The bench was uncomfortable against my prominent spine, and ravenous winds whirled about my exposed ankles, chilling them and causing goose bumps to protrude through the surface of my skin. Wrapping my arms about myself, I sat awkwardly in my deflated chocolate coat, the sleeves too small and gradually ascending my forearms. Laughter and shrieks of delight ricocheted off of the squat brick buildings, and the whispers of the girls flirted with my ears. A large clique of girls sat on the ramp which led into the gym. A few were, much to the teachers’ dissent, precariously perched on the flaking railings, however, most dangled their legs through the rusted iron bars, watching the boys engage in an unsuccessful game of soccer on the asphalt blacktop, using the basketball hoop supports as goals. The girls gossiped in their groups about those who were not included in the private ring of popularity and narcissistic self-admiration, mocking and laughing hysterically at the misfortune of others. Their eyes flitting around the playground, they giggled and pointed at me, and I sank lower in the collar of my coat. After much discussion, no doubt about my lack of company and tiny attire, they returned to their attempts at impressing the boys, laughing at nonexistent jokes, twiddling their hair and examining their hands with exaggerated vigor. Relieved, I straightened on the bench after quite a while, only to find the girls had continued their senseless ridicule, therefore I rose from bench and retrieved my lunch, then proceeded to transfer to another bench with similar qualities, farther away from them. The bench was situated near the swings, subsequently, the ominous groans and unsettling creaks of the fluctuating swing set filled my afternoon. I remained there for the entire recess, gauche and inelegant, donned in my too-small clothing and alone on the long, green bench. It was staggeringly transparent. They were popular; and I was not.
***************************************************************************************************************************************
Once more, I stood before my classmates, seated patiently on the rug with intimidating and watchful eyes. Anticipation of my essay was evident, and I, paralyzed in fright, quivered upon standing. No matter the content in my writing, nor the knowledge in my mind, qualified me for a position labeled as popular, and it had always remained thus. It mattered not my choice of clothing, my relatively expansive vocabulary, or my inability to fully comprehend sarcasm that prevented my acceptance into the ring of popularity, it was my innate personality which rejected the proposition of selfies and an unhealthy obsession to Instagram which obstructed my acceptance into the circle. Later that year I was informed that due to my being a “try-hard”, and a “nerd”, none of the popular people desired to be my friend or mere acquaintance, or even held sympathy or affection towards me. This revelation, a bitter sentiment from Samantha Cohen, further fueled my hatred towards the clique.
The conscious disapproval of me was piercing through their eyes. My peers noticed my hesitation to begin, as did I. Reluctance to share my compositions was uncommon, and my peers were aware of it. Crinkling and straightening the side of the paper where I held it, I rapidly scanned the room, suddenly appreciative of my classmates proximity to me. I retreated until my lower back clashed into a desk. I stumbled, and my instructor darted out to catch me, however, I managed to steady myself. Firmly lodging my feet on the soiled carpet, I opened my lips and attempted to speak, but to no avail. Ripples of incoherent laughter traversed my pathetic audience at my speech hindrance. Infuriated, I rid my throat of phlegm and began with urgency, “Ms. Johnson said we could do an essay on whatever we felt was important to us, or whatever we believe in,” a hush settled over the students like a dense fog at the sound of my voice in the mundane classroom. Shifting my weight, I continued, “I chose to write about my atheism.”
“What’s that?” a girl interrupted sarcastically. She was seated in the far right corner of the rug placed to cover the atrocious carpet, her lower back casually resting against the decaying shelves. Fiddling with her flowing, glimmering hair, she glanced up from examining her split ends between her fingers to address me. Her attitude held with it an air of superior societal position, and she bore it against me to the utmost extent. Taken aback by her superficial attitude, I stuttered, racing through my mind for the best phrase to respond with. I fumbled over my words until I was able to manage a feeble,
“It’s when you don’t believe in God, or a god.”
“OMG, wait,” The girl put up her hand and furrowed her brow in legitimate confusion, abandoning her hair and allowing it to rest on her thigh. Removing her back from the chipping shelves, she began to speak. I inclined my torso near her and rotated to hear her better as she said, “You, like, don’t believe in God? So, you, like, don’t go to church? And isn’t that a, like, crime?” She glared at me with condescension. Appalled, I was about to respond with utter silence when our instructor scolded the girl,
“Kelsey!”
