A slow burn begins to churn in my stomach, and my entire body thrums with a sudden influx of energy. That’s when it happens.
I clench my teeth, overcome by an emotional surge I haven’t felt in years.
Anger.
My head shakes back and forth in silent rejection.
I am not a filler piece. I do not accept that.
Right on cue, I hear Lukas in my mind.
“Because in the end, it’s not about what others see, but how you see yourself.”
As I take root in those words, my soul is stirred, unfurling as though waking from a long sleep. It stretches languidly, and as it does, I revel in the unfamiliar warmth seeping through my body, energizing my heart and soul. I know this now, without a shadow of a doubt: I’ve been existing, not living.
Only I possess the power to free my soul.
The laughter and joy I’ve experienced within the last year has been necessary and sustaining, but when it comes to actually living, well…that decision couldn’t and can’t be made for me. For years, I’ve allowed others to dictate how I see myself. I’ve accepted their opinions. I’ve been suffocating my soul.
But I’m tenacious.
And today I take my stand.
I will live.
“Because in the end, it’s not about what others see, but how you see yourself.”
My eyes flit to my torn leggings and pleated skirt, and I lift my foot, examining my Docs.
Who am I?
Well, while I do know I shouldn’t be defined by what I wear, I have to admit, I feel a little…badass right now.
Am I a badass?
I lift my head, finding enough courage to glance at the kids around me. No one is paying attention to me during my epic realization, so I take time to really look at them.
Eric Warner is staring at Leah, who is next to him. He clearly likes her, and he’s hoping she notices him.
I frown. I may have a bit of badassness in me, but I’ve done enough vying for others’ attention to sympathize. Even if he is an asshole.
So, I’m part badass, part caring. Good combination.
I openly assess everyone in class. There are kids studiously taking notes, others laughing with friends while passing notes, and some who give me curious looks when I happen to meet their eyes.
And with each stolen glance, I smile as I peek a little into their souls.
They’re all just kids. People.
They’re not all-powerful beings.
They’re like me.
No, they are me.
Every person in this room hides their own insecurities, their need to overcompensate for the secrets they hide from everyone else, and I think they do it by creating façades so others can’t see their weaknesses.
But I can, and I beam with the realization.
It seems I do, in fact, possess my own superhuman ability.
Because every single part I’ve played in my life resides in this room, and I can read them all.
Is this my edge?
Empathy?
It seems so much less significant than actual super-powers like invisibility or teleportation. But it also seems like it could make a real difference in the world around me instead of just making it infinitely easier for me to run away.
The bell rings, drawing my attention to the front of the classroom. I watch the door as it swings open. Students file slowly toward the hallway, and I stand along with them, shouldering my backpack. As we shuffle out of class, I feel strengthened by my newfound ability, no longer looking at the floor, but at the faces surrounding me. To those that meet my eyes, I give a small smile, and I’m shocked when they actually (usually) smile back.
My gaze remains level as I trek through the hallway to my locker, and even when I’m outside.
The sun is bright and the fresh fragrance of spring fills my nostrils. Inhaling sweet scents of floral blossoms and cut grass, I smile to myself, excitement growing within me.
I meet the eyes of everyone willing to look at me, and grin even wider as they assess my appearance. There’s a surprising mix of shock, approval, and indifference in their returned glances.
But even more astonishing is the awareness that I feel absolutely nothing about others’ reactions to my clothing or to me. I keep my head held high and walk with pride, my contented smile possibly looking borderline drug-induced to those who don’t know me.
Speaking of which…
I eagerly glance around the parking lot, trying to find the other Wildflowers while approaching the bus, but it seems like they aren’t here just yet.
My eyes drift over several groups of people, until they finally lock on Leah Allen making her way to a brand new white BMW. I track her through the crowd, astonished when I see her head tipping in a familiar, submissive angle…down, toward her feet. The brand new purse she’s proudly displayed for the last couple of days, the same one that soaked up some of my hamburger at lunch, dangles from her wrist.
An older man opens the driver’s side door and steps out onto the pavement. Her father, no doubt. He’s impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit that’s most likely tailored, but it’s not his clothing that captures my attention.
It’s his harsh, exasperated expression. Anger so eerily familiar, so close to my heart, I can’t look away. He stalks to the passenger side of the car like a predator eyeing its prey. As though sensing blood in the water, he homes in on the purse, yanking it from her arm and waving it in front of her face. Leah offers no explanation when he begins to shout. She simply folds into herself while maintaining her lowered stare, flinching every now and then as he wildly gestures.
Oh my God.
When he finally stops yelling, his entire face is crimson, and the veins lining his throat bulge as if they’ll pop. He forces the purse back into her chest, then grips her upper arm with one of his hands while using the other to fling the car door open. He shoves her into the seat, and when she’s settled he leans down to whisper something in her ear. Although she manages to keep her head upright, her normally stoic expression crumbles.
Fear and foreboding seal my throat shut, making it almost impossible to breathe. Right now, our dreadful history is irrelevant. Without thinking, I take a step toward the car, driven by an overwhelming need to protect her from whatever he will do next.
As if she knows, her head swings in my direction. We lock eyes and just as I take another step, she offers me a stern shake of her head. I stop, but as though connected by some thread of understanding, we don’t look away. And in this brief instance of kinship, Leah drops her mask, allowing me to see the pain she’s so expertly hidden beneath the guise of “bitch.” Pain I recognize as no different than my own.
“You have no idea what you’ve done. What this will cost me.”
My brows draw together as I recall her words, and she offers me a sad, defeated smile in acknowledgment. My initial perception of her begins to change, splintering my heart from the inside as unexpected solidarity takes hold between the two of us.
Betrayed by those who are supposed to love us, to protect us from the very hurt they inflict, we find some commonality. Connection, no matter how fleeting.
Just as quickly as her mask was lowered, it slides right back into place. Leah’s expression steels, all signs of vulnerability gone, and she looks forward, away from me, once again.
I would like to believe for that millisecond, Leah gave me a tiny glimpse of her weakness. Her secret. I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure.