Glint

Denied, hated, teased: The thoughts tiptoed through her mind, whispering dark words in her ear. Suddenly there was a ‘creeeeeeak’ and a yellow beam of light illuminated the dark wall in front of her. Emma, a nervous girl, jumped and spun around from her seat in the corner. She had been sitting alone, staring at the cracks in the wall of the empty classroom and brooding glumly. It wasn’t her fault that she was a foster child, brought to this land of opportunity and riches – that had been her vision of America, before she actually came there – but did anyone seem to notice that? No. So now she was classified as the official bully-ee of the year... Great. Just great. Of course many people would say it was lucky for a girl like herself to be taken in by a relatively wealthy and cheerful American couple, but that also caused her to be the only person who was darker-skinned and dark-haired in the whole entire seventh grade. She had come to the deserted social studies room now, after school, to avoid going home. To hide from her troubles for a while. And now someone was opening the door...

Emma brought herself back to the present, brown eyes wary, expression nervous. There was a person standing in the entrance of the dark room, but she couldn’t tell who it was. Probably someone sent here to make my misery even worse, Emma grumbled inwardly, yet kept silent and narrowed her eyes against the glare of the hall lights, trying to make out who it was.

“Hello. It’s Emma, isn’t it?” the silhouette greeted her. Emma stared. Nobody had ever said hello to her – definitely not in that friendly tone of voice – all the time she had been in Wisconsin. She brushed her curly black bangs out of the way to better her vision, wondering who on earth it could be. Realizing the person was waiting for a reply, she quickly stammered out a returning ‘hi, and yes that’s me’. She could feel embarrassment blooming on her cheeks.

The person shifted their stance. “May I come in?”

Emma nodded, dumbstruck. Why would anyone talk to her? It was nearly unthinkable. The door creaked as it opened, and Emma blinked in the sudden brightness. Now the person was advancing towards her. Emma was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and the other was lowering herself to the ground next to her. But, Emma reflected, it’s probably someone trying to take advantage of me. No need to take any notice. She knew that was cynical, but she didn’t care one bit. Life had made her into this person and, she supposed, she would stay that way.

She could barely make out the facial features of the person next to her, but she could see it wasn’t a kid she knew well. While Emma squinted at her, the girl was doing the same back again. Taking in Emma’s messy hair, dark skin, patched pants, and tear tracks, same as Emma was noticing the other girl’s neat blouse, immaculate jeans, round glasses, and perfectly groomed ponytail. She had come here to get away from other people, bother them all! Now this girl was judging her in her moment of weakness. Who was it? She couldn’t tell. Emma wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, then pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them protectively with her arms.

“So what d’you want?”

It came out aggressive, and Emma could see the other girl flinch. She half-regretted being so bad-tempered, but shook it off impatiently. She had no time for talking to this person who probably just wanted to tease her. Who cares if I’m not like you? Who cares if I don’t know my real parents? Emma wanted to scream at anyone who would listen. But she didn’t. She simply withered under her resentment and stared at the other girl as she waited for a reply.

The girl, who seemed to grow more hesitant by the moment, faltered as she stated that she’d seen Emma sitting alone, in the dark, and had “thought she might, well, might be able to, like, do something to help...” Her voice trailed off as Emma stared at her. This girl was offering her, a foster child, friendship? Fat chance! It had to be some sort of a set-up. Or just a stupid person. But that was unlikely - in fact, she ruled that out. Not even an idiot would approach the biggest outcast of the year, and offer friendship. Emma sharpened her gaze until it could be called nothing but a glare. Nobody was going to fool her into trusting someone! The girl was shrinking back, probably wishing she had never entered the room. When Emma showed no sign of replying, she spoke again, but her voice wavered.

