A Bowl of Cherries

My name is Lina Jimenez. 

I’m in the eighth grade and I'm a Quiet Kid.  

Quiet Kids, if you didn’t know, have the most to say, but no voice. They’re confined in a tight box with nowhere to run. 

At least they’re better than Loud Kids. Loud Kids have the perpetual limelight. They’re the main characters in every movie you watch. Even teachers pay special attention to Loud Kids; either because they're cardinal troublemakers or because Loud Kids just attract attention. 

Me? I’m a bully magnet; I attract all the bullies, especially the ones in Jose Maria Elementary School. Even if I were dead, they would dig my body out of my grave and belittle my corpse to tears. My hair, my eyes, my body, my clothes. Everything—wrong. 

So, if anyone is to blame for my pranks, it’s those bullies. My pranks started out  elementary: tied shoelaces, spiders in lockers, whoopee cushions on seats. 

And the bullies’ faces were priceless. I felt like a Loud Kid. I did stuff that people noticed—even if they don’t know it was me, per se. I became the mysterious “Prankster.” 

Within a month, my pranks began backfiring, however. The bullies grew a resilience to them. They were wary of every locker they opened, every chair they sat on, and every move they made. 

When your intended victim doesn't sit on the gum-covered chair you prepared for them, and an unsuspecting classmate gets humiliated in their place, it isn't funny. 

So, I added flair to my antics to lessen the chance of accidentally pranking someone. Cream-pies in the face. Saran wrapped bikes. Stuff like that. 

And so far, life’s been pretty smooth. 

Usually, I prepare my pranks during lunch, but today, I’m skipping my favorite class, Language, to prepare something truly devious.

Fortunately, the hallways are empty; I’d rather die than let someone discover the “Prankster”. 

I’d also rather die than allow privileged white boys who think they own the world get away with their crimes. 

Everyone has a privileged white boy in their life. In my case, it’s Joshua Smith. 

I wonder why no one has harmed the “King of Jose Maria Elementary School” yet. I wonder why I haven’t initiated any pranks on him until now. 

1. He is the nausea that constantly—obstinately—returns despite how much Ibuprofen, Tylenol, and Advil is taken. 
2. His nasally voice, pompous behavior, and supercilious eyes send dry-heaves flying my way. 
3. He disregards everyone who is below his “status” like they’re expired makeup or hand-me-down shoes. 

He prides himself on his popularity, wealth, and beauty—especially beauty. 

He lacks intelligence, however, which is why I crack his locker code in seconds: 1-2-3-4. 

Ring, ring. 

The sound reverberates in the hollow hallways. 

I slam his locker shut.

From behind a garbage can, I watch Joshua and his crew saunter out of class. 

Joshua opens his locker, laughing with his friends, so unsuspecting. 

His face falls. “What the hell?” he shouts. 

Everyone turns to stare. 

“One of you is the Prankster!” he demands, pointing at his locker. “You did this! You better reveal yourself now!” He stomps his feet. 

Confused glances are exchanged. 

To an ordinary middle-schooler, nothing in his locker is out-of-place. There’s a textbook, a backpack, and a jacket. But, Joshua is not an ordinary middle-schooler. 

I chuckle amidst the barely contained laughter in the hallway. 

“Someone’s lost their make-up,” one girl whispers to another. 

Joshua’s friends side-eye him, inching away. “We’ll see you later, man.”

“I-I’m not crazy!”Joshua fumes. 

I pause. That’s identical to what I said to Principal Torres when she didn't believe my story about the bullying at school. I bit my lip, guilt and sympathy spilling over my glee. Maybe I went too far this time. 

Joshua locks eyes with me. 

I spin around, walking out of the hall as innocently as possible. His make-up clangs in my backpack. 

I pray to God I haven’t just exposed myself. 

***

I’m dozing off in the final minutes of class when I hear my name on the PA system. 

“Huh?” I murmur, lifting my head off my table and rubbing my eyes. 

My classmates snigger. 

“Ms. Jimenez, please report to the principal’s office.” 

My math teacher, Ms. Morales, shoots me a pointed look. 

I sling my backpack over my bag and slouch out of the room. I rack my brain for any reason Principal Torres would call me. Other than pranks, I’ve been a model student. Ish. 

Instead of Principal Torres in the principal’s room, however, I discover my Language teacher, Mr. Micheals, with a frown on his face. 

Is it because I skipped his class today? 

“Ms. Jimenez, please have a seat, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

I settle into the chair across from him. This is nothing I haven’t experienced before: I’ve been bullied, intimidated, and belittled. I can handle a scolding—especially from a man who’s old enough to be my grandpa. 

“You’re the ‘Prankster.’”

The ground tilts below my feet, I grip the arms of the chair. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Joshua must’ve spilled. Joshua must’ve spilled. Joshua must’ve spilled. 

