Surreptitious

It’s no rare occasion for Mandy Roswell to get tired of things that the majority of people don’t. Talking with her benchmate in her class? What to most would be taken as a recreational activity would feel like being in a tightlock, where each second that passed in the conversation would feel like two walls closing in to crush her. Doing a group project? Felt like trying to clap a stray mosquito hovering around; nothing could get in her head unless she focused on one topic or sentence her workmates would utter. Small talks? Oh, please, don’t even mention that phrase, she would lament so occasionally over the idea of it.

As it would naturally come out, Mandy barely had any friends at school. She’s suffocating in her own bubble, yet if she were to pop it or force herself out of it, she would only be met with pain. Pain of being humiliated. Pain of rejection. Those types of pain—each of them felt like shrapnel flying at her fragile skin. She was confused, and badly hurt. Seeing the way some of her friends behaved, some more outgoing and others more reserved, she believed she was like an alien among them. Her friends, even the quieter ones, would exchange pleasantries and chat freely about things that’re mostly trivial. Mandy was not able to do such things. What she was able to do instead was talk endlessly about the show that her favorite actress starred in with the pace of a running horse, words seemingly rushing impetuously as whoever she was speaking to stared at her in utter discomfort. The talking felt so cathartic, but the uncomfortable stares imminently broke the catharsis, leaving her once more inside her bubble.

Mandy had been experiencing this since, well, ever. When she entered primary school, she would rarely engage in conversations or activities alike. Her grades were blandly average, nothing outstanding for her to get noticed, even by her homeroom teachers. She did have several achievements bearing her name and skill in painting, but not enough to warrant a notable image in front of people. She was easily forgotten, blending in the shadows of the people before her. Deep inside, she wanted to stand out, to be known by the people around her. But she couldn’t, and after years of trying to overcome her issues, it felt to her as if God had fated her to never come out of that bubble of hers.

There was, however, a way for her to cover those odd quirks of hers. She paid close attention—watched, listened—to whatever other people did in every sort of situation. Make eye contact when you’re speaking with one person, even if she’d feel like her eyeballs were burning as she did so. Imitate the way they stay still in place, even if her limbs were begging to be wiggled. Speak moderately, even if she would much rather talk either a lot or not at all. She had effectively put on this… mask that she would wear anytime it’s convenient to.

Except the mask was never convenient to her. The mask, at its rear, bore a thousand needles that would prick at her delicate face every time she put it on. The healthy, rational thing one would do was to take it off—rip and shred it out of existence, even. But the mask itself was convenient to other people. His friends preferred to talk with the mask that would ask what they did last afternoon than the person who talked about TV shows endlessly. Her teachers preferred the mask that sat still on its bench poisedly instead of a person who doodled on her sketchbook as the lesson went on. Even though the mask faded a little when she was around her parents, their parents still preferred the mask that did whatever demands they gave, be it someone with a good reputation at school or someone who was not attracted to fellow girls. It’s torturous for Mandy, yes, but it was likeable for others. Every time she thought of putting it off, she reminded herself of her self-worth that was already reaching the lowest pit in her heart, which she believed would dig down even further if she were to put off the mask.

Time passes by quickly when you spend most of your life living inside your head—this year would be the last year Mandy would be called a schoolgirl. A small part of her wanted to believe that everything would change once she got into college, being able to socialize with people who’d have the same interests as she did. However, her hurtful past experience in socializing had her shut off those thoughts, afraid of the disappointment coming from a false hope. For now, living in the present was her only option.

This year’s homeroom teacher, Mr. Arthur Buttercomb, as Mandy had read from the class arrangement notice, walked into the classroom. He was quite old, hair already graying and face donning wrinkles and creases. As he walked toward the teacher’s table, the class quieted down effectively. Then, after setting down an array of folders and books he previously carried in his hands onto the table, Mr. Buttercomb turned to face his class.

“Good morning, children,” Mr. Buttercomb greeted with a gentle smile. “I hope you are all doing great today.”

