04 | unconscious


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u n c o n s c i o u s


When I returned home that day, Molly saw the signs. She could read me like an open book, I could hardly ever hide anything from her.

"I know that look," she observed, placidly, as I helped her stack the dishes into the dishwasher. "And your usual bunch of friends couldn't possibly be the reason, so spill - who's the new guy?"

"What new guy?" I returned, calmly, letting out a slight yawn. I was pretty much exhausted, since Callum had had to drive me back to school so I could pick up my car and then drive myself home after that. "And what look?"

She smiled. "Scout, we've lived together for how many years now? Four, five? The only times you had that look on your face was when you told me about Callum Wright. So? Who's it this time?"

Molly had legally 'adopted' me since the age of fifteen, but she was more of a confidante than a mother. In fact, in between her odd cravings and pregnancy mood-swings, she behaved almost my age.

"Well," I said, quietly, wiping a clean cup with the cloth. "It's Callum."

"Him again?" Molly looked thoroughly surprised, albeit very pleased. "What are you two now, dating?"

"Molly!" I yelped, appalled by her straightforwardness and hardly able to stop the blush that rose to my cheeks. "We're hardly even friends. We're just - " I paused, because what were we anyway? What was really happening between Callum and myself? I hadn't a clue. " - we're simply acquaintances who've always got each other's backs."

Yes, that was the safest answer I could come up with at the moment. It would've been presumptuous of me to assume anything more. Presumptuous, and dangerous too. And although Molly didn't seem to believe a word I said, she had to live with the answer, just as I had to live with the precarious place I had situated myself in.

I was reminded once again of the situation I was stuck in when Dave called later that night. I'd already expected it, because you didn't just go out fraternising with the so-called enemy and not get called out for it.

"I just want to know why, Scout," he said, his voice sounding more curious than annoyed over the phone. "I mean, why him, of all people? You know how much Jason hates him."

"I know that," I murmured, leaning my head against the pillow on my bed, and gazing up at the ceiling. "I just - I guess I feel sorry for Callum, that's all."

Dave snorted. "You feel sorry for him? Scout, who's going to feel sorry for us then?"

I remained silent for there was no rational answer I could give to his question. What could I even say? That I was feeling sorry for them? I was, but I was also sorry for Callum, sorry for everyone who was somehow or other involved in Hell Week, sorry for the stupid hierarchy that popularity created, sorry for the triviality and superficiality in high school.

What were we going to achieve from this anyway? Was Callum going to put 'Survived Hell Week' on his resume in the future? Or was Jason going to go for a job interview and say 'Oh, I got my revenge on all those who bullied me in high school'?

No. There was nothing achievable, nothing attainable from this week. It was just physically, emotionally and psychologically draining. So. Exhausting.

The pause grew into a vast, all-encompassing silence that engulfed us whole, and at last, Dave had to break the silence.

"Scout, I - " he seemed hesitant to voice his thoughts.

"What is it?" I returned, softly. "You can tell me anything."

" - I just need to know one last thing."

"Anything."

"Jason's always had this huge suspicion that you had a thing for Callum. We've all suspected it. I just want to know if that's true."

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. Confessing your feelings was a lot like taking a dive off a high cliff, not knowing what lay below, what consequences lay ahead. Maybe it was a plain of jagged rocks, maybe it was the bottomless blue sea.

Whatever the case was, you never could tell until you took that last step off the cliff and fell, ten feet, fifty feet, one hundred feet. You fall, fall, fall. And you had to do it with eyes wide open.

"It's okay, Scout," he murmured, before I could say anything. "I know the answer. And I promise I won't breathe a word about it."

I thanked him, my voice laced with gratitude and relief and a million and one other things in between. And when the call ended, I kept my eyes shut, the phone still pressed against my ear. I heard the monotone beeping on the other end of the line, wondered if it would ever stop.

But no, it didn't. When one beep ended, another one came. When this wave of bullying was over, another one was going to come.

Or maybe it was the same beep, over and over, like an infinite loop. And we were all high school kids, trapped in the vicious cycle of popularity and statuses. And it repeated. Even after we graduated, there were going to be more kids coming in, a new batch of popular kids and unpopular kids.

