I never understood the crowd mentality. I’d seen it at school, concerts, and hell, even the grocery store on Black Friday. Everyone huddled outside waiting for the doors to open, and as soon as they did, instead of separating from the group, everyone followed the pack into the same section until it filled up. Only then did they realize they had to find their own path. What I didn’t get were the dumbass blank expressions on the followers’ faces when section A in the stadium was filled, which of course left B through Z available, but don’t tell the sheep that. They’d rather bleat and wander aimlessly, waiting for a new herd to follow.
It was social proof that at the core, people weren’t born leaders but born followers. Instead of finding their own way, tapping into their own resources, they simply fell in line with the crowd.
I’d never been a follower. I wasn’t saying I was a leader, but I did pave my own way.
So it was really fucked up when I fell in line behind the herd of students and sat beside them in the center section of the auditorium versus my normal seat away from everyone.
It pissed me off because today I had a choice. That hadn’t always been the case. From my earliest recollections, I’d always been singled out, whether it was from my dad when he got angry or my mom’s reliance upon me to be her emotional support. I’d never been just a part of anything before.
If it were still the caveman days, my exclusion from the fold would’ve meant death. And in some ways, my role in the family did just that. I was singled out for not being more of what they needed.
I’d never forget the summer before college. I worked at the golf course where my old man was head of the pro shop. I missed one day of work, and when he came home yelling, I sensed things wouldn’t go well. When he repeatedly tapped his finger into my sternum, calling me a bitch and a pussy, I did the one thing that was unforgivable: I cried.
The pressure of his finger increased until I felt my chest collapse. When it hurt to breathe and I couldn’t catch my breath, he stopped. Later that night, his girlfriend took me to urgent care. After the X-rays, they asked me how I’d fractured my sternum. For a second, I thought about telling the truth, but I knew better. My survival was dependent on maintaining the lie. Besides, telling the truth would isolate me further in the family. And especially from my father, who’d deny that he had anything to do with it anyway. In my father’s world, his reality was all that mattered.
Four years later, my dissention from my family was complete and 100 percent self-imposed. Why wait until they cut me out of their lives?
“Fuck that.”
Agreed.
I took control of my life and stopped hoping for that someday when my family would see me as something other than my siblings’ keeper.
It helped that David and I created our own pack. Of course, my twin brother didn’t know about David. I knew he’d never judge me, but like Trevor, he’d want David gone. And he’d be more than happy to tell me that David wasn’t real. He’d throw around buzzwords like “command hallucination,” “psychotic episode,” or maybe go as far as “psychotic break.” The people those terms impacted were the caregivers. When a command hallucination took charge, a caregiver’s life disappeared. I couldn’t really blame them. Who wanted to have their life upended?
But on the flipside—and let’s be honest, no one ever considered the flipside—the people in my life didn’t understand what it was like with David. If they did, they’d know that all it boiled down to was jealousy. No one liked Trevor because of the time and attention his presence took away from my greedy little family. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t like Trevor, but I was never jealous of him. David and Trevor may not have been real people, but it begged the question…
“What is real?”
Exactly.
Was it following everyone else in the guise of social harmony? I lived the first twenty years of my life keeping the peace and copying the behavior of others to fit in. It got me nowhere. I remained the outsider. There are no shortcuts to acceptance—you’re either in or out. Whether you were “in” or “out” may have been some cute little catchphrase on those reality TV shows, but when it was your own life, it wasn’t so cute to be the one on the outside always looking in.
So there I was, forced to assimilate in order to do what I had to do. Even though there was an empty seat on either side of me in the classroom, I felt boxed in. A dude with more arm hair than Sasquatch was on one side of me, and a girl who smelled as strong and fruity as one of the bath stores I hurried past in the mall so I wouldn’t suffocate from the stench was on the other side. I sat amongst the crowd in the lecture hall with students beside me, behind me, and in front of me. I practically felt their breath on my cheeks and neck.
“Fucking people.”
Agreed.
“Mr. Kovak.” The professor gave a nod toward my new placement in class.
I gave the customary nod in return. Just another sheep in the fold. Bleat, bleat, bleat.
“Would you care to share your takeaway from the chapter that was assigned?”
“Fuck that.”
I sat where I did to fit in, not stand out. “Nah, I’m good.”
The dude next to me laughed, and the girl who bathed in perfume muttered, “I don’t think it was a request,” under her breath.