As Mandy listened to Mr. Buttercomb’s opening speech, something had tugged at her heart. There was something about him that made her feel at ease. Of all her years at grade school, her homeroom teachers had always carried an imposing atmosphere, where they would expect their students to succeed academically and engage more with their students’ parents than their own students. Mr. Buttercomb, on the other hand… she didn’t really know how to put it in words. Was it because of his soft voice? Or his hand gestures that carried comfort by reaching out to his students? Maybe because he regarded his students as children, perhaps?

It was when Mandy was caught doodling on her sketchbook by him that it finally clicked in her mind. Mr. Buttercomb, much unlike practically every homeroom teacher her classes were assigned to, didn’t berate her for doing so. Didn’t even confiscate her pen or her sketchbook. He just let her be, not making a comment on it as he delivered his welcoming speech while circling around the class in a friendly manner. That was… new.

“I know this year is going to be harsh for all of you, but have faith in yourselves, for as I do for all of you,” Mr. Buttercomb said, looking at each one of his students. The atmosphere in the class shifted dramatically. Mr. Buttercomb’s presence suddenly turned magnetic even when he was about to disperse the class. Mandy was no exception to this, pen and sketchbook forgotten on her table.

When recess came, Mandy immediately went to search for Mr. Buttercomb, which she found was sitting on a bench at a small garden-like area inside the school area.

“Mr. Buttercomb?” Mandy greeted carefully, lowering herself slightly so he could take notice of her. Mr. Buttercomb met her gaze and smiled.

“Oh, hello,” he replied gently. “How may I help you Miss… Roswell, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Mandy replied automatically. She raised her posture with her head still lowered, trying her best not to avert her gaze from his. “I wanted to ask you, uhm…”

Mandy’s hands fiddled with her tote bag as she tried to gather her words. Mr. Buttercomb, much to her surprise once more, just smiled as he waited for her to continue. The undemanding manner and tenderness in his demeanor made the words come up in her mind all of a sudden. Mandy fixed her posture and left her hands clutching the lower edge of her tote bag.

“I want to ask you: why didn’t you stop me earlier when I was drawing? While you were, uh, you know, talking to the class?”

Mr. Buttercomb nodded, not breaking his smile.

“Why would I need to?” he said.

“Because…” Mandy paused, surprised by Mr. Buttercomb’s response. Because drawing means that I’m not paying attention to what someone else is saying? Because it’s inappropriate? The answer was supposed to be obvious, but instead, he rebutted it by asking another question.

“Miss Roswell, oh, may I call you Mandy?” Mr. Buttercomb began, to which Mandy responded by nodding. “Do you feel like you’re not paying attention to your teacher when you’re drawing?”

“I don’t,” Mandy replied, tone much more certain and confident than before. “But the teachers… they always see it as distracting and inappropriate.”

“Uh huh,” Mr. Buttercomb uttered.

“But you see, that—drawing—is how I pay attention to the lesson. I know it sounds really weird or unbelievable, but trust me: it does work. I don’t really have concrete proof of it, bu-”

“Mandy,” Mr. Buttercomb cut her rambles off gingerly. “It’s alright, I trust you. That’s why I let you do it in the first place, hmm?”

Mandy held herself in her place.

“It’s just that…” she stuttered, mind starting to wander. For some reason, she felt her mask slowly, gradually melting with each dialogue she exchanged with Mr. Buttercomb. No one had ever treated her this way before, not even her parents. Doodling was one of her ways to channel her quirks while trying to focus on something, and it was often taken away from her by her teacher during class. She knew, or at least concluded from her observation, that it was impolite to draw during class, but it was the only way she could focus. It’s just like everything else; expected to interact when she didn’t want to, expected to stay still when she wanted to wring her limbs…

…and somehow Mr. Buttercomb understood.

With no invitation to, Mandy sat down on the bench Mr. Buttercomb was sitting at. The latter welcomed the gesture by shifting to give her more space.“Truth is, Mr. Buttercomb,” Mandy said, “I’ve always felt different from everyone else. I can barely hold a conversation with any of my friends, and I…” she paused, eyes suddenly brimming with tears but quickly blinked them off as she continued to speak under Mr. Buttercomb’s tender gaze.

