Adults are Wicked

• This story is primarily a psychological story on a teenager being groomed by a predatory teacher. Violence is implied rather than graphic.

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Adults are Wicked

Emagine slumps over the splintering cluttered kitchen table for hours, her eyes burning from acidic tears and leeching exhaustion. To craft each word and mold every untenanted slide to impress Mr. Jacob, she thinks, If he can only see my effort and intelligence then maybe, just maybe, for once, I will be recognized as the best and not compared to the others with their lead chorus roles, invitations to debate tournaments and 4 point baskets at the buzzer. All of their coveted accolades for accomplishments that should have been hers echo in her mind. A gnawing headache bites at her temples. She was so close, so many times, and overlooked every time. Of course, she was not flawless in public speaking or athletics, but the musical theater and chorus roles should have been hers. Her euphonous soprano voice had a uniquely melancholic timbre. Yet, few, if any, took the time to hear its rare dark Gothic beauty. Adults are wicked.

“Just rehearse more; you are not putting in the time. Tryouts are next week. Breathe deeply from your stomach. Why not wait until the spring musical?” Nobody ever truly complimented Emagine without a condition, or a stipulation, except for her mom and her grandparents and they were all gone now, deep in the earth’s packed soil, entwined in oak roots and tickled by the tiny hairs grasping for ancestral nutrients. Too far below to feel her reaching arms or see her sagging shoulders, they contribute to the nourishing of Nature, while she is left unsatiated with vacant arms and an unsupported neck. No comforting shoulder on which to lay her wilting soul. Only he is present in form but not in sustenance; Emagine’s father has never sincerely expressed his love for her because she is not athletic nor popular enough in his beady mole eyes, so she chooses Mr. Jacob as his replacement when she craves attention from her disinterested father. But adults are wicked.  

Emagine’s claw-like self-debasement scratches at her brain and roars reverberating in her ears. She wishes it would hibernate even for a day, a week, a month, but It is always prowling, too ravenous for rest. She looks to the sky and it forms in the stars, Ursa Major. She trembles beneath her concealing faded black hoodie, caved from the others, predators that surround her in sleuths. Her own mind is the boar within her that she cannot escape. Adults are wicked.

Trying to mount excitement for the sweet sticky honeypot of an advanced grade, she defensively fights like a sow, the boar in her amygdala, clawing at cubs of anticipation. But adults are wicked. She receives an email glaring ferociously from her screen asking her to call him, Mr. Jacob, her teacher, at his home. She is only sixteen, what should she do? She has seen one too many Lifetime movies to feel comfortable calling her middle-aged male instructor on the phone, at home. She has no mom to offer protective advice. If he were her father, it would be different, but he is not. If her father paid attention, it would be different, but he does not. Dilemma. Emagine wonders what Mr. Jacob wants. Perhaps he is proud of me, she thinks wishfully. I will finally be rewarded for all my effort, she persuades the offensive boar. Then self-doubt and insecurity surface. Why did I confide my fears of exclusion? Why did I reveal my loneliness and expose my isolation? Her mind races through the past week, jogging the track of her personal disclosures. Ignored by her friends. Overlooked for the lead role. Insulted for her matted hair covering her mournful eyes. Interruption. Her father is home, she has heard the door screech shut and the vibration of the television as it clicks on. Her ears perk up at the microphoned sports announcers mumbling excited gibberish while her nose is accosted by the scent of pan fried tilapia sizzling with poblano peppers. He does not acknowledge Emagine but she is disturbed by his presence. Intrusion. Mr. Jacob’s number intensely stares on her laptop screen encroaching on Emagine's thoughts. She imagines his too eager glass grey eyes.

After much self-encouragement, she pushes herself to quickly punch in his number before she succumbs to her hesitation. Breathe, she tells herself as painful claws seize her lungs. Breathe. On the other end of the impliable phone, a dominant male voice answers, “Who is this? Your caller id is not coming up. Who is this? How can I help you?” bluntly, almost accusatory. She turns the red slide with an unsteady hand to end the call. Danger flashes like an illuminated exit sign in her mind. Where is the door? Adults are wicked.

The next day, he stalks her in the desolate antiseptic hallway and questions why she did not call him. Emagine stutters an unintelligible nervous response insinuating that she tried. Mr. Jacob corners her in an isolated part of the hall beyond the security cameras’ disinterested, yet watchful eyes. She would ask, even beg, a classmate for help, but there is no one in sight. She would make an excuse to run to the secluded bathroom or even feign a phone call but he is too close, too confining to wiggle away from. She is the baited worm. He is the predatory piranha. She is entangled in the weeds of inaction. But adults are wicked. Mr. Jacob places a strong hand on Emagine ´ s quivering shoulder and leans in with a menacing smile. And she smells his curdling warm breath on her shivering skin combined with the offensive stench of the cigarettes he stomped out on the blacktop in front of the unsympathetic brick building this morning. The stain of his nicotine hands imprint on her powerless hoodie. And the once grizzly boar refuses to stand on its intimidating back paws and turn on this predator. Now, of all times, it chooses to hibernate and ignore her desperate inner pleading. Emagine fades beneath the clouds of memory digging into the soil of the past. Retreat. And Adults are wicked.

Emagine resurfaces from the protective graying clouds, her thoughts feel soiled with the hairlike roots of a weeping cherry tree growing within. The halls are now busy with the sounds of buzzing students starting their mundane days. Unaware. Naive to her plight, they laugh at her shaking shadow clinging to a metallic locker, and then, gesturing with mocking imitations, they howl collectively in a cacophonous chorus, before they flit onward without a backwards glance. Unbridled children become wicked adults. Emagine crumbles weak and discarded on the tarnished tile floor. She imagines her mother's strong tender supportive grasp reaching. . .but her eyes only see Him staring behind his windowed door, guarded from truth.