The Elephant

Trunk

He had dark hair that would never stay combed down no matter how many times he tried smoothing it over with his hand. Every day he wore coffee-colored khakis and a different polo shirt but always with the same green button that had the principal's motto written in acronym form: D.G.B.G. (Do great. Be great.) He was the kind of person who started the day with a smile and ended the day with a my-shift-is-almost-over eagerness. Overall, he was a great guy to be around. And that was because of his relativity level. He was like a high schooler, but the cool kind, the I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-but-I-know-I'm-tired kind. And I said "good morning" before taking my seat like I always did, even when I didn't feel so good.

Without failure, Mr. Zercich managed to park the bus so that the door opened to a direct path to the sidewalk that led diagonally to the front doors at which students were supposed to enter. Grateful and tired, I told him to have a nice day with a weird morning/innocent high-pitched tone that made me sound more girly than I've ever sounded in my whole life. It's the voice I used every time I wanted to convince someone I was fine in a way that made conversation brief. I enjoyed it from him though, because he always liked it that way, the briefer the better, so I didn't have to feel like I was making someone uncomfortable. He responded with a quick "you too" and I continued on, our little exchange of words not preventing me from making continuous motion.

Our footsteps integrated with the stampede of everyone else's as we all tried traveling down the same hallway to get to our classes, but the crowded spaces were no stranger to any of us. We traveled those halls like people walk around in their own homes. It was nothing special, nothing strange, therefore nothing really infuriating like everybody pretended it was. So when I shoved passed freshmen to get into the classroom, no one said anything along the lines of it being mean because that's just what everybody did when they had to. No one cared, which was great because we all had too many other things to care about that were a lot more important.

...

I got on the bus after school that same day and as a 'perfect' end to a 'perfect' day, Mr. Zercich's genuine smile was replaced by the shy grin of a slim woman with buttons for eyes and brass wire for hair. She looked truly a mess with tan khakis that stopped just below the knee to reveal a pale leg riddled with blue and purple lines that reached out in starbursts as if trying to break through the surface, and a flowery blouse ruffled at the waist and crumpled over her lap as she sat there while crinkled sleeves and wrinkled viscose covered what remained above. Thin rectangles kept her button eyes from looking directly into my normal blue ones, but they stared out blankly anyway, so I don't think she'd see much if the glass wasn't there.

It made me most uncomfortable to sit in the first seat of the bus I always sat on just because a stranger was at the wheel. I couldn't sit and close my eyes to listen to music like normal. I had to sit upright with an arm around my bookbag as if it were a child in order to keep myself and it anchored to the seat. It was a task to avoid being jostled about the rectangular confines of the seat. At some point, my hands were against the seats, one in front of me and one behind, just so that I didn't bang my head around between each of them. She was awful, absolutely awful, and I wanted Mr. Zercich back so I could tell him about the girl who tried making me feel insecure today. I wanted to tell him about how I had told her to shove something up her ass. But now he's gone and I have no one to tell. My mother sure wouldn't appreciate it. Neither would my father. Only Zercich would understand and appreciate what I'd done. But when we came to my stop, I had yet to ask what happened to him, and I kept my mouth shut and turned away from this new woman while I descended the grey steps that opened to my driveway.

...

That day was a day for things to happen, though. Or maybe it just felt that way because nothing ever happened. The news didn't end there. The news was in the mail that my father sat on the couch with. He did as he always did and sifted through it, tossing my mail in my direction and putting the rest into two piles, one for him and the other for my mother.

There was a letter and a packet. I took out the letter first. My dad suddenly took interest as he noticed I was actually reading my mail. "What is that?" "It's a letter." "Oh, really? Duh." "Sh, I'm reading it." And I read it, all however many words it was, the same words that God knows how many other students had received before me, will receive after me, or are looking at at the same time as me. Congratulations. I loved that word now. It never sounded so sweet, so victorious, so perfect, than it did in my head right then. I didn't even show it off to my parents, I just gave a small hmph of interest and set it aside. "What was that?" My dad tried again. "Just mail." "What kind?" "Read for yourself." And I left the room to get a glass of juice and then I took that glass of juice with me to my bedroom leaving my dad to the letter to take time to figure out how on Earth he would show excitement or pride since he always seemed to have trouble doing that.

It felt good to finally have good news that they'd want to talk about instead of all the precarious little things that we all shoved into the corner the best it could fit and try and keep it off our minds every time our mouths open to speak to one another. This wasn't like the paper I got from my doctor. This wasn't that damned list of places to send me that my father ignored and my mother asked for but never brought up again. This was good. This wasn't scary... unless it was. And the reality hit me once again. It is no surprise that I got accepted. My older sister did and she had poorer grades than me, not to mention the stronger resume I have from years of clubs and leadership. No one was surprised to hear I'd gotten into the school and that's why I didn't hear any movement of excitement or the call of my name to get me back in the living room for the attention I so childishly wanted. But there would be no tears.

I laid there, my heartbeat quickened as I thought about falling asleep. I don't get why sleep becomes increasingly more difficult once you actually lie down to do it. My heart was outside of my body as in I could feel each beat travel passed my skin, away from my pillow and blanket, straight to my mattress. Not just the part of the mattress by my heart, but the whole thing. It pulsed with my heart, the feeling trying to send me outside of myself. The pounding more and more insistent. The pounding of something trying to make something move without any success like the hammer against the nail that is already in as deep as it could go without breaking through the surface of the other side. And it really didn't want to do that.