A calm voice in my head whispers, even if he did spill, he has no evidence. Just play it cool. 

“You’re the one who's been sticking gum under desks, sliming students, and replacing the cream oreos in the canteen with toothpaste oreos,” Mr.Michaels reports. “I have footage from the security cameras at school.”

No point in playing it cool anymore. I swallow the bitter acid on my tongue. “I guess you’re going to expel me now, aren’t you?” 

“No.” 

I look up. “No?”

“No, I want to know why you did it.” 

I laugh acrimoniously. “You’re seriously asking that? I did it to get revenge. I did it to serve justice. I did it because I was bullied.”

Kind of hypocritical, though, aren’t you? 

Mr. Micheals removes his eyeglasses, wiping them on his shirt. “Justice and revenge are two very different concepts you cannot simply throw around. Justice is fair while revenge is not. Which did you really do it for?” 

“Both,” I shrug. “Simple as that.”

“Okay,” Mr. Micheals accepts, “I see. Well, I’ll give you two options, Ms. Jimenez. You can either clean up every single prank you’ve performed which has left a mark on school property: gum, slime, glue, or I can inform Principal Torres and your parents about your actions—which may truly lead to expulsion.”

“What?” I’m barely able to contain myself in the chair. “I tell you I’m being bullied and you black-mail me?”

“Calm down, Ms.Jimenez. I’m not black-mailing you. If I were, I'd be holding a bat and demanding a sack of money.”

I can’t find it in me to laugh. 

“Your frustration and anger are understandable, but you can’t seek revenge for every wrong committed against you. Life doesn’t work that way.” 

“Why not?” I fire back. 

“Well, how did you feel after your pranks? Satisfied, relieved?”

“No, I felt elated.” 

Mr. Micheals sighs. “You’re missing the point. Revenge isn’t the answer to everything.” 

I narrow my eyes, if only to stop the tears from leaking. “Of all people, I thought you’d understand.”

“I do—”

I shoot out of my chair. “No, you don’t. I’m sick of people telling me who I should be or who I should look like. I’ve told Principal Torres—told the entire school board—about the bullying here, but you know what they all did? Nothing. So, forgive me if I'm missing the point,” I run my fingers through my slightly damp hair, scoffing. 

Mr. Micheals glances at his hands. “You’re the best speaker and writer I know, Ms. Jimenez. Even better than myself. I was wrong: when you miss the point, you make your own point. I know Jose Maria hasn’t been amiable to you in the slightest, but I don’t want you graduating feeling like revenge is your solace.” 

Warm, sweaty hands coat my skin and it’s hard to inhale, hard to hear. Someone presses down on my throat. I blurt, “Can I go now? Dismissal was like ten minutes ago.”

Mr.Michaels looks like he’s about to say something else, but he acquiesces. “You may.”

I shoot out of my chair. 

“Think carefully about your decision, Ms. Jimenez,” he calls with an air of ominosity. 

Panic sets in as I run home.  

I should have stayed a Quiet Kid. 

***

I don’t go to school for a week. 

My parents don’t understand. They never understand anything. They’d rather scream and fight. 

It’s a living hell. 

I escaped to the library to drown my thoughts in books, but the moment I returned home—nine or ten P.M.—the nightmare would recommence. 

There wasn’t any point fixating on my future; it all hung on Mr.Michael's conscience. 

After a week of doing virtually nothing, though, I knew I had to pick myself up. 

Today’s the day. 

The day I return—even if I’ve been exposed. 

Thirteen-year-olds can go into hiding without their parents permission, right?  

Ten minutes into the first period, though, I already regret my decision. 

No one realizes that I’m back, no one asks where I’ve been the past week, no one asks if I’m OK, and most importantly, no one seems happy to see me. 

What did you expect? I ask myself. You have no friends. 

Just mountains of victims. 

At least Mr. Micheals hasn’t revealed my secret. 

He greets me as I walk into his class, my head low. “Ms. Jimenez, you’re back.” 

Great, the one person that remembers me is a sixty-year-old man.  

“Have you made a decision yet?” 

I shake my head. 

“I see, well, take a seat. There’s a lot for you to catch up on.” 

Class passes in a blur. Mr. Michaels words are no match to the thrumming in my ears. 

At the end of class, Mr. Micheals finally announces something that I do hear—loud and clear. “Remember, for any of those interested in the Q&A with the esteemed author, J.K. Rowling, please meet in the library after dismissal today.”  

I freeze. 

This cannot be possible. 

The Q&A is today? Already? 

But . . . 

I stare at Mr. Michaels, but he is busy folding papers into his old-fashioned briefcase. 

Within seconds, we’re the only people left in the classroom. 

I storm up to his desk. “This is your ultimatum? Clean up my pranks, but miss the Q&A or go to the Q&A and get expelled? This really isn’t a win-win situation, is it?” 

