What We Do With What We Don't Accept

The soreness in my muscles seems to be setting in again as I listen carefully to the secretary's directions. My backpack, despite being basically empty now seems to weigh more than anything I have ever carried in my life. I look out the windows as I approach the door and see children lining up in the hallway. I can almost feel the gaze of the secretary resting on me questioningly as I thank her once more and pull open the heavy door. The giggling of other children who are my age, yet not nearly as old as I, lingers in the air and echoes from open doors as I make my way to my classroom.

I have just entered into the room when the bell sounds and the teacher turns to look at me disapprovingly. Her look of disapproval is quickly washed away by a feigned smile as I approach her desk and hold out the paper the secretary had given me.

"Hello, darling. How can I help you?" she says, her voice dripping honey so thick that I fear I shall be caught in it.

She takes the paper and scans it briefly before standing to face the class. All eyes are on me and have been since I opened the door. I know they are sizing me up. I can already feel that many of them find me wanting. My heart sinks again. They shall understand me less than all the superdudes that I have met thus far, and I have no hope to find a common ground with them now that I know how different I am.

"Class, this is our new student. Her name is Bella, and I want you to make sure that she feels welcome. Have a seat right here. My name is Mrs. Baxter," she says, the last was apparently an afterthought.

I take the seat she directs me to, the only empty seat, which happens to be directly in front of her desk. She promptly continues to teach class as I am sure she normally does, with little indication that I have changed the needs of the class. I sigh internally as she resumes explaining fractions to the class. I already know the difference between numerators and denominators as well as how to add and subtract fractions, so I find the review a little dull. Luckily, Mrs. Baxter remains unaware of my disinterest, which continues into the history lesson about the Revolutionary War as well.

I feel my eyes beginning to droop beyond my control when she finally announces that it is time for recess. After casting an assessing eye at the darkness and pouring rain outside the windows, she informs us that we will be joining the other classes in the gym. She reminds us that recess does not begin until we are in the gymnasium as other classes are still trying to learn. We whisper down the hallways. Well, most of us whisper.

I find myself quietly walking beside Mrs. Baxter at the front of the line. I can hear the soft giggling of my fellow students behind me as they share something amusing. At one point, one of the boys snorts from amusement. The sound is loud enough to warrant the teacher's attention. She turns to glare at him disapprovingly as she places one finger to her pursed lips. He instantly quiets down, but I can feel goose bumps forming on base of my neck.

As she swings open the doors of the gymnasium, all of my senses are instantly assaulted. I can smell sweat and the rubber of old sports equipment. The room is awash with colors and moving bodies. Hundreds of voices are raised to a feverish pitch as children jostle each other for room to play a variety of games. I slip into the room behind the teacher and slide along the wall, looking for a haven from all of the unwelcome chaos.

I find myself standing next to a slightly familiar figure. She is leaning against the mats on the wall with her long, reddish hair cascading over her face as she leans forward. I realize that she is crying and trying to hide it behind the mass of hair. Then I recognize her as the little girl who was in the principal's office upon my arrival. I am about to speak to her, hoping to comfort her and stem the flow of her tears when I realize it may not be homesickness that is making her cry.

"Well, look what we have here," the cruel taunt in his voice causes me to turn away from the other girl.

The boy who had been causing a disruption in the hall stands behind me, flanked by two of the other boys from our class. His pudgy little face is lit up by malicious thoughts. The other two boys stand silently by, waiting for him to make his first move so they can follow suit. I wait. There is nothing more I can do until I know what his attack will be.

"How'd you get those scabs on your face?"

"W..."

He doesn't give me time to even finish the first word, "I bet your dog bit you accidentally when he was going after the pork chop that your mommy tied around your neck to make sure he'd play with you."

"Yeah, the scratches are probably an improvement," one of the other boys replies, looking quite smug.

"How dare..." I begin, but the third boy interrupts.

"Oh, they would have to be."

"Leave her alone," a small voice comes from behind me, "leave us all alone."

I turn to face the girl from the principal's office. Her eyes are redder than her hair, tears still running in rivulets down her cheeks. Her whole face has been reddened by anger. I can see that she has clenched her fists and looks quite fierce. The boys are not so quickly turned away, however.

"Oh look, Scarface and carrottop are going to gang up on us," the leader says, laughing harshly.

His two minions laugh, too, and my heart lurches. These are the possessors of hearts that Decay can so easily turn to its evil designs. The other girl steps forward, more determined now that they will hear her and obey, "You don't even know what you're saying. And we don't intend to listen to it."

The next thing I know, her arm is linked in mine and she is dragging me away. The three boys don't follow us. They are too surprised that anyone has dared to walk away from them. I follow quietly, also confused by this turn of events. Somewhere inside, however, I am very thankful that she dragged me away. Unable to defend myself in words, I fear I may have used something I learned from the other superdudes for evil and then, I, too, would be subject to the control of Decay.

"My name's Marjorie," the girl says, quietly using her free hand to wipe away some tears, "My class has been teasing me all morning. I couldn't defend myself, but when I saw people doing the same thing to you, well, something in me just broke."

"I'm Bella," I reply, "Thank you. You're new here, too, aren't you?"

"Yes. I wish mommy hadn't left me here. This is my third new school and it's always like this. Your mother is very beautiful," she says.

"Well, she isn't my mother."

"Oh," Marjorie replies, looking confused, but not wanting to pursue it, "So what did happen to your face?"

"I accidentally broke a vase and some of the glass sprayed up into my face," I reply, telling as much of the truth as I dare.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not as much anymore. I think it's healing, but I am pretty sure I'll be scarred for the rest of my life."

"Well, mommy says that it is the beauty inside a person that counts."

I am surprised to hear such wisdom quoted by one so young. I know that even in her soul she is younger than me, but she has seen enough to realize it is wise to listen to the advice of her mother. We continue talking until her class is called away to resume their studies. I am left to entertain myself. Luckily, the boys have admitted defeat, for now, and I am left to my own quiet revelry.

I can feel the muscles in my arms and legs begin to ache again as the aspirin wears off. As I pull out a couple of stray pills from my pocket and hurriedly pop them into my mouth, Mrs. Baxter calls the class to attention. Soon we are on our way back to class, doubtless to learn more things that I have already been taught. As I join the class, I can see the three boys observing me like lions waiting for the kill. I wonder what is on their minds and hope I will not find out through experience.