Are you there god? It's Halloway again

Are you there, god? It's me. I could really use your help right now, stuck in a sticky desk behind a hard door labeled detention. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Stupid Thomas Halloway’s Stupid Sandwich, but it’s too late for that now. A pink sheet of paper that sits neatly on the desk in front of me holds several lines of text. It reads:

  Detention exit ticket: Explain why you are in detention. Explain why you won’t repeat the offense.

 It’s standard, and the nerve of sitting in this room for the first time is replaced by the annoyance of a writing assignment. I begin to replay the events of today in my head like twisting a video tape back to the beginning, with a little whirring sound that fills the room.

    Thomas Halloway came in through the thin glass doors of the school with his usual aura of being the worst and began to scan the halls for someone to pick on when he abruptly froze by the main hall trash can. He slowly reached his arm into the bin and came out triumphantly holding a small plastic bag. It might have once held a sandwich, but it was hardly recognizable. A fluffy wet clump of mold stretching against its plastic cage. It was hard not to gag, but I was able to compose myself with the fear of what was coming. He aims, he throws, and the bag explodes with green slush that stains the walls and rushes at screaming kids scrambling over each other, trying to get away.

    He smirks, his chaos achieved. I'm confused, why am I still here? Why haven't my feet carried me to a courtyard on the other side of the school, to the safety of a classroom, away from this odorous mess? I look down. Sticky public school floor tiles, and fermented sandwich mold has mixed and created some kind of fast drying cement-like glue. I’m practically bolted to the floor and incapable of running away. Thomas Halloway is long gone, escaping blame yet again. As I attempt and fail to peel my sneakers away from the sticky mess. I hear the clicking of heels, and the chiming of keys against a staff badge. A sound I know all too well.

    I expect time to slow down like it does in the movies. Instead, the principal turns swiftly around the corner and marches towards me. I can do nothing but flush as she practically drags me out of a pile of mold and down a hallway. I don't dare complain about how she’s about to break my wrist. So here I sit, trapped in this ominous room with depressingly bare walls. Staring at a bright pink slip of paper asking me to write out my own prison sentence.

    I feel hot tears well up behind my eyes and it takes everything to keep them from falling down my face. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault! I would speak out, defend myself, but Mrs. Johnson isn’t even halfway done with her lecture about accountability, responsibility, and some other word ending with ‘ility’. I honestly don’t know, I stopped paying attention 15 minutes ago. When Mrs. Johnson finally leaves, I take out a piece of scratch paper, wiggling it free from between binders and textbooks. It’s not to draft my apology, it's not to think about what I’ve done, It’s for revenge. I've never been a fan of brainstorming, especially when it’s a writing assignment on “How can Sponges Improve their Buoyancy; A Science Paper”.

I take my time, deciding on a method of humiliation worthy of someone as horrible as Thomas Halloway. Besides, the longer I’m here, the longer I can avoid sitting at a different desk in a math classroom. A better plan is worth a lecture from my parents about the "Consequences from a Lack of Responsibility" any day. When I’m finally satisfied with my work, I scratch out an apology for my supposed ‘property damage’ that sent the janitor into a fit when he saw it. Something between sobbing, cursing, and trying to punch a hole in the concrete wall. It did not end well.

In the lunch room, I slide into a bench seat of table 12 and carefully extract each item from a paper bag I’ve brought with me. Maddy plops down in the seat across from me, looking defeated. I don’t have the chance to ask her what’s wrong before it all tumbles out anyway. Something about missing homework, sleeping in, annoying little brothers, snooty subs, the whole nine yards of Maddy Central. The girl would never stop talking if she didn't have to. I don’t mind it though, I’ve always been kind of quiet. My train of thought is interrupted by Maddy reaching across the table to steal potato chips. She successfully grabs one and I smack her hand away. She yelps and as she rubs her wrist she tips her head at me.

“Why weren't you in math?” She swallows.

“Don’t be nosy.” I try to act nonchalant, but I can feel my face flush.

“No really, I want to know! I know you hate math, but you would never skip class. You’re better than that.” I know she’s not going to give it up, so I give in and let it go.

“I’m only telling you because you’re basically my only friend, but… I was in detention.” I hide my face in my hands, waiting for the blow. The ‘What!?’ ’ You’re so irresponsible!’, but it never comes. I slowly raise my head, Maddy sits there silently, waiting for me to look at her again.

“OK,” She shrugs “I believe you, I heard about that whole sandwich thing with Thomas Halloway. I know it wasn't your fault.” A rush of relief floods through me. At least someone is on my side. The rest of lunch flies by, filled with chatter and laughing and feeling less like a cold miserable pile of dread and shame. Like a small flickering fire inside me, finally rekindled after a long winter.

Before I know it the last bell rings and I'm hauling my backpack onto tired shoulders trying not to fall on my buckled knees. In about two seconds, Maddy is waiting at the classroom door to drag me to the bus lot. I try a smile that doesn’t reach my tired eyes, trying to match her enthusiasm. It doesn’t really work and I’m still a tired mess in some kid's body.

As Maddy tugs me through messy hallways by my wrist. I peer at the disorganized jumble of exhausted kids and various faded wrappers littering the floor. Then something catches my eye. Thomas Halloway stumbling through a doorway labeled ‘Counselor Wing’ In an unamusing Comic Sans. I tap on Maddy’s shoulder and wait patiently till she catches on and turns around. When she finally does I point towards the nearest bathroom and scrunch my face to try to back up my lie. Luckily it works, and Maddy drops my wrist and walks me to the door saying she’ll see me tomorrow.

The yellowish bathroom tiles aren't very inviting, but public school doesn’t care what you want, ever. So I suck in a deep breath and wait by the door till any footsteps are far out of earshot from my hiding place. I slowly open the door and practically give myself a heart attack as the swinging door screams bloody murder out of its squeaky hinge throat. I almost shush it until I stop myself from interacting with an inanimate object.  

I creep across the hallway, quiet as possible, through the doorway labeled Counselor Wing. I follow the sound of voices until I stop at a door, closed except for a small crack by the wall. Light pours out like a tiny river into the windowless hallway. One foot after another, I can't stop myself, until I'm practically pressing myself against the door. Through the small opening, I can only make out a few words, but If I tried to open the door wider I’ll be caught immediately. I slowly adjust myself until my ear is pressed flat against the opening. I hear Snippets of conversation, but some of the same words are repeated over and over. “Divorce”, “Problems’, “Anger”, “Struggle”, “Depression”. Every word I hear pushes me back. Away for this door of forbidden knowledge.

Almost half an hour has passed when I hear a chair screeching back. I almost yelp, and I stumble back into the wall. Trying to look casual, I position myself at the other end of the hallway and walk slowly away from the door. Trying to act naturally when under pressure apparently isn’t easy. This fact is demonstrated when Thomas Halloway opens the door slowly and I somehow trip on air, looping an arm around a banister to catch myself.

He starts to sneer, but as I whip my head around, he sees my face isn't red. Instead I’m smiling at him. As I pull myself to my feet, the smile doesn’t falter. I understand what he’s going through now. The years of torment aren't OK now, not at all, but I understand where he’s coming from. The mental and physical pain weighing on his shoulders. Then something amazing happens. Something I never thought possible. Thomas Halloway, smiles.

His eyes crinkle, his mouth widens, and slowly his awful smirk transforms into a genuine grin. He gets it, He knows I understand, and that makes all the difference to him. We walk to the main door and he pushes the bar open for me, letting cool autumn air rush past our faces. He smiles again.

You know, maybe Thomas Halloway isn’t so bad.