I ignore people when I’m focused. Especially since my mind was still running from the Snack Shack incident. In the grand scheme of things, it’s just one guy being kind of a dick. But anxiety, remember? Sometimes small stuff hits big.
“Hey, man, that was kinda messed up what you did today.”
I didn’t even look up. Didn’t even try to acknowledge him. Until he pulled my yarn out of my hands.
That’s when I lost it.
I didn’t hit him, but I did lunge forward and swipe for my yarn, which he was holding near his face, and since it probably looked like I was going to hit him, he hit me first. In the face.
In movies they make it look so easy for the hero to get beaten to a gross, bloody pulp and then instantly get back to fighting, but they underestimate pain. Or maybe it’s just that my soft, squishy body could not deal with the slow-motion bulldozing from Drake’s fist.
He is way faster and bigger and stronger. He probably didn’t know what to do when he actually knocked me down. But he did run for the nurse. And even before I hit the ground, I knew my lip would be a meaty disaster. I can only hope the blood that pooled around my body scarred him for life. But then I passed out.
Being unconscious at the time, I can’t really know for sure.
The janitor was the first person I saw when I woke up. I heard him mutter something about the mess he had to clean up.
Nice.
There were no other witnesses. It was just me and my rap sheet of other incidents that labeled me as a problem, even though all those other incidents were bad stuff happening TO me.
Guess they read that as bad stuff happening BECAUSE of me.
Because I mostly just want to be left alone, and for some reason that makes other guys with nothing better to do go, Let’s piss on his backpack and see if he notices.
The best part was when the principal called my dad in to talk. It wasn’t my first time being called in to the principal, but it was the first time in high school. And since I’m a junior now, I’m a little surprised it took this long.
Middle school was another story, though. It had been a shitstorm of counselor visits and principal interventions that never seemed to end because people (i.e., other kids) always want to get a reaction from the Quiet Kid, even when the Quiet Kid isn’t bothering anyone.
I couldn’t hear the beginning of the conversation through the door, but eventually I knew it wasn’t going well when Dad started muttering loudly.
In Greek.
Translated, this is what he said: “What he needs is to stop acting so sensitive and misunderstood. He needs to learn how to deal with people. Or at the very least, how to defend himself.”
“Why did this happen?” Dad finally said in English.
And the next part I heard clear as a bell. So did everyone else in the administration office, because the principal had been trying, without success, to speak over my dad’s muttering, and he forgot to use his inside voice.
“Leo doesn’t get along with his peers!”
The secretary behind the counter jumped a little, then looked over at me and pretended nothing had happened. I had to guess all the other things the principal was probably telling my dad that he already knew, though, because he lowered his voice again.
Things like:
Leo doesn’t play well with others.
Leo doesn’t participate in any school activities.
Leo keeps to himself.
Leo struggles with group assignments and presentations.
Leo knits a lot.
That last one is when my dad would have died of shame.
Even though Yia Yia was his mom. She taught me to knit. She basically taught me how to do anything and everything with yarn and most fibers, and he will never forgive her for it, because it’s not something men do. Well, it’s not something they’re supposed to do.
“This might help you relax, agapi mou,” Yia Yia said.
It is relaxing, but I probably shouldn’t have been doing it at school.
I shouldn’t do anything that draws attention. I shouldn’t do anything I have to explain, because then I invite people in. It’s like asking them to comment on something I enjoy.
Like a guy riding a unicycle down the street. Maybe leave him the fuck alone.
Ride your weird one-wheeled human conveyance machine, dude.
Anyway, that’s what happened.
I got into a fight with Drake, and my dad had to come get me from school. He drove me home with a tissue shoved up my nose, and neither of us spoke the entire ride, which wasn’t unusual, since we don’t speak much anyway.
But there was a moment when the principal asked me what happened and I didn’t say anything about how I’d swiped at Drake first. I didn’t say that it had been a preemptive strike.
I just said: “He hit me.”
Which, like I said, wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t really the whole truth either. And you can always feel those kinds of lies when they sneak out. Like they’re hiding under your tongue, just waiting for the opportunity to escape.
Now I have to meet with Drake in the guidance counselor’s office to work through our differences, because even though Drake punched me, the principal was clearly concerned about my knitter/loner/quiet-kid label and wanted someone to keep an eye on me.
So, yeah, Drake was a douchebag, but maybe I could have handled it differently, maybe, if I hadn’t gotten so defensive.
Maybe I wouldn’t have said that.
Maybe I could’ve been nicer.
Fuck. How did this happen?
2
Dear Journal,
Jesus, I’m writing in a journal. One step up from talking to myself. I can’t believe this is my life now. I can’t believe this is what happens after a fight.
Generally a fight will get you detention. And maybe a black eye if you’re lucky.
It doesn’t trap you in a room full of people who start every class by thanking everyone for showing up to “share our energy on this magnificent journey.”
Because now I’m here in this yoga class where I am forced to keep this journal to track my progress.
But wait. It’s not just yoga. It is HOT yoga.
Really absurdly HOT yoga that, miraculously, has not yet turned my body into beef jerky despite the fact that I am completely drained of all liquid because it has seeped out of my body.
My eyebrows are filled with sweat, and my underwear has become a bucket for the slip-and-slide that is my butt crack.