❝So your confidence is quiet.
To them quiet looks like weakness,
but you don't have to fight it
Cause you're strong enough
to win without the war.❞
— Invisible, Hunter Hayes
___
NINE
___
"...Harry Potter," a teenager wearing an oversized sweatshirt with an inconspicuous deathly hallows symbol printed on one of the pockets spoke animatedly.
"Oh, the book about heretics? Because you nerds can relate, right?"
The entire group of teenagers clumped by the door of the library turned to the direction where the snide comment came from. She stuck out like a sore thumb around here, not because of the way she looked—clean and put together, like everyone else— but mostly because of the way she acted. She was dismissive, like how some grade school teachers were when you insisted this boy sitting behind you was pulling your hair every 5 seconds.
She thought she had them because to the stereotyping eye, they were misfits, geeks, dorks—they won't challenge someone like her, well not usually.
"It's all about witches and wizards and all those other stupid childish spells," she even added to nail the point to her already well-built 'I'm a bully' case.
Big mistake there, dear.
If these kids' jaws dropped earlier, they're reattached now and ready for round one.
"First of all, heresy was a concept concocted by Catholic extremists to eradicate any form of counter culture; it resulted in the unlawful and immoral deaths of many—including those 'witches and wizards' you just mentioned. Most of which, by the way, that same religious group apologized for."
"Uh—"
Glen, the same lean, sweatshirt-loving teenager from earlier, despite his clammy palms and trembling hands, cleared his throat to continue. Oh no girl, you're not getting away that easy. He's got a litany ready.
"And no, it's not just about witches and wizards. It has a lot to do with it, yes, but it's not 'all' of it. The book immerses readers into an alternate narrative of racism, supremacist behavior, abuse, greed, obsession for power and yes, genocide. Clearly you have not read it, because if you have and got only that, I advise that you work on your comprehension."
"But—"
"I'd also like to question your definition of childish. Is getting orphaned at one, abused for 10 years, plagued by personal demons from birth and having had to give up his life for others' survival all before he's even legal to drink in any way childish? If it is, then which dictionary did you poach that from so I can raise their inability to adequately define a word to whatever English vocabulary authorities there are?"
Owned!
"Oh for fuck's sake, somebody get Glen a PowerPoint presentation," one of the girls from the crowd who was watching exchange jokingly suggested.
The cruelty in that girl's face faded; it was replaced with confusion and for a moment, regret. I cannot be sure if she regretted what she did or how the table was turned. Either way, it doesn't matter much now. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, in an attempt to will an endless stream of curse words and taunts that could all possibly be synonyms of nerd and stupid, slightly ironic if you ask me.
The group stared at her, neither angry nor confronting. They were really just staring, wondering how she'd react. They'd been made fun of far too many times to return the favor.
When she finally gathered her wits, well more like her ego, she turned to look at them and gibed, "Fucking good-for-nothing dorks!"
"Settle down everyone. That means give Mr. Lafferty his inhaler back, Tyrone."
"Mr. M," Tyrone started to protest, but was cut short by Mr. M's raised hand.
"Yes Tyrone, you were simply borrowing it because inhalers are so interesting to you, aren't they?"
The room of teenagers filled with laughter, some snorting and snickering with each other boisterously while the rest, Glen's group included, barely laughed at all even if they clearly found the theatrical conversation funny.
To the lens of a camera, there are two frames in this library. One captured in pastels, vibrant futures and structured schedules but, where in the negatives, lurk images of social anxiety and decaying self-esteem. On the other is a bleak black and white of tormented pasts and suffocating day-to-day lifestyles, craving but often, unable to claw out of an inescapable stigma. Let's all raise a metaphorical glass to life's cruel humor that Emma can't afford her own camera because she doesn't see the frames, just the whole picture.
As the laughter died down, Mr. M stood in front of group and motioned for everyone to face him.
"Some of you may already know me, I'm Mr. M to those who frequent the art center down at 57th and Mr. Montgomery for the gifted few who took AP English Literature. You guys have at least one thing in common, you all agree that I am the best teacher you've ever had." He said with a straight face until the room broke into a louder stream of laughter.
"Okay, okay, settle down." The group tried to quiet down as much as they could, but with this teacher's natural humor, it's hard to keep a straight face and not let a few snorts slip.
It's apparent though that he has the respect of these kids. You can tell by the way they looked at him and hung on to every word he said. He was an inspiration; his words meant something to them.
"You guys all know Emma by now, right?"
Emma stood from one of the chairs behind Mr. M and waved to everyone. She was greeted with a loud applause, cheers and wolf whistles. Well, hello little miss popular!
