In the Dark of Night – Part 4

2020 is an aggressively terrible year.

One day, however, it shall be something we use to help others.

Wisdom can be found in suffering. It dwells beneath the horrid surface, waiting for us to find it.

“But Justin” you cry through gritted teeth “How can you say such things given all that is!”

Ah, you see, this is not my first time through the mill.

That’s why I decided to write today’s story the way that I have. My childhood was a cavalcade of such suffering. In every way it was possible for an overweight, bookish recluse to be teased, I have experienced it. A lot of the trauma of those years remains, but as I have gained years and distance from them, they have lost most of their sting.

Instead, what remains are the things I’ve learned about myself and about how to endure pain. I would never wish what happened to me on anyone, but it did happen, so I may as well use that to help someone else.

That’s a big reason why this post took two weeks instead of one. I have finally come to accept what it is that I am to do with my existence. I’m not any cleverer than other authors. I’m neither more witty, nor more insightful than they. Instead, I know what it means to sob tears that contain bits of your soul. I know what it means to be so full of sorrow and self-loathing that you wish the world would collapse on top of you just to escape the torment.

I can bleed on the keys in my own fashion. I can expose my pain to the world through the medium of my work, and in so doing I might ease the suffering of another. They could be like me, lost in the dark and looking for anything to help them understand the why of it all.

If my pain and sorrow can be the lighthouse for them on their personal dark and stormy night of the soul, then mine will have been a life well spent.

If that, and nothing else, is my legacy then I shall die a happy man indeed.

Onward, compatriots. Let neither of us fear the dark any longer.

In the Dark of Night – Part 4

The harassment started almost immediately, which was a relief. I wasn’t going to waste the whole morning wondering when it would start.

Mr. Davis, his gut straining his belt and his moustache straining his credibility, singled me out as soon as I walked through the metal detectors.

“Alright Clarence, dump it all on the table. Let’s go.”

The detector hadn’t gone off. It never did. He still found a reason to dig through my belongings at least once a week.

“It’s Claire, Officer Davis. Just like it was last week and the week before that.”

I proceeded to take my hoodie off and set it on the table next to the detectors. Given that I refused to take my weekend hat off, this was more of a production than it should’ve been. Underneath the hoodie was the messenger’s satchel I used for a backpack. I kept it there because experience had long ago taught me that they couldn’t steal what they couldn’t reach. It’s the same reasoning that keeps my locker empty.

I’d rather rotate books at home every day than deal with the things that showed up in there.

The satchel came next, worn but not battered. I took care to keep it in excellent shape, with the occasional help from Jacob when the leather gave out. It had been dad’s, and my grandfather’s before that.

“Whatever Clarence, let’s see what I have to confiscate today.”

Fingers swollen like the sausages that surely must make up his every meal dug through my satchel without concern for the well being of either container or content. Without looking up, he got in a dig about the hat.

“What’s under the hat?”

I wasn’t going to take the bait. He’d have to work harder if he wanted to provoke me.

“Hair.”

A single eye looked at me, full of casual condescension.

“On the table.”

I clenched my jaw, but I told myself that he wasn’t worth the aggravation as I took my cap off.

“Nice haircut, Clarence. Tell your mom she cuts hair about as well as she makes coffee.”

I began reciting the monologue from the end of Seven Samurai in my head to control my anger. It must’ve worked, because Mr. Davis hadn’t been reduced to a smoking crater. I marveled at my restraint as I ran my hand over the missing patch of hair. I’d need to get my hair sorted as quickly as possible.

Deprived of the response he’d been looking for, Officer Davis resumed his snooping about. After a few moments spent finding nothing out of the ordinary, he huffed and waved me away like a particularly bothersome fly.

I replaced hat and satchel and hoodie and made my way toward Mr. Schoonover’s English class.

I was late by the time I walked into the classroom. Mr. Schoonover was leaning against his desk as he called out names for attendance. His eyes moved towards me as I walked to my seat at the back of the class. He raised an eyebrow at my hat, but resumed calling out names and making checks after a grunt of acknowledgement that I had arrived in one piece.

A low susurence floated through the room as I took my seat. A few low, mocking laughs floated my way, but I tried to ignore them as I sat down and began tucking myself into the chair and my hoodie until only my eyes and my hat were visible above the deskline. Mr. Schoonover, accustomed to my turtle ways, went through the mornings announcements and agendas without commenting on them.

“Hey, Clarence, saw Officer Davis had to search your bag today. Were you trying to sneak in some good looks?”

The snide whisper originated from the young woman with long, blonde hair directly in front of me.

I tried to ignore the comment, but Karen knew where I was weak. My hair was just as beautiful as hers, but I worried about my thin features and scrawny chest. Karen was beautiful and knew it. She also happened to be Officer Davis’s niece, which explained the harassment. Denied reaction, she turned back towards Mr. Schoonover with a casual flip of the bird behind her back.

I rolled my eyes and perked up a little at the childish gesture of defeat. Only Karen could turn something so vile into a pick-me-up through sheer banality.

Mr. Schoonover went through the motions. He wasn’t a bad teacher, all things considered, but everyone knew that whatever got him interested had nothing to do with his job. I listened with my usual intensity, repeating everything he said softly to myself at least twice. I didn’t take notes unless I had to.

The bell rang, and I waited until everyone else had gone before resuming normal human posture. I made my way towards the door, head down, tucked into myself as much as I could be.

“A moment, Ms. Miller.”

I stopped, mostly out of surprise. Mr. Schoonover never, ever, did more than the minimum required of him. That included talking to his students.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you got an 85% on last week’s test, Ms. Miller.”