“I, I mean I just saw you and I thought maybe you needed help with something, anything, but...” she was slowly getting to her feet. Emma looked away and shook her head wordlessly. The girl was standing now, shifting from foot to foot tentatively. Did she get the hint yet? Emma wondered. Yes, she had. She was finally going away. The girl’s footsteps could be heard tapping all the way to the door. The beam of light grew wider, and then there was a pause. The voice that ventured to speak to Emma was slightly more steady than before. “Well, my point is, if you need anything, you can ask me.” A creak, and the girl was gone. Emma turned her head slightly just to see if, in the brighter light, she could tell who the girl was. Yes - it was one of those girls from her science class - what was her name again? Matilda? Emma buried her face in her hands and stayed there for a while, thinking about what had just happened.

Matilda was one of those people who always seemed invisible to everyone - studious, quiet, and shy. She wore glasses that made her eyes - chocolate colored - look wide and sincere, shoulder-length blonde hair, and a thin frame. And wasn’t she the chess champion of the year? Yeah, something like that. But other than academics, she had never seemed to be good at anything much. All this Emma knew from glances around the room when she was bored, plus a few overheard whispers and of course the big announcement of chess club champions; she had never actually taken any notice in the girl. But then, why would Matilda be any different from anyone else? Emma gave a twitch that might have been intended to be a shrug and uncurled, lowering her arms to her side and bracing herself on the floor as she slowly got to her feet. Nobody had ever really been nice to her at school - why should Matilda be? Picking up her heavy schoolbag and easing it onto her back, Emma headed out the door. She closed it behind her, then slowly walked out towards the back exit of the school.

She would walk home. It wasn’t too far, and she wouldn’t have to undergo the tortures of the late bus. Emma steadied herself and pushed the door open, stepping out.

Anger laced the air at the dinner table that night, its dark hands squeezing everyone around the heart. Anger and silence and sorrow.

“Honey–” her adopted mother began, a hint of helplessness in her tone.

“No!” yelled Emma, jumping to her feet. The wooden chair that she had been sitting on gave a loud clatter as it fell to the floor. Emma’s eyes were full of wetness and her throat ached from shouting. “You’re always trying to tell me what to do! I’m so sick and tired of it! And you’re not even my real parents - so who made you my guardians anyway?” She turned her back and ran out the room, toward the stairway, ignoring the calling of her name from behind. Her mother – no, her foster mother, she corrected herself; foster because her real parents were dead and buried. What right had they to die and leave her? They should have taken her with them. But no! She was the “lucky” one. Big “luck” it was for her to be destined to be pushed forever from home to home. Stupid luck, stupid foster parents, stupid school, stupid people!

One of the things that annoyed her most was that her foster mother was always so darn cheerful and helpful and happy-go-lucky. Her ‘mother’ didn’t know what Emma was trying to live with, she hadn’t been adopted and she was never bullied as much, ever. Who was she to give her advice?

Emma, in her hurry, nearly tripped on the top step of the stairs. She kicked the stupid step so hard her toes throbbed with the pain, then walked straight to her bedroom and went in through the open door. She slammed it as hard as she could, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness that ensued. Her shutters were always closed, her curtains pulled shut, her door locked.

Stupid life.

Her foster mother had approached her as she came home from school, cheerful as usual. It ruffled Emma’s feathers so badly when she acted like that, like nothing was wrong! She had asked the usual questions - “How was your day? Did you learn anything interesting? Did you get your math test’s results?” - and Emma had replied with a few noncommittal mumbles, then excused herself to go watch TV until dinner. The meal had passed in silence. After dinner, Emma had been asked if she wanted- well, really told her that she was going to do some activity with the family over the weekend.

Emma had lost her temper, shouting that she didn’t have to and didn’t want to and that anyway (she had added this to make them feel bad; maybe then they’d relent?) it was none of her foster parent’s business what she did or didn’t do. She had seen the two adults exchange one of their ‘here she goes again’ glances, but that only enraged her further. Oh, they tried to reason with her, they said, but all they did was tell her lies, dirty rotten lies about how they cared for her and that they had to protect her and that her real parents couldn’t have done any better...