“I don’t mean to upset you, Ms. Jimenez. It’s simply reality. Sometimes life gives you the sourest lemons, not because you deserve it, but because you deserve more.” He looks me in the eye. “When you don’t get what you want or something doesn’t turn out perfectly, you have to learn how to control that disappointment.” 

I look at my sneakers—ones I’ve worn since the fourth grade. These shoes haven’t ever let me down. They’re the sole reliability in my life, taking me all over Jenny’s Groceries, the library, and the community center. These shoes, as crazy as this may sound, know who I am. 

They know I’ve been wrong. 

Suddenly, my stymie doesn’t seem so difficult anymore. 

I lift my chin. 

I am Lina Jimenez. 

And I know what I must do.

***

The cleaning is abject. 

It’s five P.M., long after the Q&A has finished, and I’m still scrubbing away at the gum stuck in between lockers, the dried slime in the hallways, and the lipstick in the washroom mirrors. 

A bittersweet feeling, a mix between lead and fluttery wings, materializes in my stomach. 

“This is my lesson, huh?” I mumble to myself. I would be fibbing if I said I wasn’t disappointed missing the opportunity to meet J.K. Rowling. 

I debated dropping my broom and running to the library several times, but my moral conscience always won.  

Just like when I write, I have to fix my mistakes. 

Moreover, I can’t let my parents find out about the ‘Prankster.”

In retrospect, my pranks weren’t a good idea. Just like in Hamlet, Carrie, Wuthering Heights, and so many other books, revenge makes everything worse. 

Revenge is like a cake. You can’t have it and eat it too: there will always be guilt attached to it. 

***

It’s all working out in my favor. 

“Joshua, we should leave soon. We’ve done what is needed,” footsteps stop behind me. 

“I know, grandpa. I just want to watch her for a bit longer. I can’t believe Lina’s pretending to be the victim when she’s been bullying our entire grade for years.” 

“She may be a bully, but she’s also been severely bullied as well,” Grandpa’s gravelly voice informs. 

“How do you know that?” 

Grandpa shrugs, his old-fashioned briefcase in hand. “I just do. Sometimes bullies have internal reasons for their actions. Lina is expressing her feelings in the only way she knows. You know she is a bully, but have you seen her with any friends?”

Now that I come to think of . . . “No, I guess I haven't seen her with any friends. But, millions of people don’t have friends and they don’t go preying on innocent people. You’re going to tell Principal Torres about her, right?”

“Bullies are struggling just as much as their victims. Instead of punishing her by telling Principal Torres—which may cause her more harm—we could help her to prevent this from happening again.” 

“You’re not going to tell Principal Torres?” I explode. 

From the corner of my eye, I see Lina turn around. Grandpa and I flatten ourselves against the wall. Lina shakes her head, returning to her scrubbing. 

“You’re not going to tell Principal Torres?” I hiss. 

Grandpa looks conflicted. “Joshua, I made a deal with Lina. I don’t break promises. This is Lina's lesson, not her trap. She’s cleaning up her pranks, so I’m letting her off the hook. Don’t you think she chose her victims for a certain reason, as well? Wasn’t there a reason why she stole all your makeup?”

I touch my powdered face. 

Grandpa lays his hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t we give her another chance, Joshua? She has good in her, I know it. She can turn around.” 

I shake his hand off. “Whatever. Bad people never change. I’m telling you, she’s a rotten egg through and through. Mark my words.”

Grandpa steers me towards the exit as Lina tidies up her cleaning equipment. “We’ll see, Joshua. But remember, revenge is never the answer.”

***

  I glance at the setting sun. I really should go home now. 

Or to the library at least. 

After returning the broom, scrubs, and buckets to the janitor's office, I walk home. I hold my head high and I don’t drag my feet. I walk in the middle of the sidewalk, rather than against the wall.

“Oof,” I groan. I look up and down at the boy who bumped into me. “Watch where you’re going, nerd.” 

He scurries away. 

My head pounds and nausea bubbles up in my throat. I swallow but my saliva tastes like ash. 

I stop walking to stare at my reflection in the display window of Jenny’s Groceries. 

I look . . . beaten, weathered, exhausted. The bruise on my eyelid blends with the dark circle under my eye. I’m a battery, surviving on one percent.  

Why would you call him a nerd? My reflection hisses. 

I mean, he looked like one. I rebut. 

Stop it, Lina. This isn’t you. 

You think I can just change overnight?

No one is expecting you to, but you should give being nice a shot. 

I narrow my eyes, if only to hold back tears. Why should I be nice when no one is with me?

If that was the ideology society shared, then why would Issac Newton question why the apple fell on his head? Why would he question it if no one else questioned it?

I—

“Hey, kid, unless you’re here to buy something, get a move on!” Jenny, the old grocer, hollers. 

I pull my hoodie up, scurrying away, stealing one last glance at my defeated reflection. 

I can’t change. 

I’m just a Quiet Kid.