It repeated.

Over and over, term after term, year after year.


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Hell Week was coming to an end.

I knew, because it was the fifth day - Friday, the last day of Hell Week. I knew, because when I reached school that day, the tension in the atmosphere was suffocating. People were dashing about, heads down, taking long, hasty strides, books clutched tight to their chests. I knew that they were hoping they could get through it, hoping that the day would pass as quickly as it could, without any mishaps.

But there was something I didn't know, couldn't pre-empt - and that was what the future held.

That morning, I was plugged into my iPod, my bag slung carelessly over my shoulder as I kept my head low and tried to avoid bumping into anyone. But something prompted me to raise my head, and I noticed Callum striding towards me.

He wasn't alone this time. Greg Simons, the quarterback, was with him, along with Keith Jacobs and Vince Raillor, both of whom were on the baskeball team and victims of Hell Week. Greg was talking animatedly, Keith and Vince were laughing as they listened to him, but their eyes were all alert, on the lookout for any attacks.

Only Callum was silent, nodding absentmindedly as Greg said a few words to him. Then Callum saw me. His reaction was inexplicable. Instead of ignoring me like he'd generally done in the past, his eyes lit up, and even though he didn't smile, his expression softened marginally.

I ducked my head, intending to walk right past the bunch of them. But as I passed Callum's side, his hand snuck out, knuckles brushing briefly against mine. A brief, fleeting greeting. A myriad of secrets exchanged in that moment, in that touch. And as quickly as his skin lay in contact with mine, it was gone, and he and his friends walked past me.

I didn't dare look back. No, instead, I looked up.

And realised that Jason was right in front of me, a few feet away, waiting for me by my locker.

And he'd seen the whole damn thing.

  

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I'd seen how quickly order and peace could crash and burn within a single week, how chaos could engulf us like a stampede, how hatred could make a person blur the lines between rationality and insanity. I'd seen how the social hierarchy, the popularity paradigm could be so quickly subverted, how popular kids could be crushed like ants, how the bullied could become the bully.

These were the things I thought about as I trailed after Jason that day. The look on his face when he saw my exchange with Callum was enough to tell me that something had sifted within the very depths of our friendship, and that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

The cafeteria was relatively empty in the morning, and in the seclusion and short time span of ten minutes before the first lesson that day, I learnt that friendships could disintegrate into absolute nothingness, until two people who used to know each other inside out became complete strangers.

"I'm not going to apologise," I murmured, to Jason.

We had seated at our usual table, and apart from a few other kids milling around, their conversations soft and insignificant, there wasn't anyone else to intrude or diffuse the impending storm that enclosed the both of us.

"Of course you aren't," he muttered, and he somehow sounded bitter about it. "You've always took that asshole's side anyway. Nothing he does can ever be wrong in your eyes."

No. Jason was wrong to say that. It wasn't that Callum didn't do anything wrong, I just hadn't seen him at his worst. All I saw were snippets of lovely, kind actions that warmed my heart, and made me feel safe and protected.

But how could I possibly explain all this to Jason, when he wasn't even willing to say Callum's name out loud?

"He's a good person," I said, instead, my voice soft, almost pleading. "Just like you. He's just misunderstood. We all are."

Maybe I was just being an optimistic person. But I believed that everyone was good, even the worst people, the murderers, the home-wreckers, the bullies. And I knew with my whole heart, with every fibre of my being, that Callum Wright was inherently good.

"If you'd just maybe talk it out with him or - "

"What the hell, Scout, would you just stop already?" Jason cut me off. I met his eyes, saw that they were blazing, his expression a mixture of brokenness and anger. "Stop trying to make me see from your point of view, because it's not going to work. We clearly don't get each other. To you, he's perfect. But to me, he's the reason why I hate this place, he's the reason why waking up and going to school's so damned tough every single day."

I kept silent, because he was finally talking. Finally spilling it all out and I was finally beginning to see. Maybe not all of it, but at least a little.

