The Giving One

She deserves it. With the little that I know, I can be sure that she deserves it. She deserves more. Maybe I've assumed too much of her, gluing together possibly imaginative qualities, wanting to mold a character that made me feel hopeful. Hopeful of an existing yet rare virtue. 

Exiting the dirtiest bathroom in school, I had yet to withdraw from thought. Since the senior season was over, my schedule expanded greatly, my beaten body and sensitive soul restored dramatically, my life liberated. Though it was terribly bitter, finally putting the football down, allowing it to roll away as I walked without weighty pads, released some hefty strings. Don’t misjudge me; front flipping into the endzone following a sexy run that was filled with pure elegance, putting six points on the board, followed by an irresistibly eye-drawing celebration, usually consisting of the most trendy dance, is truly invigorating and, again, liberating. 

Ultimately, I have no substantial confirmation of who she truly is; maybe she’s actually a jerk, gossiping behind that smile: the calming and constant mini-smile, which always communicates a compassionate hug without having to speak, compelling cheerfulness to come out of you. Without words, without fail, her teeny-little grin always accomplishes this. Never trying too hard. Always offering too much. I doubt she’s a jerk. 

Strolling through the hallway, Zay rushed over and did his typical shoulder bump: “What’s good, ugly.” I gave him a casual fist bump, implying that the day was a sleepy, laid-back type of day. He asked me what class I was headed to, in which I answered: “Some language and writing class. I don’t even know.” He took that opportunity to slaughter me with jokes, calling me a poet-puss before letting me know that the guys were going to sneak out for lunch again. I put on an approving, yet forged, smirk, showing affirmation, concealing indifference.

It's beyond her simple smile. Apart from her quiet, though not shy, nature that generates a golden warmth around her, her tendencies are what I believe to be deserving of attention. She always picks up trash. She always holds the door. She always lets people cut her in lunch lines. She always picks up the pencil that rolls off the desk in front of her when the student ahead carelessly leans on an adjacent friend's desk, chatting about nonsense and consuming her personal space. She always walks with janitors during recess, rather than flirting with the boys as the rest of them do, arrogantly attempting to attain attention and acknowledgement. She always listens first. She never talks first. She barely speaks. 

Walking into the classroom, I was met with a refreshing whiff of goodness: baked cookies. As I sat down, I didn’t have to blink twice as Mr. Reef announced it was her homemade treat to us before the holiday break started. I was not surprised. Though, I was glad I was not surprised. The delight quickly faded with Luna and her group’s superficial remarks: “Aww that’s so sweet of you, Kora” or “Kora, these are amazing. So proud of you!” They didn’t even look her in the eyes during their deficient commenting. I know: they’re not acting rude or in any angle imposing disrespect–they’re just being polite. Only polite. The shallow behavior, the lack of intentionality, the absence of meaningful gratitude. These were the things that bothered me. She deserves more than that. Luna then turned to me, trying to sway with googly eyes, asking if the team and I were coming to Leila’s, as she was throwing a, supposedly, ridiculously massive party that coming Friday. I casually replied, “of course–you know me,” cringing at myself within. I then looked at her, Kora, knowing I had to do one of many things for her. Say thanks. For the cookies of course. 

I don’t know too much. She lives with her mom. Her older sister is at college. Her father left when she was young. She has no car. She wears the same green quarter-zip. She used to live in Virginia. She usually eats sandwiches. She walks everywhere. She likes to bake?

Sitting stiffly in my seat, I felt stupid. I could certainly hear my heart throbbing, accelerating and pumping blood to my ears. Talking to girls was my entitled calling–I shouldn’t have been experiencing nervousness in that moment. Just do it. It’s simple. “Thanks for the cookies.” Nothing crazy. I stood up. Stared at the back of her head. Sat back down. Classes were relaxed, as teachers began to put on holiday movies to mark the end of the year. I was not relaxed. I was unbalanced and stressed. The sugary scent radiating from the batch of cookies, softly landing in my nose, began to brew guilt. I stood back up. I should do this. She deserves it, no? Then, she turned around, detaching from the movie ahead, facing my direction. Panicking, I immediately spun, tapped Luna, and began asking the expected number for Leila’s party. Pathetic.

—

December 21st. I had the scarf in my backpack. I was excited. I don’t know why I chose a scarf, but it felt fitting as the first of gifts–after that wretched failure, I drove straight to the mall and bought it at Abercrombie and Fitch, having to skip the following class. The scarf just felt fitting, seeing that it offered warmth in a comfortable neck hug. Not flashy but not tacky. I didn’t have a plan on how to give it to her, as I was opposed to letting her know it was me. So, once again, sitting there in the classroom, while Home Alone was playing, I felt a bit anxious. Then, she surprised me with something she hadn’t done all year. She asked to go to the bathroom. Clearly, fate had given me an early Christmas gift. I took a quick glance around: everyone was either conversing or tightly focused on Kevin McCallister thrilled to have the home to himself. Rushed with adrenaline, I tiptoed over, unzipped her smeared black Jansport, and stuffed my somewhat-wrapped gift into the bottom. Terrible plan. Fairly executed. I gave Kevin a wink, joining his celebrated freedom. 