“I feel like my existence is not of any worth. I don’t excel in any subject except for the arts, and even in that I’m not good enough to be ‘outstanding’. I thought I could overcome my inability to talk with my friends normally, but I just can’t…”

Mandy’s clutch on her bag tightened.

“And I’m just so tired… of putting on this mask… that I am normal like everyone else. But deep down…”

This time, Mandy couldn’t stop her tears from falling, even though she didn’t sob. For a few seconds, silence fell between the two. She couldn’t make out what Mr. Buttercomb’s reaction to her vent might be due to her blurred vision, so all she could do was listen.

“I know that we can’t change the world if we want to,” said Mr. Buttercomb to the teary-eyed Mandy. “But there is no reason for us to hurt ourselves to fit into that so-called ‘normal’ world. There is quirkiness among any one of us, and it’s okay if you don’t fit in.”

Mandy wiped her tears off. “Really? You don’t think my friends see me—well, if they even see me at all—as just a nonsensical person?”

Mr. Buttercomb chuckled heartily. “Mandy, the world is too big for us to care about such a thing. There is always a part of us that performs, but if it hurts you, then why should you even do it, at least to such an extent? Even if they think it’s weird, then let them think of it that way. There will be a place or places where you belong without having to act unlike how you feel on the inside.”

Mandy set her bag aside, and looked at Mr. Buttercomb’s way.

“Can you be that place, Mr. Buttercomb?” asked Mandy, the sadness in her eyes now replaced with the look of enlightenment.

Mr. Buttercomb nodded. “Of course. What do you like to do, Mandy?”

Mandy stood up promptly, facing Mr. Buttercomb’s direction. “I like to wiggle my hands,” Mandy said as she performed the said action. She began to giggle. “It makes me feel more free, like wiggling my stress away!”

Mr. Buttercomb nodded, smiling lightly.

“And I like this actress, this woman…” she said. “Oh, she is so beautiful! The way she acts is just so wonderful, and I am just so in love with her!” she exclaimed as she jumped giddily.

Mr. Buttercomb laughed as she did so.

“And what else do you like to do, Mandy?”

Mandy stood still for a while, and then her eyes lit up. “I love drawing. I know I’m not the best at it, but it… is what I love doing.”

Mr. Buttercomb nodded. “And now, what do you not like doing?” he asked.

“Small talks. Socializing. It feels like everyone is looking at me, judging me all the time. And I don’t know how to respond to people. They’re like puzzles to me, and I hate puzzles,” explained Mandy, tone filled with a mix of contempt and sorrow.

“I see…” Mr. Buttercomb said. “Unfortunately, we can’t really avoid such situations, hmm? But again, pretending to like it won’t do you any good.”

Mandy stood in silence for a while. “Why do you know these things, Mr. Buttercomb?”

“I have taught special education classes before. Many of them experience the same dilemma as you have now, or have had for a long time. They’re all unique in their own way, and I loved and understood them as much as if they were my blood and flesh.”

“Well, it’s a bit late for me to get into a special ed class, don’t you think?” she laughed lightly.

“Yes, but Mandy, it’s not too late to ask for help,” replied Mr. Buttercomb, still maintaining his gentle tone. “There are therapists that might be able to help you to navigate your way around this… so-called ‘normal’ world.”

Mandy nodded, mentally taking note of the information. “I’ll try to find one, then.”

“Good,” Mr. Buttercomb’s smile widened. “No one deserves to get hurt while trying to fit into society. Like I said, each of us has our own quirks, and that is completely normal.”

Before Mr. Buttercomb could continue to speak, a loud ringing sound blared through speakers from all around the school. Mr. Buttercomb and Mandy exchanged an “oh” of understanding, both smiling coyly and sighing in defeat.

“I wish you luck in your journey, Mandy. Remember, you are, and always have been, worth it. You might not have found your worth now, but as you grow up, you will find out that the world is a huge place where everyone has a place in it.”

Mandy nodded at Mr. Buttercomb’s comment.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Buttercomb. See you.”

Mr. Buttercomb nodded softly as Mandy walked away from the bench, smile never leaving his creased, old face.

If there is ever a thing called a “hero”, Mandy thought to herself as she walked with a giddy smile, it would be Mr. Buttercomb.