Emma threw herself face-first onto the cool bed and took a shuddering breath, her anger seeping away and being replaced by misery once more. It took all she had to keep from bursting into tears. Why was she given this life? It stunk. It really did. She hated it with every vein and sinew in her. And she hurt from it, all over. Her heart was probably shriveled with the lack of love and the abundance of hate that was given to it. Maybe there were foster children who were happy, somewhere in the world. But that wasn’t Emma - she hadn’t been lucky enough to get that cheerful attitude, the easygoing personality, and the skills to deal with the bullies. No, she was given the smallest bit of the orange. She remembered that book, The Secret Garden. They had read it in fourth grade, that tale of the girl Mary. And there had been that connection of the world to an orange... Emma rolled over, staring at the ceiling for a moment. She had been given the smallest part - “not even the pips, and they’s too bitter to eat”; that was how Frances Hodgson Burnett had described it - maybe even a bite of nothingness. Life just wasn’t worth living like this.

Slowly, Emma sat up and stared at her dressing table. She had an idea... something she had once heard about...

The knife glinted in a shred of light. Emma stared at it wonderingly. She turned it in her hand, remembering. A girl’s face, twisted in jeering laughter – a backpack torn from her hands and thrown – a splash as her book landed in a muddy puddle – A sharp voice sneering, ‘hey weirdo, tell me, why do you even try?’...

Emma closed her eyes slowly, then opened them. She felt empty inside. It’s true. Nobody cares about me for anything other than a punching bag. Why do I try? The world blurred in front of her, the pointed triangle of steel wavering and shapeless. She lifted her hand and wiped her eyes, then lay the knife on the desk. Slowly, she reached for her sweater’s sleeve and pulled it back. Her bronze-colored skin was exposed, and she reached her hand out to pick the weapon back up.

She paused, a memory floating into her mind. A dark room. A beam of light falling across the wall. The girl standing in the opening, offering her a helping hand. If only Emma had seen it then - it had been her last chance. Her last chance for friendship, her last chance to fit in. Now it was too late.

Emma’s hand closed on the knife. She had heard of people cutting themselves - had never understood it. Now she knew. The hurt inside was too much to bear. It was better to hurt physically than emotionally.  Wasn’t it? All she had to do was draw the knife over her arm. Maybe the feelings would come out as the blood did.

She took up the weapon and held it to her skin, suppressing an urge to pull her hand away. The blade was sharp, its metal polished, its tip pointed. Was it worth it? Emma hesitated. There were good parts, sometimes. Small rays of lights in the darkness. She could remember laughing with her foster parents at some silly joke, could remember going with them on a picnic out to the countryside, could remember swelling with pride as she showed them her A on the final history paper. Maybe there were parts of life that made everything else worth it. But there weren’t enough of them, not enough to balance out the bullying and sorrow, not enough to remind her that living was a gift.

But then... Emma’s hand was trembling, causing the knife to tickle her arm slightly. She stared at it. Maybe I have to be the one who makes the good things happen. She tilted her head slightly to one side, watching the dot of light reflected off the blade as it jumped around on the shaking knife. Maybe if I don’t do anything to make myself happy, I won’t be happy. There was truth in what she was telling herself; it was practically shouting at her, and yet she was still wavering. Her grip loosened as she looked towards the knife, but she was no longer focusing on it, and she flinched as it clattered to the floor. Still thinking, she bent down and picked the knife up by the handle.

And suddenly she had made her decision. Emma lifted the knife to her eyes, gave it one more look-over, and tossed it into the trash bin under her desk. Life could give her lemons all it wanted, but she had never liked lemonade. She’d make orange juice instead, and let the world wonder how she did it. For a moment more she sat there before getting to her feet and pulling the curtains open, her eyes narrowing at the bright light. They could call her a coward, losing her nerve at the last moment - she knew she would call herself a coward at some point, and perhaps the sorrow and depression might return someday - but she knew that really, she was being the bravest she had ever been before, preparing to face her fears.

She headed across the room and sat on her bed, planning what she would do the following day. Simple enough, but it would require a lot of bravery all the same.