December 22nd. The second day for the second secret gift. The batch of brownies were in my backseat. She wasn’t at school today, but I had no intention of giving them at school regardless. They were much sloppier to make than expected, definitely not cheap, and their completion left a destruction in my kitchen–it was a long night, as I experimented with three different batches to get the right crust corners and the powerful, chocolate flavor. All very much worth it. While in the car, my decision was geared toward dropping them off at her front door, the location of which I knew from the school phonebook. As I was making the left turn out of school property, I saw it. I saw the scarf. Though, it wasn’t warming her neck. It was cuddled around the nape of the crossing-guard grandma. Time began to feel eerie. My skin started to chill. Something within began to diminish. Seeing that old woman waving and smiling as she let some kids cross, I knew what to do–I don’t know if it was what I wanted to do. I pulled over, handed her the batch, and wished her happy holidays.

December 23rd. The last day before winter break. I didn’t know how to feel. I guess I should have expected that out of her. It was something that she would do: hand off her gift as a gift. Everyone was in a holiday-spirited mood, most anticipating the party for that night. I was beginning to feel bland. Alone. This eagerness and unusual objective, or purpose, or whatever manifestation this longing was forming into, suddenly dropped. Depleted. She wasn’t at school again that day either, leaving the classroom with a valueless volume. Kevin, on the screen, was getting all kissy-face with his mom as I stared at her empty seat. Struggling to concentrate with all the chatter, for no one cared about the movie at that point, I thought about how she gave the scarf away. I was starting to question whether it was that bad of a gift. Then I realized: She actually touched it. She interacted with it. It fluttered through her fingers. My heart rang as my stomach tingled. I set about something I haven’t ever done seriously in the classroom of AP English Language and Composition: I began to write.“Dear Kora.”

—

I knew it was him. He kept staring at me during class. He tried to be subtle. I don’t know why. I’m not sure why he gave me the scarf. Maybe he wanted me to give it to Molly Henderson or Jordan Parks or Thomas Wolfe. They get sick the most in school, so maybe he wanted them to stay warm. I saw the gentle crossing guard, and she looked as if she needed it the most. I don’t think he wanted to give the scarf out himself. He might be shy. It is still a kind gesture. I hope the crossing guard likes the scarf. I hope she also has a good Christmas. I hope they all have a wonderful Christmas. I’m not sure how to spend this Christmas. I could write more letters for the Tranquil Haven Nursing Center, or I could make coffee for the construction workers on Plainfield Avenue! 

—

The night was late, chilly, and flowing with snow. Reuben, who was on facetime with Zay, as we were driving on our way to Leila’s, mentioned how some girl was handing out free hot chocolate by Newhart, the cliff with the view. That was how I later ended up in Newhart. I told Zay, who was beyond confused and a bit drunk, to drop me off in the street and to head over without me. I hustled over to Newhart. I ran to go see Kora. 

—

“Hey, hi, what’s good. So, like, hot chocolate?”

“Hi, I thought you would come.”

“Yeah, I heard abou–wait, what?”

“You look tired. Are you tired?”

“...”

“You must be tired. Well, I have an extra creamy type, an extra sweet type, and an extra choco–”

“Listen. Kora. I’m not going to waste your holiday or time or whatever. So just listen. I’ll make it quick. You’re like a really nice person and stuff. Like, I see that you do like nice things for people. So, keep being kind, Kora. Don’t let people take that. Even though the weather is freezing, with the air making my throat feel freakin’ punctured and the snow eating at my damn hands, the hot chocolate is still warm. God, that was so cringey, but you know what I mean. Here, take this stupid letter. Have a happy Christmas, Kora.”

—

I felt liberated. Yet, it was the sort of the burden I wanted to continue to bear, burning and battling within, but building and brewing feelings of nourishment. She changed how I see the world–it’s beautiful not by what you can receive from it, but what you can give to it. Though, one thing kind of sucked. She moved back to Virginia after break. 

—

I don’t know why. I felt emotional when I read the letter. I’m not quite sure why. I cried a bit. It was a good letter. A simple letter. I learned from the letter. It does not have many words. I love the letter. He said that even gifters need gifts. He said that I taught him how to give. He taught me how to receive. I felt special reading the letter. He has changed the way I see. The way I see the world, others, myself. Maybe, I will write back to him. I want to. I’ll thank him. Also. I’ll tell him he is cute.