School Reunion

Nobody is forcing me to do this.

I do not have anyone around telling me that my presence at this school reunion is crucial. Yet, I feel as though I have something to prove. Something to show every person who ground me down.

My peers.

Verbally torturing me at every opportunity that was presented to them. If there were not any, they would make one out of nothing.

The girls were cruel, though the boys were no less. Gender did not appear to be a thing at school. The girls were stereotypical.

Gossiping. Judging. Laughing.

Cliche merged with evil.

The males were meant to be different. They were supposed to say things such as, "You're not my type.” And, "I prefer skinny girls.”

However, they were as stereotypically female as the rest.

Bitches.

Though, not all of them.

One boy was built with different morals and did not bow to peer pressure. He was popular, but kind. A combination that seems rather implausible. With a smile that was bright enough to light the darkest of rooms and a laugh that would melt the coldest of hearts.

Soria.

The only boy who was kind to me. Who treated me like a human.

I would be lying if I said he was not a catalyst for my decision to attend the party tonight.

Generously spraying a perfume that costs triple digits, I begin to reminisce when I wore mango body spray that cost less than a fiver. Walking to the bronze-framed mirror in the corridor, I apply a mauve lipstick to my lips. As I carefully place the cap on the gold tube, my vision focuses on my reflection.

And what I can see.

If you asked any of my peers, or any of my teachers, (who were no better than the students) what my life would look like now, I can assure you that not one person would answer accurately.

Firstly, I am attractive.

Something I was told for the entire duration of my teenage years that I was far from.

My black hair runs like silk, concluding at my waist. Without a crease in sight. Lean and slender, though, my hips remain wide and prominent. A feature I developed at the start of my adolescence.

Despite everything else in life, the eyes do not change. Only now, the pool of melted chocolate that lives within is not sweet.

Rather, bitter.

I am successful.

Not many freelance journalists can say that with certainty. But I am, for sure, at the top of the league.

The majority of guests whom I will shortly see have read my stories. If the piece has not been signed by me, the journalist, then it has been signed by me, the author. Debuting a romantic novel, over one million copies of my words have been sold.

I should be happy.

Despite my riches and accomplishments and pride, I find myself accompanied by only my solitude.

My house is everything I envisaged it to be and more. Though, everything it holds is material.

Lives are sparse.

At the age of thirty-one, I imagined everything I have now.

But more.

Three, maybe four, more people.

A warmer bed and noisier air. Bigger portions for dinner and compromises made for evening television.

Powdering my face once more, I attempt to enhance its colour. Disguise its melancholy.

The grandfather clock by the door confirms that I am over an hour late. Placing my lipstick inside, I grasp my gold clutch to accompany my bandaged purple dress. Suited to hold my curves and complement my contours.

Fastening my gold, heeled sandals, I leave the house without looking into the mirror once more.

There are moments in life that seem plausibly fabricated.

Arriving at a country club filled with people who I once believed would murder me to a round of applause is, indeed, one of these moments.

The confusion on my face is visible, but ignored. Perhaps, not even acknowledged.

A group of girls whom I have tried to forget, but, of course, can remember each name of, briskly march towards me. Suddenly engulfed in an unreciprocated hug from somebody who wrote cruel insults about me on cubicle walls for everyone to see.

My mind is distanced from my body during this interaction.

Amongst a thick and heavy fog, I hear "favourite book" and "literally stunning". A constructed smile smears across my face as I walk away. Although, I cannot be so sure.

Travelling through the mist, I feel as though I am walking in slow motion. Trudging my heels upwards to get somewhere I can understand. Somewhere familiar. Constant.

‘I knew you would do great things.’ Performs my English teacher.

The same one who repeatedly mocked me in front of the complete class. Teachers get peer pressured, too.

And, bullying is contagious.

Two separate boys ask for my number and I decline their offers.

Amongst the haze, I envision a flashback of my time at prom. Where I asked the same two boys to dance with me. As well as multiple others. Each one of them rejected me. And, not gently.

One.

Only one boy offered me their hand. He must have sensed my fragility. But, he danced with me like I was an oak tree. Layered and full. Aged too soon. Though, wiser than most. The core of life.

He made me feel beautiful, too.

Once the smog settles, I take a seat.

The table is large and isolated. For the first time tonight, I feel comfortable. At home.

My eyes fall closed from the weight of the night.

Why am I here? If it was to prove my success to my peers, I certainly accomplished that. Though, if proving this was intended for me to feel good about myself. I am afraid I have failed.

As a deep sigh passes my lips, I feel the presence of a body close to me. Opening my cemented eyes, there he is.

‘Soria.’

