Page 5 of A Summer to Save Us

A s I hide between the school fence and a thick cherry laurel, I write a message to Mr. Spock: I have to go to summer school. The sentence alone is enough to make the catastrophe clear.

The problem with being late is the exact timing.

I have to wait until the hallways are empty but still make it to the classroom before the teacher.

Today, we have Philosophy with the over-punctual Mrs. Elliott, so I walk through the wrought iron gates right after the second bell.

Kensington High – Private school is written on them in gold letters.

Behind it lies the courtyard with the old English cobblestones, sycamores, and oleander bushes. My everyday walk to Golgotha.

With the bag pressed against my stomach, I carefully look around to see if any groups are hiding behind the lush rhododendron, but I don’t see anyone.

I never wanted to go to this school. Unfortunately, Kensington is the only high school in the area that accepts psychological assessments and medical certificates. Or rather, the teachers agree to forego oral grades and accept homework instead of presentations.

On the outside, the school seems so peaceful I could scream. The building is a modernized brick, more reminiscent of a Victorian abbey than a high school.

I begged Dad to take me out of this school and try homeschooling, but he refused, saying I would only isolate myself even more.

After a moment’s hesitation, I take a deep breath and scurry through the door, rushing through the imposing brick hall with its high ceilings. The smell alone turns my stomach. It smells old and venerable, like incense or a church.

I peer around the corner and check the hallway.

Damn! Brent’s clique, of all people, is standing in front of the lockers.

Tenth graders. Bad! Younger than me but taller, and they adore Chester and Hunter.

They constantly feel the need to prove to them how cool they are so they’re invited to all the high society-parties.

For a moment, I want to retreat into the hall, but one of them has already spotted me, so I keep moving. Maybe they’ll leave me alone today since they’re late, too.

I lower my head and try to pass inconspicuously, but I know it’s pointless. I hear at least one asinine remark.

Don’t look at them! Pretend they aren’t there!

Suddenly, it’s quiet; their conversations have stopped. I’m right there, passing them, mentally steeling myself against the attack that I never see coming in time.

“Hey, Montgomery!” Without warning, I’m shoved from behind and hit the brick wall opposite the lockers. A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder where yet another bruise is, but no sound comes out of my mouth.

I try to hurry on without looking at any of them, but I’m not that lucky. They run after me like animals on the prowl. “Montgomery,” someone says under his breath. “Montgomery,” echoes a whole choir. I feel their sensation-mongering crackling in the incense-filled air.

“Hey, Montgomery, say something!” I’m shoved again, this time so hard I stagger and hit the side of my head against the wall. Hyena-like laughter buzzes around me.

I clutch my bag and put one foot in front of the other. My temple is throbbing, and I want to get away from here—ideally, millions of light-years away.

“Stop ignoring us! Wait!” Brent grabs my arm and shoves me roughly toward the lockers.

“You’re late again today!” He stands purposefully in front of me, meaning that trying to walk past him would only result in further attacks.

“Didn’t Chester tell you to be here before the bell?

” The crowd surrounds me in a semicircle.

My back is against the lockers, and a knob presses hard into my shoulder blade.

“Answer him!” a black-haired boy, whom I’ve never seen in this group, snaps at me.

My throat feels like a wasp has stung it.

“Zachery says she wouldn’t even scream if you broke her arm,” someone scoffs.

“She probably doesn’t even scream when she’s being fucked,” another shouts from the crowd. Their roaring laughter spills over me.

“Who’d want to fuck Kansas Montgomery?”

I stare at their white sneaker-clad feet and imagine that I’m no longer me.

“Say something, Montgomery! Scream!” they shout, maniacally.

Less than a second later, I’m pulled forward again, shoved, held, and pushed away again like a punching bag.

Everything blurs before my eyes—lockers, heated bodies, and countless hands—but I don’t resist. Not anymore.

My helplessness is too pathetic. Instead, I escape in my mind, hearing the metallic clatter and the gibberish shouts as if from a distance, feeling the pain with only part of my consciousness.

The other part waits for everything to be okay and thinks about the beautiful words of Rumi in Kansas’s Strange she’s always friendly, and her course is the safest place in school for me.

In her class, there are no let’s-see-if-she-truly-won’t-scream jokes, no Chester-said attacks.

The only people here are the intellectuals from the debate club who don’t care about me at all or are just plain embarrassed.

Evan Larson is the only one among them who could pose a threat to me, but without Chester and his horde, he won’t do anything.

Once, I was secretly in love with him in middle school before he became a follower.

With trembling fingers, I scribble geometric figures in my notebook, slowly emerging from the haze caused by the attack.

A lot of fun . I can’t concentrate on the material.

Chester always gets what he wants—but not from me.

Guess that’s what appeals to him. I seriously don’t understand how Arizona could fall in love with him—if she even truly was in love with him.

She has a crush on a different guy every month.

“It would be nice if you could turn your attention back to metaphysics, Kansas!”

I jump at the sound of my name. Someone giggles.

Mrs. Elliott smiles at me reassuringly, her blonde curls reminding me once again of an older version of my sister. I glance at my doodles as she continues.

“This year, we learned that breaking down the question of meaning is a modern phenomenon. We continued to go through the four steps of the breakdown. In Western Christian culture, everything was related to the Creator. The question of meaning could only be traced back to God; man lived according to His exact instructions. With the collapse of this worldview, there was Kant, who answered the question of meaning with meaningful action but also couldn’t entirely avoid a higher power.

Nietzsche contradicted him with the statement, ‘ God is dead!’ People have to create their own meaning…

Now, let’s move on to your task for summer vacation. ”

A groan ripples through the class, and Evan grumbles particularly loudly. “It’s summer vacation, Mrs. Elliott. Do those words mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Elliott laughs, a young, confident laugh that I envy. “You’ll thank me for this one day. Who can tell me what an aphorism is?”

Elijah, the school nerd, raises his hand with a loud snap of his fingers, almost jumping out of his chair. “An aphorism is an expression that contains an insight or basic truth,” he says after Mrs. Elliott calls on him.

“Wikipedia couldn’t have put it better,” Evan grumbles from the back row.

“That’s a quote from the current dictionary,” Elijah replies, sniffing. The others laugh.