Kelsey rolled her eyes and expelled a sigh of dissatisfaction. She settled once more against the shelf and folded her arms indignantly across her chest. I heard Kelsey murmur retorts of exasperation while gazing thoughtlessly through the cracked window, refusing pay any attention to my essay. Ms. Johnson then rearranged herself in the seat, disappointed with Kelsey’s response. Raising her eyebrows and exhaling deeply, she addressed me, “Go ahead, Lila.” I nodded and continued with a crumbling façade of confidence,
“ ‘Where Do You Go, After? A personal essay by Lila Escher,” I faltered through my speech and shifted awkwardly. I scanned the room briefly before moving on, “ ‘Many religions have different—“
“You can’t write about that,” A sardonic voice interrupted my essay, puncturing through my words.
I can’t what? I can’t write about religion? My beliefs? I thought desperately, I already wrote about it, and I told Ms. Johnson, and she said it was okay, I don’t see what’s wrong. I left my mouth slightly ajar and let the breath roll off my tongue in a lazy procession as I hysterically considered what to respond with. I followed the voice. Stephen Carfinicus was scornfully eyeing me, resting back on his hands, his long legs stretched out in front of me, irregularly tapping his toes together.
“It’s a law,” He remarked arrogantly, “You’re not allowed to write about that stuff. It’s offensive to people.”
The more he spoke, the more diminished I became. A law? I thought, It’s a free country, right? If I’m not allowed to do this, then he can’t talk about Christmas and he can’t make me say the Pledge of Allegiance. Just ignore him. He doesn’t know what he is talking about.
The combined heat of so many children in an enclosed space, the warmth of the inviting spring morning, and stress suffocating my body, immediately made the classroom insufferable. My thoughts jumbled together in a swirl of turmoil and demoralization. What if he’s right? What if I can’t talk about this? Can I get arrested? Is the law on my side? Should I continue? Questions and fears floated in my head, yet, I drove myself frantically to ignore them. I swallowed noisily and cautiously advanced towards the next sentence,
“ ‘Many religions have different opinions on where you go when you die. The Christians believe you go to God. There he judges the things you did in your life and he sends you to Heaven or—“
“You’re stupid. You should stop talking before you get in trouble.”
“Stephen, be quiet,” Ms. Johnson imputed once I paused. I continued to read in an inaudible whisper, gurgled and deformed with my silent sniveling and whimpering.
Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going, I constantly told myself as the oppression and humiliation augmented.
“This is so wrong. You’re so wrong.”
Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going.
“This is so stupid, you’re so stupid to think this. This essay is stupid.”
Tears surfaced and streamed down my face, emotions bubbling over and dissipating with heaving sobs that rattled my frame.
Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going.
“Why would you ever think this?”
With deep, wheezing breaths, I whispered silently to myself, Just keep going. Just keep going. Don’t stop. It’s okay. Just keep going. Everything is going to be okay.
“This is so wrong. You’re so dumb to think about this.”
Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going.
“Who would be dumb enough to-“
“Fine!” I screeched in emotional agony, my temples pounding and tears blurring my vision, “If you want me to stop, I will!” I wiped my eyes vigorously and wrenched the papers apart at the staples, scattering them like confetti over the seated students, transfixed by my tantrum. Some withdrew farther from myself and Stephen, while others attempted to silence him.
“She can’t write about this! It’s against school rules, my dad told me so!” he viciously protested. Coraline gently placed a hand on his shoulder while saying,
“She can, Stephen. Ms. Johnson said she could,” Stephen shoved her hand away into her torso.
“You know it’s true, Lila!” He cried after me, still seated on the carpet with others.
I turned around and ended in a clamor with the chair I previously bumped into, and moving past it, I dislocated several desks and chairs. Striding over to the opposite side of the room, I squatted behind a file cabinet. I sat and sobbed, allowing the moans and heaves to fill myself and the room in a rage which no one but I could empathize with. I rested my head against the brick and curled in upon myself, amongst the spiders and their webs, the mice and the cockroaches behind the file cabinet.
There I remained, my hair tangled with the cobwebs of the spiders, cockroaches hastily skuttling across my deprecated Toms. The students adjacent to me muttered concerns, while those farther giggled at my essay and ridiculed my weak disposition. A cavern had appeared inside my abdomen, contracting and convulsing with each breath respired. The cavern expanded with each pejorative remark, each chuckle and whisper, every protest. The words quivered and oscillated in the rugged interior of the cave, enlarging it until it engulfed my entire form, cloaking me in rejection. It violently tore through my spine, shattering it, and enveloped my bowed head. My thin hair slickly clung to my flushed cheekbones and neck. The tears stained my jeans and turquoise shoes, seeping and trickling through until they contacted my skin, chilling it. Vulnerability oppressed me as I sat, amidst the laughter and the hatred, alone in the corner, a shell of a person, inside a hole in the world.