accepted
it.
Her mother had to go. Relatives
needed comforting, needed explanations, had questions. And they
assumed her mother knew the answers.
A light pink pigment filled the
previously blue sky, and the orange sun blazed less and less
vividly as the hours passed. Malia lay feebly on the wooden park
bench, staring desperately at the stunning shades of purple and
pink painted artistically around the puffs of white clouds. The
blending shades spiraled in her mind.
One of the clouds resembled a
heart, she thought, shattered into two separate halves. Another a
lion, racing to devour its prey. Another a bird, soaring to its
nest to care for its young. She analyzed the clouds painstakingly,
until fatigue overpowered her and she allowed herself to enter a
harmonious sleep. A sleep not of nightmares. A sleep not of dreams.
But a sleep of sheer nothingness. An empty mind to complement an
empty soul.
Hours passed. Still, Malia sat
cradling herself to sleep beneath the silver moon. In her mind, she
saw visions. Visions of bliss. Of a distant happiness. Golden
memories etched into her mind. Memories that shined ever so
brightly due to the dim prospect of their return.
She and Sam entering the
double-doors of James Madison Elementary together on their first
day of kindergarten. They both had been terrified for this sudden
change in their lives – from the freedom of children to the
structured confinement of students. They clung to each other those
first few days of school, anxious to separate from the
familiarities of their youth. But one day, Sam sat just a few desks
further from Malia. And Malia asked a girl with choppy blonde
pigtails to sit with her at lunchtime. Eventually, they branched
out into their own. Yet in their hearts, they always remained those
two frightened five year-olds in spirit.
The seventh grade. A chunky
boy and his exclusive club of followers had tormented Malia and her
friends for weeks on end. Stealing their backpacks, sending prank
phone messages, and circulating displeasing rumors. Malia
especially despised the rumors.
“You’d better leave my sister and
her friends alone, Joey.” Sam’s pudgy twelve-year old face tried to
frighten the husky bully, Joseph Gandalini, in earnest sentiment.
Danny was by his side, laughing his face off at his best friend’s
meager attempt at intimidation.
After consoling Danny for his
failure to defend his little sister, Danny shoved Joey against the
locker and muttered something threateningly in his ear that Malia
couldn’t decipher. Joseph Gandalini never bothered Malia and her
friends again.
Her brother’s face was as red as
the Fuji apple she had crunched on for lunch for that day. “It’s
the thought that counts, Sam,” she comforted him.
And then high school came along,
and they became freshman. Swarms of sixteen and seventeen year-old
giants hovered over their bony five-foot tall frames. Teachers
reprimanded them for the most insignificant of discretions –
marching through the halls without passes, disposing of their
spoiled peanut butter and jelly sandwich and other allergenic
products in the wastebaskets, or failing to place their paper
products in the recycle bins. Everything just seemed more
complicated. But for months they had anticipated the next four
years. Danny’s older brother would constantly boast of the marvels
of high school. And now they were finally here. Living it
themselves.
At least until Mr. Hoffman assigned
their first history report.
“Mr. Hoffman, I swear, my computer
broke down yesterday. I lost everything.” Malia’s voice trembled.
Her cheeks were red. Mr. Hoffman stood firmly, his arms strapped
across his chest in an iron grasp. “It’s all gone. Did you want me
to rewrite the entire thing at midnight?” She looked up into her
ninth grade world history teacher’s eyes, searching for a shred of
sympathy. But he had no pity for Malia and her excuses.
“Ms. Sanders, you are in high
school now. You have to take
it.
Her mother had to go. Relatives
needed comforting, needed explanations, had questions. And they
assumed her mother knew the answers.
A light pink pigment filled the
previously blue sky, and the orange sun blazed less and less
vividly as the hours passed. Malia lay feebly on the wooden park
bench, staring desperately at the stunning shades of purple and
pink painted artistically around the puffs of white clouds. The
blending shades spiraled in her mind.
One of the clouds resembled a
heart, she thought, shattered into two separate halves. Another a
lion, racing to devour its prey. Another a bird, soaring to its
nest to care for its young. She analyzed the clouds painstakingly,
until fatigue overpowered her and she allowed herself to enter a
harmonious sleep. A sleep not of nightmares. A sleep not of dreams.
But a sleep of sheer nothingness. An empty mind to complement an
empty soul.
Hours passed. Still, Malia sat
cradling herself to sleep beneath the silver moon. In her mind, she
saw visions. Visions of bliss. Of a distant happiness. Golden
memories etched into her mind. Memories that shined ever so
brightly due to the dim prospect of their return.
She and Sam entering the
double-doors of James Madison Elementary together on their first
day of kindergarten. They both had been terrified for this sudden
change in their lives – from the freedom of children to the
structured confinement of students. They clung to each other those
first few days of school, anxious to separate from the
familiarities of their youth. But one day, Sam sat just a few desks
further from Malia. And Malia asked a girl with choppy blonde
pigtails to sit with her at lunchtime. Eventually, they branched
out into their own. Yet in their hearts, they always remained those
two frightened five year-olds in spirit.
The seventh grade. A chunky
boy and his exclusive club of followers had tormented Malia and her
friends for weeks on end. Stealing their backpacks, sending prank
phone messages, and circulating displeasing rumors. Malia
especially despised the rumors.
“You’d better leave my sister and
her friends alone, Joey.” Sam’s pudgy twelve-year old face tried to
frighten the husky bully, Joseph Gandalini, in earnest sentiment.
Danny was by his side, laughing his face off at his best friend’s
meager attempt at intimidation.
After consoling Danny for his
failure to defend his little sister, Danny shoved Joey against the
locker and muttered something threateningly in his ear that Malia
couldn’t decipher. Joseph Gandalini never bothered Malia and her
friends again.
Her brother’s face was as red as
the Fuji apple she had crunched on for lunch for that day. “It’s
the thought that counts, Sam,” she comforted him.
And then high school came along,
and they became freshman. Swarms of sixteen and seventeen year-old
giants hovered over their bony five-foot tall frames. Teachers
reprimanded them for the most insignificant of discretions –
marching through the halls without passes, disposing of their
spoiled peanut butter and jelly sandwich and other allergenic
products in the wastebaskets, or failing to place their paper
products in the recycle bins. Everything just seemed more
complicated. But for months they had anticipated the next four
years. Danny’s older brother would constantly boast of the marvels
of high school. And now they were finally here. Living it
themselves.
At least until Mr. Hoffman assigned
their first history report.
“Mr. Hoffman, I swear, my computer
broke down yesterday. I lost everything.” Malia’s voice trembled.
Her cheeks were red. Mr. Hoffman stood firmly, his arms strapped
across his chest in an iron grasp. “It’s all gone. Did you want me
to rewrite the entire thing at midnight?” She looked up into her
ninth grade world history teacher’s eyes, searching for a shred of
sympathy. But he had no pity for Malia and her excuses.
“Ms. Sanders, you are in high
school now. You have to take
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