I swallowed. He wasn’t wrong. I got an 85% on every test. And every homework assignment. And every quiz, too.

“Why is that so unusual, Mr. Schoonover?”

He looked at me. Not through me, not down at me, he looked into my eyes and I was seen. All of me. My attempts to withdraw, to go unnoticed, to blend in until I was invisible. All were wasted on this man who pretended to see nothing and instead saw everything.

The silence drew out like a knife, and I was almost shaking from the attention by the time he gave a dismissive grunt and turned back to his desk.

“I look forward to your next 85%, Ms. Miller.”

I was rattled. He had pierced the mediocrity I used for armor. I waited, heart beating fast, trying to gauge if I was to receive a lecture or a threat to reveal my deliberate undermining of my own work to the other teachers. Or worse, to my mother.

It turns out I was waiting for nothing. Without even looking up, Mr. Schoonover shooed me into the hall. The gesture implied not impatience or imperiousness. It simply stated that my concerns had been noted but were unnecessary.

I would be allowed to maintain my ruse.

Fear and anxiety drained away, leaving only curiosity in their wake. What thoughts churned beneath the placid surface and deadpan expression of Mr. Schoonover?

A spit-wad slamming into my cheek brought me back to reality. I lowered my head, feeling a second pelt into the hat this morning’s escapades had forced me to wear. I smiled as I wiped the wad of paper away and made my way through the hallway. Something good can come of even our darkest moments. Jeers, further spit-wads, and several disgusting catcalls traced me through the steady traffic of the school halls.

There were no secrets in a small town. Everyone knew my dad had abandoned our family. Dad and all the teachers and students blamed me for him leaving.

I focused on tonight’s recommendation from Jacqueline as I wove along. It was a fantastic black and white film called The Seventh Seal. Death plays chess with a knight during the bubonic plague. Jacqueline was the gift that kept on giving.

Thoughts of what it might be like took the sting off the names that slipped past my excitement.

Ms. Pardee’s Math class was, if anything, worse than English. Ms. Pardee, in a fit of mistaken zeal, had taken to trying to ‘correct’ me. I wasn’t broken though, and no matter how hard she tried, there simply wasn’t anything wrong to fix.

She greeted me with the biggest, forced smile she could muster. She could not look any more ridiculous, even if you added googly eyes.

“Good morning Mrs. Pardee.”

I held out my hand, hoping she would return my quiz without comment. I was sadly mistaken.

“Good morning Clarence! And how are you today young man?”

Her words landed on me like wet dirt. They clung to everything, trying their best to weigh me down. Her words were, in their own way, worse than Officer Davis and his ilk. They at least wore their disdain on their sleeve for all the world to see.

“I’m fine Mrs. Pardee. It’s Claire, please and thank you.”

The smile faltered, but Mrs. Pardee summoned up every last bit of nerve and hitched it back into place. Her half-glasses and gray bun looked out of place with that smile.

“Of course it is Clarence. You take as much time as you need to get through this little phase of yours. Off you trot!”

I made my way to my seat and slumped into it, willing myself not to cry. I told myself, over and over and over, that she meant well. That her words were born from a sincere desire to help. That she was, deep down, a nice person who was just trying to do what she thought was best.

It almost worked, too. I only shed a few silent tears as I stared down at my 8 out of 10. I did some quick calculations to figure out what I’d need to get on the next one to average out to 85%. Mrs. Pardee had given us the total points available in her class at the start of the year.

It helped when I focused on such things instead of my pain.

Mrs. Pardee went through her lesson with the clinical efficiency of long years of practice. I mouthed along, trying to keep my face as dry as I could manage. I didn’t want to disturb what little makeup I’d managed to get on after this morning’s festivities.

My throat was a little dry as I bade Mrs. Pardee good day. She waved energetically, smiling as though I were a family friend dying of cancer she was trying to keep a brave face for.

I stopped for a drink of water on my way to Spanish. I was rewarded for my efforts with a faceful of water as Karen chose just that moment to walk past me. She had, accidentally of course, shoved me directly into the stream of water.

“Oops. Sorry Clarence!”

The sarcastic mockery of her tone was in direct conflict with her words, but it would keep her safe from retribution. Even if I tried to complain, most of the school would side with her anyway.

With makeup and tears running down my face, I stomped my way to the bathroom. On top of all my other worries for the day, I’d have to go through the bulk of my classes without makeup. I could barely afford enough as it was.

I tried to keep my tears in check as I stood at the ancient u-shaped sink and washed my face. The sensors were as old as the sink, and it took several swings to generate a pitiful amount of water. The motions allowed me to calm down, and appreciate the fact that I could survive a day without makeup.

I slapped my face a few times as I finished the job the water fountain had started. I was better than the spit-balls and the taunts and the well-meaning attempts to deny who I was. I was going to prove it, too. Prove it by refusing to give in, refusing to back down. I would not allow others to dictate to me who I was.

I looked at my face, thin with a pointed chin. Eyes green and full of equal parts sadness and determination. It was there, psyching myself up, that I caught a whiff of sulfur and ozone. I froze. The hairs on the back of my arms and neck shot up, and with a groaning creak, the lock on the outside of the bathroom door slid home.

No one was standing outside.

The water slowed to a trickle, then came to a halt. In midair. The bathroom floor began rumbling, the doors to the stalls shuddering and slamming. The floor glowed a lurid, yellow-white.

My bat lay beside my bed. It might as well be on Jupiter.

Determinfully,

The Unsheathed Quill