Part of me feared this moment. During my youth, I met a boy as sweet as rain. Looking at him, only, made me feel sheltered.

Safe.

Now that we have aged, trepidation fills my heart, causing it to sink.

Has he become a man of thunder? Sharp and loud. Powerful enough to alter the past and the only thing that keeps me standing.My last piece of hope.

I have never seen eyes like Soria’s. Acutely crystal, yet as blunt as butter. Freckles sporadic, though on purpose. Each one, a star in a constellation. And, his smile.

His smile has not lost its warmth. No, it has grown in beauty and he has grown in magnificence.

Placing his hand before my view, ‘May I dance with you?’

Blissful deja vu engulfs my mind.

That prom night, I sat at a table as large as this.

As alone as this. Lonely.

While the music decreased in tempo, the feet of my peers moved slower across the wooden dance floor. Through blurry eyes, I watched the boys I asked to accompany me dance with a girl seemingly better than me in every way.

My sobs fell like feathers to the table. When I decided that I could not endure any more humiliation, I wiped my damp eyes with the back of my hand and pushed my chair back. Before I rose to my feet, a boy stood before me. A boy who made me believe that not everybody is evil. Holding out his palm, he said, ‘May I dance with you?’

As I reach for Soria's hand, the first authentic smile of the night graces my face. Eyes burn holes in my head from all corners of the room. But, I do not feel a thing. Soria's gentle grasp allows me to believe we are the only two people in the room.

Perhaps, the world.

Placing his hands around my waist while my arms reach behind his neck, we sway sweetly.

‘What's wrong?’ He asks, genuine.

‘Nothing now.’

He smiles and I feel so lucky to witness it.

‘Thank you, Soria.’ I say ‘For everything. Thank you.’

Oblivious to the purity of his soul, ‘What do you mean?’

A tired sigh leaves my breath.

‘School was difficult for me. I struggled. A lot.’

A flicker of empathy cascades across his face. Of recollection.

I had never felt so alone. So isolated. But, you,’ Fingers smoothly stroking the back of his neck and my eyes meet his. ‘you gave my days of darkness a glimpse of light. A glimpse of hope that I would be okay.’

‘And, are you okay?’

Dropping my eyes to our feet as the truth is too heavy to hold.

‘I'm getting there.’

Attempting to restore my smile, ‘It's funny,’ he says. ‘each conversation I have entered tonight seems to be about you. About your book. Your dress. Apparently, you met Rihanna?’

I manage a chuckle, ‘I interviewed her, yes.’

This time he laughs.

‘Even with all of the shit you went through at school, you made something of yourself.’

Regaining my subtle smile, my eyes once again meet his.

‘All of the abuse. Do you think it made you who you are today?’

Heavily exhaling, as his question sinks into my skin.

Still swaying. Still sweet.

‘I think it took too much of who I was.’

Resting my leaden head on his chest, we continue to dance in silence.

~

Leaving far sooner than the others, I have returned to my habitat.

My solitude.

Soria and I exchanged numbers. Though, I am not sure what repercussions I predict to occur.

Pouring myself a large glass of red wine, I sit on the small round table in my kitchen. Sipping and sipping, Soria's words swirl my thoughts.

“You made something of yourself.”

Turning to face the record player in the rustic kitchen, I sip. Grazing my fingertips over the ivory crochet tablecloth, I smile.

I am living the life I imagined.

I am alive to live it because they did not kill me.

They did not kill me because I did not let them.

People read what I write. Renowned artists asked to be interviewed by me. They ask for me because I am good at what I do.

Soria is right. I did make something of myself.

And, I should be proud of that.

I am. I am proud.

Although, I do not feel whole. Fulfilled, I am not. Unhappy.

It burdens me.

There is a piece missing and I am not sure what it is.

Gulping my wine once, I feel my phone vibrate on the kitchen counter.

Leaving my glass, I check to see who it is. The dense weight in my chest evaporates as I read the screen.

Soria.

I just wanted you to know how special you were.

Another message alights. How special you are.

Full pumps emerge from my heart as I pick up the phone with both hands. Typing, You are special to me, Soria.

Sent.

Three ellipses appear and I anticipate his response. When they disappear, the darkness creeps in once more.

Placing the phone flat on the countertop, I turn to the kitchen table for my wine. Sipping and sipping, suddenly a vibration sounds behind me. Gingerly approaching the phone, drink in hand.

Can I come over?

When Soria arrives at my house, I pour him a glass of wine and refill my own. Sitting at the kitchen table, we talk through the entire bottle and the rising hours of the morning.

We talk about everything. And nothing.

The abuse. The tears and anger. The time I spent questioning myself. Proving myself.

Finally, it all makes sense. If it lead to this moment.