Dedicated to JasmineR_O_S_E 

"...right now, oh right now I just can't." ~Even If, MercyMe~

♡

[Friday, April 28, 2017]

I relished the sweet chaos between classes. The buzz of excited conversations, a handshake in swift greeting, and hurried footsteps beating against the checkered floor. Standing on the black and white tiles reminded me of checkers. I suppose that would make me a piece in the game of life.

I loved how easily I could become a shadow, slipping into the restless crowd. Like a tear in an ocean, I would disappear.

Not today.

Today, all eyes are on me.

Every cell in my body wants me to run, but their curious eyes anchor me to my spot. Bodies press against the grey lockers that line the perimeter of the hallway.

The silence is deafening. My echoing footsteps reverberate through the narrow hallway. I am all too conscious of my uneven breath, shaky steps, and tense shoulders. I tell myself to straighten my back, look forward, act natural. Ha. I don't know what natural is anymore.

I try to walk normally. I have to remind myself how to walk, how normal feels. There is no natural way to act. There is no normal.

Left foot, right foot. Repeat.

To think my brother walked down this same hallway. I can picture his shoes squeaking against the floor; his backpack hanging loosely over his shoulder; his infectious smile. He would, undoubtedly, be surrounded by his friends.

People flocked towards him. He was their light, and I his darkness.

They can't wait for me to leave so their treacherous lips can spread rumours and discuss conspiracies. They turn toward each other, and a murmur rises above the suffocating silence.

"Did you hear about the accident?"

"I can't believe—"

"He killed his brother." I know.

I hold my breath to stop the tears welling in my eyes. I look up to the bright, long bulbs fixed in the ceiling.

They say when you die, you see the light. When I see death, all I remember is darkness and despair. I see red stains on a white tee; his hollow gaze; the wet blood intermingling with his locks. The vision of him is enough to dry the well in my eyes.

I don't deserve to cry. My sin is too great.

"Jairus!" A voice cuts through my muddled thoughts. The familiar figure of my friend, Drew Andrews, saunters down the hallway. He is not hard to spot with his freshly-dyed light brown curly hair, warm eyes, and tan skin. The corner of his lips twists into a smile, but I see the concern brimming in his eyes.

Not one to shy away from the attention, he whisper-shouts, "Dude. Do you notice everyone staring at me?" Despite not being anywhere near.

I force a small smile.

His eyes convey more than words can.

"Thanks, man," I say.

He laughs and slings his arm around my shoulder. "What for? I didn't do anything."

I don't reply, but he has done more for me than he knows. I stare ahead, focusing on the glossy, navy doors of my next class: English.

As I walk, I still feel them studying me; their eyes linger on the swell of my back. It burns. Then, a sudden coldness creeps up my skin and bites the flesh. I have to focus to stop the shiver that trails up my spine.

♡

"...his hope for companionship is crushed when O'Brien reveals his true identity. Amidst the revelation, all hope dies," Mr Okore explains. 

Then, he glances at the white clock above his dark, textured crew cut. 

He closes the book. "Make sure you finish 1984 for Monday's class and be prepared to discuss." He jots something down on the blackboard in his fancy, cursive handwriting. The chalky white words read, Complete 1984. A few students stand and begin packing. At the sound of rustling papers, without turning around, he says, "Please sit down and wait for the bell to leave."

The class groans.

A second later, the bell rings.

Chairs scraping the vinyl floor marks the end of class. I look down at my notes or, at least, what should have been my notes. The lined paper that I usually fill with my messy handwriting and scribbles in the margins is blank.

I spent the last few weeks recovering from my heart transplant surgery. Before the accident, we were finishing up The Life of Pi, and now the class is almost through 1984. I didn't know who O'Brien or any of the other characters mentioned were.

Who cares about the world turning into an Orwellian dystopia? I had spent the entirety of grade eleven and twelve stressing over each essay and assignment. But now, paying attention in school seems like yet another burden.

I shove blank paper and capped pens into my bag, then sling it over my shoulder. Mr Okore watches me over the rim of his glasses. His beady, almost black eyes follow my movement.

This is awkward. If I ignore him, will he stop looking?

As I reach his desk, almost at the door, he calls, "Jairus. Can I have a word with you?" I want to pretend I don't hear him and jet out the door though I resist the overwhelming urge.

"Yeah. Sure."

The last few students trickle out the door, leaving Mr Okore and I alone.

For the last two years, I familiarized myself with all my teachers and other staff; it wasn't too hard with my school involvement. My mother and brother assured me that it made it easier to ask for recommendation letters, yet I never really talked to Mr Okore.

When I stand in front of his desk, I remember why. 

I run my sweaty palms down the front of my dark jeans. He rounds his mahogany desk and leans against it. Despite his position, he still looms over my six-foot frame.

He takes off his glasses and rubs the lens with his striped polo shirt. When he perches his glasses back onto his broad nose, my face transforms into one of indifference.

"I heard about the loss of your brother"—Who hasn't?—"and I wanted to express my sincerest condolences."

I hope he did not interrupt my daily routine to express his half-hearted condolences. He could save it for someone who actually cared.

I stuff my clenched fist into my pocket. I should have left when I could. I still can.

When I don't say anything, he clears his throat and continues. "I know it must be difficult to attend school. And, believe me, I hate to mention grades at a time like this. However, I know in a vulnerable time it is easy for grades to fall, and you've missed a couple weeks of school. I think you may benefit from my after-school program. It starts in a couple weeks."

He hands me a single sheet of paper.

I reluctantly accept it. "Okay."

He opens his mouth and then closes it. For someone who has a degree based on his command of the English language, Mr Okore seems to struggle with what to say.

I crumple the paper on my way out.