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I’ve always seen the hallways as a warzone.
Essentially, a war zone consisting of manicured teens all decked out in vests, blazers and a kilt or pants.
My primary objective is getting through the hallway alive.
The statement might be a slight exaggeration, but in all honesty, there are a multitude of peers willing to trample me if I give them the opportunity to.
So, I spend all my time dodging past anyone and everyone who comes my way. I clutch my books to my chest, speed walking through the hallway, but making sure to weave past everyone like I usually do.
I mean, it’s better than being shoved to the ground, so there’s that.
Here’s the deal with Elkwood Preparatory Academy; if I’m walking through the hallway and I’m walking directly opposite of someone, there’s a 99% chance they’re going to shove past me, or wait expectantly for me to get out of their way.
And yes, the whole shoving thing gets old really quickly. Especially because after they run into me, they push past me, sending me a glare, as if I was the one who wasn’t looking where I was going before we crashed into each other.
Elkwood teens just have that attitude, you know? Some of them just scrunch up their noses like I’m the most insignificant thing in the world, others just blatantly ignore me, shoving me to the side and not looking back for a second.
What can I say? The handbook guidelines of respect for each and every student have been practiced and executed extremely well.
A sardonic smile slips onto my lips as I dodge one of the girls hurtling down the hallway with her best friends, chatting loudly about what went down last weekend.
I have to shove everything into my locker before heading towards the next warzone: the cafeteria.
I make my way to my locker in one piece, and start to unlatch the lock.
The cafeteria is a warzone that puts everything else to shame. Now, I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s as life-threatening as the hallways, because those are a whole other type of chaotic.
My locker unlocks, and I shove my backpack and supplies inside, grabbing my card and locking it up again.
However, I would say that the cafeteria is a different type of life-threatening. It’s the type of life-threatening that messes around with your mind, more so than your physical safety.
I head down the hallways that are almost cleared out by now, swinging the lunch card in my hands. I inhale deeply once I get to the entrance of the cafeteria before letting out a breath and making my way into the chaotic space.
The noise is out of control, but the most disturbing aspect of the entire situation are the eyes that follow your every step.
If it wasn’t clear before, I’m not exactly the most popular being at the school. Elkwood sees me as an outsider, so I easily slide into the role of an outcast. The role consists of going to the furthest table in the cafeteria, and sitting alone at said table after grabbing my cafeteria lunch, avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. Safest route to go.
More often than not, it seems like the school has an anti-Amina policy that’s something privy to only the students (and some faculty, but I digress). I’m almost one hundred percent sure that the staff isn’t as oblivious to the whole issue as they like to appear.
I make my way into the lunch line, hands clasped, feet tapping on the tiled floor beneath me. I think the lunch line is problematic for various reasons.
Let’s start with number 1. The White Bros™ are people you’ve probably interacted with once in your life. They’re essentially the guys that are decent in relation to sports, but not the greatest when it comes to grades. They’re future frat boys, and you can tell by the fact that they don’t have any self control whatsoever.
Exhibit A: Tyler Thompson. He’s ridiculously tall, standing at a solid 5’ 11’’ despite the fact that we’re just getting into sophomore year. Right now, he’s kicking the shins of his friends who are all loitering nearby, harassing each other and being their usual rowdy selves.
The White Bros™ are also the same guys who let each other cut the line, despite the fact that there are people behind them that want to get lunch just as quickly as they do. In a final word, they’re future frat boys, “all american boys”, and every interaction they have with me tends to drip in condescension and the attitude that no matter what they say, they’re inherently right.
Number 2. Card Guy; the guy who swipes our lunch cards. Not going to lie, he strongly resembles a stoner, what with his black beanie, pale skin, shoulder length red hair, and the abundance of piercings and tattoos covering his lanky, hunched-over body.
In all honesty, Card Guy is fairly creepy and the rumours circling him reflect that notion. His eyes are also always puffed up and slightly bloodshot, and I’ve never actually seen his eyes without that sinister look to them.
In simple terms, he’s somewhat sketchy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been arrested before. But only long enough for him to be bailed out and rehired as cashier, staring down students with that not-fully-here expression.
Finally, number 3. The girls are visually appealing. Every billboard I pass by seems to support that notion. They’re also all similar-looking with slender bodies, tall stances, and heart shaped faces. So, they’re imposing in a way, and they use that to their advantage.
While ordering lunch, the Cassandras, Lindseys and Allisons are more than slightly irritating whenever they interact with the lunch ladies.
They’re somewhat condescending, from the way that they barely utter a word to them unless they’re saying “more” or “less” to the patronizing smiles they dish out on a daily basis. Now, it’s not all of the girls, but it’s a good amount of them. It’s also extremely uncomfortable for me whenever they grab their trays and walk away without the simple courtesy of a “thank you.”
The rest of the girls essentially chat the lunch ladies up, but really, it could also be seen as grilling.
“How’s your baby?”
