The Girl Who Saw Through Jem

Jem: Bruises and Heavy Hearts [edited]

I always find weed helped eased my mind a little, clear my head and relaxed kind of like a spa session without paying for anything. 

On the grimy tile, I propped myself as I adjusted the smoke properly between my fingers and sucked on the tip almost feverishly. I checked the toilet stall lock and slid the silver bar across. The smoke vapour rose out of the stall from the top, like black clouds out of a chimney. Soon, I felt myself melting into an equilibrium where my problems- even the pain in my shoulder- started to fade away.

Yeah, this was it. Man, it felt good to smoke after how much shit blew up in my face. Especially after the day I had. First, I was interrupted by what could've been a very blissful morning with that pretty little blonde by Mr Montez, the pesky guidance counsellor and then was forced to relieve the fourth period with him, discussing the many lists of faux mental issues I had. And the next was Ellis Chan.

There were too many emotions associated with her. She made me think too much. And right now, with this joint, what I would like to do very much was not think. But just the thought of her caused the memories to resurface.

There was once when we were both nine when our parents were organising the town's fair together. I could remember an incident when my mother, Heather, was telling me to behave properly and politely to Mr and Mrs Chan in the car before we pulled over at the curb of their massive steel and glass mansion, completed with an immaculate lawn and Mrs Chan's award-winning garden of poppies, roses, gardenias, hydrangeas, lilies by the side of the polished, clean cobblestone driveway. I remembered thinking Mom for the love of God, stop nagging me as she craned her head from her shotgun seat to lecture me. I also remembered thinking holy cow this place is fancy when I pressed my face against the smudgy window screen.

I've always known of Ellis Chan- but I didn't really know her. Truthfully, I always hung out with my friends- a group of boys whose interests only extended to the point of football and Oreos. She was a girl, she wore pink and she liked talking about piano and how she performed her first concerto and how she met so many great scholars. We didn't mix. However, I always did tease her for being such a suck-up to teachers, bringing them apples and voluntarily staying back to talk to them. She was the annoying little midget who reminded the teachers about homework. I didn't outright hate her.

But I didn't like her either.

Nine-year-old Ellis was standing by the foyer, near the spiralled staircase when Mr and Mrs Chan invited us into their glamorous home. She adjusted her Burberry headband, smoothed her shiny sleek black hair, re-pined her gold heart-shaped clip onto her reindeer cardigan and marched up to me. She was only nine at the time, exceptionally tiny for her age and yet already commanded the aura of a business-like, coordinated woman. "Hello, Jeremy," she greeted robotically, a slight posh lilt to her tone. "How are you doing?" Very professional. Curt. Mature.

And then there was me.

"Hiya. I'm o-kay."

Her eyes dipped down to my jeans and a plaid shirt. She wrinkled her nose but still found the decency to plaster a sweet, little girl smile. "Would you like some sparkling water? I could ask Miss Sheila to get you some." So polite and picture-perfect with her Misses and Misters.

"What's sparkling water?" I was intrigued. The mud on my shoes created flecks on to the sparkling marble tiles as I walked with her. "Don't 'cha have normal water?"

She pursed her lips, something she still does every time she disapproved of something. "We do have normal water," she said primly, raising her head haughtily like a little princess. Her Yale cardigan was mint apple green that day. "Sparkling water is just better, Jeremy. Have some."