
ay. “We are on God’s side.”
I never really understood why we were for freedom or what the Southerners were for, but I remember that was what Joe used to say. He always talked about how he needed to go and fight for the freedom of all men. I remember when he took me out so that I could see those new railroad tracks.
“See those lines, Connie?” he said. “Those lines swerve right ’round this country of ours an’ hold us all together. Those are the lines that will make us great.”
“Why do we need those lines if we’re fighting each other, Joe?” I would ask. “Why do we need them when we hate each other so?”
Joe left to fight two months after that. Somehow, he convinced them he was eighteen. I suppose those captains weren’t really wanting to see – if a boy puffed out his chest and held his chin up high enough, he was as good as any other man.
The other girls in town started talking about Abigail more and more. They said that maybe we should ask her to sit with us. One or two even said her Virginian accent was cute and marvelled at her responses in class – she never once made a mistake in spelling.
I knew that I couldn’t keep fighting this tide of curiosity. So, I came up with a plan. I told Mary and Sarah and Annabel and a few others whose names I’ve forgotten and whose faces have faded from my memory that we should put her through a test – to see if she really belonged.
The following lunchtime I came to school with one of Mrs Shelly’s crimson roses in hand. I walked over to Abigail, who looked up and smiled the shyest, loneliest smile. I sat down next to her, the sun beating down on my back, and told her that I would be her friend if she ate this one crimson rose, thorns and all.
I often think about what would have passed through her mind as she cast aside her dignity. Maybe it was just a simple, desperate longing to belong. I too could relate to that. I was so scared – my popularity seemed to be all I had. Sometimes I would catch Ma crying quietly when she heard folks singing “Aura Lee”. Or I would wake up in the morning to find Pa sitting at that kitchen table, not having moved since last night’s supper, just sitting there, staring down our front pathway but not really seeing a thing.