The library was brightly lit and almost unnaturally quiet. It was quite chilly, rather like the first few weeks of winter, and there weren’t many people wandering around. A couple of boys chatted quietly on their way out the door, and a girl - loaded with books - was also departing. The only people left in the great room were a few children sleeping on beanbags, their books slipped from their grasp, and one or two people browsing the shelves. Matilda was one of those.

Emma approached the half-open door, her heart pounding so she was sure everyone could hear it. She had guessed that Matilda might be here, knowing that it was a common place for the ‘smart kids’ (also known as nerds) to go, and had asked one of the other girls; her suspicion had been confirmed, and here she was pushing the door open. There was Matilda, over there behind the shelf - she was easily recognizable, with her light hair and wire-rimmed glasses. A small smile was tucked into the corner of her mouth as she hovered by the shelves. Emma could feel her hands trembling as she approached Matilda. She felt her cheeks warm, as if she was embarrassed - and for a reason, after all, because she had first denied friendship and then regretted the choice. But this had to be done. Didn’t it?

Matilda’s head was tilted over to one side as she read the book titles, which didn’t actually look particularly interesting to Emma. The blonde-haired girl reached up and pushed her glasses closer to her eyes, then kneeled and pulled out a book. Emma hesitated, her nerve weakening. Maybe the girl was busy - maybe she wouldn’t take kindly to an interruption. Her shyness overcoming her, Emma told herself that she would wait until Matilda was done looking at the book before approaching her. She drifted over to a bookshelf and pretended to be leafing through a book. It was really dull, something about the ‘subconscious mind’ and ‘misconceiving’ and other psychological blah blah blah. On the cover was a golden anchor, but that was all her mind managed to focus on. She kept glancing up quickly to see what Matilda was doing. For some reason, that girl really seemed interested in the book she was looking at.

While she waited, her mind drifted. If all went well.. but she hardly dared to imagine it. If all went well, Matilda would tell her that of course they could be friends. They could leave the library together. The fact that Matilda was one of the less popular girls wouldn’t make Emma popular, but at least she’d have a friend. A friend! The word was so nice. Maybe when she was old enough, she could change her last name to Friend. That would be interesting. Then again–and here Emma glanced up at Matilda, saw she was still reading, and turned her gaze back to the anchor–she probably wouldn’t. It would make her all the more of in outcast. Not many people had the last name Friend.

She sighed and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Might as well do something while she waited. She opened the book she was holding in her hands and tried to focus on it, only partially succeeding.

There was a crack as the book slammed shut. At last Matilda was stirring, pushing the book she had closed so abruptly back onto the shelf, getting to her feet, and stretching her arms out as if she had just woken up from a long nap. Emma took this awakening as her cue to edge toward the other girl. Biting her lip, she began to say something - but her voice betrayed her, and only a squeak came out. Emma steeled herself and took a deep breath. She tried again.

“H-hello?” She cursed her stutter. Why was she so nervous? Matilda heard the quiet words and turned her head to see who it was. She looked half-awake, distracted, as if she was thinking about something else. After a moment she lost the dreamy look.

“Oh! It’s you!” She looked very surprised. Emma wagered that she was wondering what on earth this girl was doing here. Well, she couldn’t just excuse herself. Couldn’t she? She remembered what she had told herself last night. Time to make orange juice.

“Yeah, it’s me. I-I’ve come to ask you if...” her voice trailed off and she blushed furiously, averting her eyes. Talk about awkward. But there was something, something unfathomable, that made her continue, albeit nervously. “...if your offer still stands about, about being my friend.”

Matilda looked curious for a moment, her eyes sparking. The brown-haired Emma, her breath nearly stopping from anticipation, tried to don a sincere expression to convince Matilda that she was being truthful. She wondered why she thought she would be believed anyway. Still, neither of them stirred for a moment. Then, her foot scuffing nervously on the ground, Emma mustered a small smile, hoping she’d be believed. Suddenly Matilda seemed to realize Emma was sincere, her eyes lighting up. She returned the smile.

“Of course,” Matilda replied in a quiet voice. Emma was overjoyed, her nervous shaking easing, her breath returning to her with a whoosh.

Accepted.