That’s sure to go on for a long time, given that they don’t mix up who’s having a baby, and who isn’t.
“I went to Mexico last summer.”
Probably one of the most amusing but also awkward conversations. My best guess is that they’re trying to forge connections in the way they know how. They chat about their trips for what feels like forever, and most of the conversation consists of the bracelets they got, or complaints about some of the hotel staff in whatever resort they stayed at.
Plus, the conversations tend to take a couple of minutes, and the girls genuinely act like there’s no one waiting in line behind them.
I give a smile to one of the lunch ladies as she plops the pizza in my plate, along with a brownie, sending a thank you her way. Making my way down the line, I grab my apple juice and whatever else I need before I make it to the end of the line where Card Guy is seated, leaning back in his chair and giving me his usual unamused look.
I give him a tight lipped smile and Card Guy lazily holds out his hand. I pass him my card, and he takes it, swiping it before pressing some keys on his computer.
“Good to go,” He drawls, handing my card back to me. His red hair is in dreadlocks today. A recent headline flashes to my mind, one involving a black kid in the neighboring town being suspended for wearing dreadlocks to school. I purse my lips in thought.
Card Guy might be “trash” according to the student body, but he’s definitely not going to be getting kicked out of school for wearing dreadlocks anytime soon. My polite smile falters slightly, and I utter a quick thank you before making my way to a table towards the back.
I slide into my usual seat, positioned far away from everyone else. I grab a slice of pizza from my plate, holding it up as my eyes scan over the cafeteria.
Elkwood has a distinct cafeteria set up. Is it like every other stereotypical high school you’ll see? Not exactly. It varies. For example, towards the center of the cafeteria are the kids who dominate the school, smug and arrogant from their upward-tilted chins to their rolled back shoulders.
Some of them are athletes, some of them are smart kids, or kids who think of themselves as smart. Others are spoilt rich. The requirements? They all have to be at least a solid eight on the attractiveness scale, and they also have to command all attention as soon as they step into a room.
If you haven’t guessed, Brett McSomething is a regular at the table.
I, on the other hand, stay as far away from the table as I can. I’m safer that way. My interactions with those kids are virtually non-existent, but the rare times we do interact, it’s painfully awkward, and dripping with passive aggression. So, there’s that.
Down towards the back left of the cafeteria are the theatre geeks. In another dimension, they might be my crowd. Piercings here and there, blue and purple hair dyes, cackles and faces decorated with vibrant and cool coloured makeup that is definitely against the dress code.
In the table across from them sit the Asian students and the Gamers (miscellaneous). So, disclaimer: there are about six or so Asians in the entire school. South Asian, East Asian, Central Asian. The Asian table has some other people thrown in, like this disabled girl, Mia, along with an Arab girl, Yasmine, (still qualifying as Asian) and some of the video game geeks. We don’t really talk. If we do have interactions, they’re somewhat forced and slightly awkward.
Two tables away, we have the Ambiguous Whites. They’re essentially the people with olive skin and dark hair. Some might be part Greek or Italian, others have some other mixed blood down the line. Some claim that they’re part Native or ‘Indian’ like a good amount of people still say in this town. I honestly can’t tell, but they pass as white(ish), so I’ve always just labelled them as the Ambiguous Whites.
In a few words, they’re not the nicest. At least not when they interact with me. Fortunately, most of Elkwood doesn’t have the greatest interactions with me, so I can easily smile it off now.
Although, years ago, I let tears stream down my cheeks as my parents murmured condolences and apologies. Time made it easier for me to let everything slide.
Of course, there’s the one exception at the dominant table, because a few seats from the center sits the only other black kid in the school.
Emory Richards.
Medium brown skin, dark almond eyes, all topped with a shiny white grin.
Emory, Emory, Emory.
In a way, people like him, but they don’t care about him. The girls’ hands always find their way to his hair, the guys always let out a few drug related jokes whenever they feel up to it, despite the fact that most of the guys are the ones getting their hands on vapes and other damaging substances. Emory on the other hand? Completely clean. Not like that stops them, though.
I hate seeing it.
I doubt Emory’s a big fan of the comments or the unwanted touching either, but he lets it pass. Sometimes I wonder if he’s playing the role of a lapdog, if he genuinely believes that it’s okay for him to be treated like this, if he genuinely believes that they like him. However, the scene shifts when I see the occasional winces, when I see Emory’s pretty smile falter, and then I realize that maybe Emory Richards isn’t as lighthearted as he likes to portray himself.
Maybe Emory is just playing his cards right.
And it makes me wonder, is it worth it to let that all slide? Why does Emory need to play his cards right? Why does Emory need to be the human embodiment of diplomacy?
I push my plate away, slightly, my hands carefully gripping my kilt, my table empty as ever. Emory’s gaze meets mine for a tenth of a second from across the cafeteria, and then it hits me:
Emory is trying to avoid being me.
He’s trying to avoid being the outcast that he could become in mere moments.
And all of a sudden, my appetite dissipates in a second.
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