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is for me?" he continued, his voice low, vehement. "For guys like me? Every day, we get laughed at just because we can't catch a ball during gym period. If we volunteer to answer a question, some asshole makes a wisecrack about us being nerds and losers. I can handle all these stupid things, because they're just words, they don't hurt. But you know what hurts? Getting pushed out of the way in the lunch queue. Getting shoved around by the other guys just because I'm not big or tough like them. Getting treated like I don't fucking exist."

I swallowed, feeling tears suddenly prick at my eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise this was happening."

And I truly was. How many times had I glossed over the fact that Jason had been physically hurt by the other guys? How many times had he smiled and pretended that everything was okay when it really wasn't?

"Scout," Jason murmured, and I looked up. "That shithead you absolutely adore is the one who does these things to me. To Dave and Henry and the rest of our friends. To all of us. I need to know whose side you're on, because it honestly breaks my heart to see you treat him like a god when he's nothing close to even a decent human being."

I didn't even realise that a tear had rolled down my cheek until I felt the moist skin beneath my palm, and hastily swiped the droplet away. "Jason," I said, softly. "There needn't be an 'us' and a 'them'. You don't have to draw the line."

"You don't have to reason with me," he said, abruptly standing up. "There wasn't even a need for this talk in the first place. It's obvious where your loyalties lie."

Something in his voice was distant, cold. And that tone alone created a great divide between him and me, nothing could ever bridge the vast ocean that separated us. It frightened me, because there was a note of finality in it. It shot a shiver of panic down my spine, and instinctively, I reached out and grabbed Jason's hand just as he was about to leave.

"Jason, please," I whispered, "I need the both of you in my life."

"No, you don't," his voice was impassive. "And I knew it the day I saw you stuff that post-it note in his locker."

My mind shuttered, grip slackened as I registered what he said. He wrenched his arm out of my loose grasp, before grabbing his bag and heading out of the cafeteria. And there was only one thought running through my mind -

Jason knew. He knew from the very beginning.


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Nothing hurt more than to have Jason and all my other friends distance themselves from me. It made perfect sense to me now - what Jason had meant when he said that he got treated like he didn't exist. It hurt, because you felt like you no longer mattered, like you weren't important, like you were absolutely nothing.

And I was finally seeing it from Jason's point of view, ironically only because he and the others were treating me the way they'd been treated for so long.

During first period, Dave and I had the same Geography class, and even though he'd gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement, his eyes shining with the tell-tale sign that he knew and had kept my treacherous secret from the night before, he didn't say a word to me.

It kept up the rest of the day - during second period, Henry gave me the silent treatment as well. Clearly, Jason wasn't kidding when he drew the lines. It was now me against Jason, me against all my friends.

Honestly, though, it felt like it was just me against the world. Never before had I felt so isolated.

Then lunch period came, and I knew I had to face the harsh reality of sitting alone in the cafeteria. The table I used to sit at was filled with the usual bunch of guys. Their heads were down, deep in conversation - I presumed they were discussing their last few pranks of Hell Week.

The only difference was that this time, there wasn't a space left for me, Jason didn't smile and beckon me over, and I wasn't part of their group anymore.

A shudder wracked through my body involuntarily - whether it was from the chill or the exhaustion I felt from the day's events, I couldn't tell - and I walked past them quickly, head down, my fingers digging into my tray as I held it tightly.

There was one last empty table, just right behind their table, and I made a beeline for it, pretty much unaware of the many wary gazes that were being cast my way. Placing my tray down on the table, I was just about to sit when I large hand enclosed around my arm and yanked me upright quickly.

"Don't sit!"

"What - " the word dried off quickly when I realised it was Gregory Simons who was standing just a few feet away from me.

He dropped my arm, a frown etched between his eyebrows. "The bench's lined with glue."

I was stunned, my eyes skimming the surface of the bench. True to Greg's word, there was a faint sheen of transparent coating lined on top of it, so delicate and almost invisible.

"How did you know?"

"After one week of Hell, you learn to be alert to almost everyone and everything."

The irony of the situation was almost too good to be true. That, and the fact that Greg, one of the biggest victims of Hell Week, had just saved me. "Well, thank you."

