Nectar Behind the Clouds

Chapter 13 - The Change

I was bullied again that very first day back at school. They laughed at my tan. They pointed at my dark, peeling nose. "I learned how to swim," I said. They didn't believe me. They chanted the same taunts; called me an alien as the teachers turned a blind eye. But it was fine. Because I was not hurt. Because I had the light of all our summer days inside me.

And what was there to be afraid of? I faced worse than this. I've been gobbled and spat out by the churning waves. When they laughed, I only heard your voice amongst all of them.

Their words could not touch me anymore. Your friendship was a net meant to catch the stings and barbs of their words.

The days rolled by and I found myself laughing with them as they laughed at me. They weren't used to that. And then I began to speak. And some of them actually listened.

"You're different," they said. Classmates and teachers both. I smiled at them. I have changed, it was true. I was not afraid to try new things, especially those that scared me. I joined their games when they let me, and it didn't matter when I failed. I kept raising my hands. I kept hitting the ball when they passed it to me. I kept chasing. I kept running.

I still laughed as I fell on the ground. If I scraped my knees, then it would just be more stories for you and lola when I return.

I found myself flitting between different groups.

I realized later it was because I listened as they talked. Boy, did people love to talk about themselves. Their nice clothes. Their nice houses. Their nice purebred dogs. They whined about the stains on their pristine white shirts.

As for me, I told them about an old woman living alone in her house. She was bent and callused to some, and to some, she was a goddess with an ever-flowering garden I also told them about a boy who was always welcomed by the waves and the wind.

Talent day. I drew the province in my head. I studied how my mother painted and I coper her fluid strokes. Got first place. Mama would have been proud if she cared. When I went back inside the classroom, I saw my project smeared with black ink. I saw who the one who did it. A girl, bigger than I was. When she wasn't looking, I smeared the same black paint she used all over her nice grey backpack, along with her fancy new cellphone. We stared at each other, after. Nobody could prove anything. I wasn't proud of what I did, but it felt nice to fight back. Even my grandmother needed to fight back.

I missed you. I missed lola. I missed the grove and the beach and the mountains. But the beach could wait for me. Right now, I hear my lola whispering in my ear that I need to be a part of this world, too. I must dive into the present. I must live and try to love the life in front of me and do my part in making it better. Like she would with all her flowers.

"They like you better now because you like yourself," Papa said. He smiled. "I knew the province would be good for you."

The province, yes. And the people living in it.

I was bullied again that very first day back at school. They laughed at my tan. They pointed at my dark, peeling nose. "I learned how to swim," I said. They didn't believe me. They chanted the same taunts; called me an alien as the teachers turned a blind eye. But it was fine. Because I was not hurt. Because I had the light of all our summer days inside me.

And what was there to be afraid of? I faced worse than this. I've been gobbled and spat out by the churning waves. When they laughed, I only heard your voice amongst all of them.

Their words could not touch me anymore. Your friendship was a net meant to catch the stings and barbs of their words.

The days rolled by and I found myself laughing with them as they laughed at me. They weren't used to that. And then I began to speak. And some of them actually listened.

"You're different," they said. Classmates and teachers both. I smiled at them. I have changed, it was true. I was not afraid to try new things, especially those that scared me. I joined their games when they let me, and it didn't matter when I failed. I kept raising my hands. I kept hitting the ball when they passed it to me. I kept chasing. I kept running.

I still laughed as I fell on the ground. If I scraped my knees, then it would just be more stories for you and lola when I return.

I found myself flitting between different groups. Sometimes, I was even invited.

I listened as they talked. Boy, did people love to talk about themselves. Their nice clothes. Their nice houses. Their nice purebred dogs. They whined about the stains on their pristine white shirts.

As for me, I told them about an old woman living alone in her house. She was bent and callused to some, and to others, she was a goddess with an ever-flowering garden. I also told them about the restless spirit who made an underwater cerulean cave his home, and who was always welcomed by the waves and the wind, and who guided children on a secret path towards a quiet pool surrounded by bamboo groves keeping the love of people long gone.

Talent day. I drew the province in my head. I copied my mother's fluid brush strokes in the many paintings she left. Awarded first place. Frilly gold ribbon. Mama would have been proud if she cared. Even the teachers who did not like me were impressed. When I went back inside the classroom, I saw my project smeared with black ink. I saw the one who did it: A girl, bigger than all the boys in our class.

When she wasn't looking, I smeared the same black paint she used all over her nice grey backpack, along with her fancy new cellphone. We stared at each other, after. Nobody could prove anything. I wasn't proud of what I did, but it felt nice to fight back. No one touched my stuff again. Strange thing, too, what happened after. Some of my classmates thought it unnecessarily cruel. She became a temporary outcast herself.

"They like you better now because you like yourself," Papa said.

So that was what it felt like to be liked? I was not used to my classmates defending me or taking my side. It felt good. And, oddly enough, it felt like a currency I could use. It felt like a battle between reputation, popularity, talent, and wealth. Who had more would come out on top. It was a game everyone played, whether they liked to or not.

The province, yes. And the people living in it.

I thought back, realizing the patterns just now. We're not much different from hens with their pecking order. Dogs with their pack.

I thought about you. You would tell me that maybe it was the goodness of people. Maybe there were still good people in the city, who knows? You and your eyes looking at the bright side of things.

Sometimes, I can hear my grandmother whispering in my ear. Whenever I looked beyond the buildings that dominated the sky and imagined a wonderful island there, lola would push my head back gently and say, "You must live in this world, too."

I sighed. She was right. I need to be a part of this world, too. I must dive into the present. I must live and try to love the life in front of me and do my part to make it better like she would with all her flowers. The beach will still be there, waiting for me.