I rolled my eyes and waited. If the professor wanted me to give the highlights of the chapter, then they should tell me, not ask. Ask any college senior if they wanted to share anything and the likely answer would be an emphatic no. No, I didn’t want to share my thoughts on any chapter. No, I didn’t want to be in the class. And hell no to the feigned look of concern on the professor’s face.
“No. No. No.”
Exactly my thought.
My ass was in the room. That was enough.
“Would anyone like to share the highlights of the chapter before we begin today’s TED Talk?”
Thankfully no one, not even the do-gooders in the very front row, volunteered to bore us with a recap.
“Perhaps you’ll have comments after the TED talk.” The professor moved toward the computer and began pressing buttons. Two screens slowly descended from the ceiling.
I reached into my backpack, which was tucked beside the empty seat next to the stinky girl, and held the tip of the dart gun. While it remained hidden from sight, I kept waiting for an adrenaline spike or shaky hands, but neither happened. Instead, I felt nothing.
David was right. The professor deserved this. I was simply carrying out what they deserved. I rapped my foot on the concrete floor, waiting for the lights to darken.
The dual screens went from white to color within a matter of seconds. The red “TED” logo flashed in the top left corner of each screen. The introductory music was next, which was my cue.
The lights in the lecture hall went from bright to dark so quickly that it allowed me to slide the dart gun from my bag to my mouth without anyone seeing me. Everyone was too busy adjusting their focus to the screens that flashed “TED” in red. Everyone fell in line the way I knew they would.
A nail dart was already lodged in the gun. I couldn’t use the laser because the red beam would draw attention to me, so instead I just aimed toward the podium where the professor stood beside the computer, drew in a deep, strong breath, and blew—hard. The coned dart sailed through the front two rows and struck the professor perfectly in their backside.
A small yelp followed, and the professor quickly turned around.
I casually leaned forward like I was tying my shoe and tipped my backpack so it fell to the floor. I slid the dart gun back inside the bag just as the lights flashed on. My eyes were already adjusted, but I rubbed them anyway like I was trying to erase sleep from them. Really, I had to do something to prevent myself from laughing or staring or both.
David’s plan worked.
The professor held up the nail dart.
“Would anyone like to claim this?”
“What is it?” someone in the front row asked.
“It appears to be a nail with paper wrapped around it,” the professor said.
“Is there a note?” I asked, which prompted the professor to uncurl the paper and look for the nonexistent letter. I should’ve ended it there, but it was too perfect. “Maybe something you want to share with us?”
I’d heard the expression that someone’s face drained of color, but I never knew if that was an actual thing or not. The professor’s face lost all color, which wasn’t a good look.
“Mr. Kovak.” The professor’s voice quaked.
“Yes?” Mine didn’t.
“Would you care to explain this?” The professor held the nail dart higher.
I shrugged. “You said it was a nail with a paper wrapped around it.” I squinted toward the podium. “I dunno. I thought maybe there was a note. Like someone was sending you a message.”
“Dick move.”
Was it?
Color slowly returned, but the professor’s composure was off, like they were rattled or had PTSD. But instead of anger, the pained expression on the professor’s face revealed one emotion—betrayal. I knew it well. It happened when I’d cried as my dad raged and stabbed me in the chest with his finger. I couldn’t believe he’d unleash on me—only he had. And in doing so, he broke my trust.
“See. I knew you weren’t ready for their reaction.”
Whatever. I’m fine.
“Then why are you reliving what happened with your dad?”
Because he broke my trust. I trusted that my dad wouldn’t hit me. Maybe when I was a defenseless kid, but not when I was a young adult about to go to college. My fractured sternum was nothing compared to how shattered my belief was that I mattered. I didn’t matter—not to my dad or even in my family.
“You matter to me.”
Thanks.
Still, betrayal was the one emotion that, by its very nature, blindsided even the most hardened hearts.
The professor’s bowed head was something I also recognized. Most people would think the body language screamed of shame, but shame was accepting blame for someone else’s actions—something I’d learned when I was little and my mom moved us into a shelter for battered women. We had to attend all these family counseling sessions.
“A lot of good that did.”
Agreed.
No, the professor’s lowered head was from defeat. Not in the same sense as being defeated in a video game—this was real defeat which equated to real loss. It was what happened when trust was broken. The loss was great. Nothing was more devastating or lonelier than broken trust.
The professor directed their next comments toward the ground.
“We’re ending early today.” Nothing more was said. The professor turned and walked toward the emergency exit.
I waited for a triumphant surge to course through me to invigorate my senses, but it never came. As everyone filed behind each other to exit the class, I fell in line and felt nothing.