Greg looked as though he didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused. Shaking his head, he began to walk away, but looked over his shoulder at the last moment, casting a curious glance at me. "Seriously, woman, your friends planned all these stupid traps and they happily let you fall into one? What kind of friends are they?"

His words hit me like a tow truck, the impact stinging even after he had walked away. The words slammed me right in the face, in the chest, they left me breathless. Heartbroken. Because Greg was wrong - so utterly wrong.

"They're not my friends," I murmured, to Greg's departing figure, and I knew he didn't hear me, but it didn't matter. "Not anymore."

Quickly picking up my tray, I ducked my head and walked away. Heading for the cafeteria's exit, I propped my shoulder up against the door to push it open, and went straight for the low rise wall that Callum and I had sat on just the day before.

To my surprise, the dark-haired boy was already there, and if I didn't know better, I could've sworn it seemed like he was waiting for me. His eyes lit up as he caught sight of me, his lips quirking up in a brief, almost crooked smile.

"Hey," he greeted as he stood up, his voice soft, eyes searching. Almost instantly, he knew that something had greatly upset me, just as he knew the time he stopped Alexia from insulting me in the bathroom, just as he knew the first time we met. "What's wrong?"

I would've been lying if I said Jason's words about Callum didn't affect me - because they did. A lot. I found myself repeating Jason's words in my head, the words replaying themselves in an endless loop -

He's the reason why I hate this place, he's the reason why waking up and going to school's so damned tough every single fucking day.

I could hardly look Callum in the eye if I knew he'd made Jason's high school experience such a torturous one.

Setting my tray down on the wall, I pulled myself up beside Callum, but I was careful not to brush against him, careful to leave a good few inches of distance between us. "Nothing's wrong," I lied, pulling my lips up into a weak smile.

He frowned and took a step closer, and I couldn't stop the instinctive reaction that occurred within the next second - I flinched. His eyes widened, a look of hurt flashed momentarily across his eyes, and while I felt guilty, Jason's words had built me an internal defence. The wall had come up, brick by brick, inch by inch.

"Scout," he breathed, his words careful, almost wary. "What happened?"

I kept my eyes on my blue Converses, the scuffed, worn-out tips and dirtied laces. "I, um," the words stuck in my throat, there were so many things to say, but how could I ever say them all? "Jason and I - we had a fight, uh, about Hell Week. And about you. I think he's pretty mad at me."

Callum was silent for a long moment. "He's not mad," he muttered, at last. "He's just - really hurt right now. Just give him some time. He'll come round."

My head swivelled to look up at Callum, and his expression was soft, like he'd let his guard down, just as I had done around him years ago, just as I'd done so for the past few days.

Sometimes, impulse was a funny thing. There was no way to explain what I did next, or why I allowed my heart to feel.

Slipping off the wall, I closed the gap between Callum and myself. Even though the tears pricked at my eyelids, even though my heart was sore, numbed because of what Jason had said, of the dilemmas I had to face, there was no denying the feelings I had for the boy right next to me. The top of my head brushed gently against his jaw as I pressed my cheek against his chest, wrapped my arms around his waist.

"Scout?" I felt the muscles on his back tense as I skimmed my fingers down his spine, his posture rigid, arms still remaining firmly by his sides. His voice was unsteady, like it pained him to have me this close to him. "What're you doing?"

What was I doing? I hadn't a clue. Maybe sometimes I didn't need to rationalise everything or anything.

"Just for awhile," I whispered, "Please."

Callum was silent, unmoving, but I could see it - the nervous twitching of his fingers by his sides, like he simply craved for physical contact but was far too afraid to close the gap between us.

So I did it for him. Sliding my hands down to his sides, I looped my fingers around his wrists. I felt his muscles clench beneath my touch, his breaths in light rasps against my forehead. I drew his arms around me and I realised, unconsciously, that I slotted perfectly into his embrace, his strong arms warm and comforting against the fabric of my shirt.

And I realised, then, that this was it. This was what was happening, this was what I needed to concern myself with. Not the bullying, or Hell Week, or Jason - but what was happening between Callum and me. How his touch was gentle, how his uneven breaths made the skin on my cheek tingle, how I felt completely protected and safe in his embrace.

This was the story of us, and of nothing else.

  

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