"Thanks Emma. We'll be hearing one of her stories again later, before we break up into groups."
There were audible intakes of breath from the crowd, even a few sighs. They weren't too happy about mingling, clearly. Emma smiled at the nervous tension in the air; she was all too familiar with that feeling.
Luke, despite his normal insensitivity to other people's feelings, noticed the tension too. It was palpable since he and Emma took their seats after, this time, having read her almost 10 chapters of Heathcliff and Catherine's love affair. These kids weren't particularly excited to interact with each other. He thought, "If that's that case, why even be here?"
"As you may have already guessed, you were invited here to spend some time with each other."
More intakes of breath.
"I know some of you think this is a book club, but it isn't. Well, it's not just a book club. We will be reading books and discussing it as a group, but we will also be writing and keeping journals."
"What?" Tyrone said a tad too loudly.
"Zip it, T," someone from the group jeered.
"You can approach me for questions later, but let me finish first so we can move on to Emma's story for the week, okay?"
Mr. Montgomery waited for any more violent reactions or comments before he continued.
"There isn't a clear structure yet as to the activities. We'll work on it together so everyone can have a chance at trying something they want to do. What we become as a group will be your call. Only consider one thing: here, we will care."
We will care.
Care.
For a group so 'different' by social portrayal, they seemed too accepting of a program where those portrayals mean nothing. I guess care is a more understandable language than stereotype.
As the stillness grew, Emma walked closer to the crowd and begun.
"She felt their stares even when she doesn't see them. She heard their laughter from miles away. The names they called her echoed in her dreams, refusing to give her any peaceful sleep. Her body ached from the hug of lockers and the kisses of floors, from contacts with fists and feet and not the friendly sort.
They said numbness takes over at one point. 'When?' she asked because if it's at all true, then she'd welcome it—her doors open, her mind willing. 'Just take me,' she begged. 'Take me away from this hell I'm living.'
'End it,' a voice in her head whispered."
In the stillness, a girl on the first row stood out. You would have thought she wasn't listening except for the way she cringed and pulled at the sleeves of her cardigan with each word Emma said.
Words.
She was drowning in them... or maybe in what they reminded her of.
"She'd sit in class and wait for another beating, feigned deafness to the murmurs of 'stupid', 'retard' and 'worthless piece of shit' floating around her. She prayed to whatever gods were listening that they'd stop, that the words won't bother her like in those stories you might have heard- heroes who just don't seem to care anymore.
She wished it was as easy as how her counselor dismissed her, how the nurse sent her home saying, 'It's just how teens are.' Even the principal waived his hand around and reminded her that it's a part of growing up. 'What a violent way to grow up,' she thought.
'End it,' a voice in her head called."
A kid sat at the far end of the room stared at his bandaged arm. It was still bleeding in a few places. He was supposed to get stitches, but he refused. What's the point of spending a few hundred dollars to fix something that will be broken in a few days anyway?
Stiches may close wounds, but they do nothing to prevent people from reopening them.
"Teachers looked at her and saw a hopeless problem, one they can rid of with a passing mark. Then she'd be somebody else's problem. It's a cycle of apathy or maybe exhaustion. They said, 'Just get that kid out of here and move on. She's too stupid to learn. Why even try?'
She felt the walls closing in on her, the air slowly draining, water slowly filling. They said it's selfish what she wants to do. It's cowardly. Try being brave when no one else wants you to be.
'End it,' a voice in her head screamed.
In the wake of the night, just when the sun was about to rise, she said, 'I will.' "
Half the kids kept their eyes focused on the floor, others stared outside the closest windows—their gaze, aimless and blank. If society thought they were different kids, they should watch them now and see how similar they look, how much they hurt from being taught they were different and how big of a struggle it truly is to live up to that. They were never alone, but each one of them was convinced otherwise- for half, with their grades, for the other, by their neighborhood.
These kids were trained to either work hard in school or be smart on the streets, but nothing prepared them for Emma.
For the truth.
For their truth.
Luke sought out the quiet. He used to hate the abundance of it in his life, but now, after that story, he craved it. There he sat, in far corner of the library, mindlessly flicking through the pages of Wuthering Heights. It has been a few hours since the last kid left, but he barely noticed.
He was silent—physically that is. His mind, though, was a category 5 hurricane.
He thought about her...
her stories; he corrected himself.
She was getting through to him, and she didn't even seem like she was trying.
He closed his eyes, and listened to the quiet. As he did, images took over—vivid images.
Colors.
Bruises.
Now, cuts.
He shut them tighter.
He wondered if she was still just a bestseller.