Page 6 of A Summer to Save Us

I wipe my sweaty fingers on my jeans, glad I’m no longer the center of attention, when Mrs. Elliott claps her hands.

“Unimpeachable as always. Theodor Fontane said, ‘A good aphorism is the wisdom of an entire book in a single sentence.’” She turns on the interactive whiteboard, which is already set up with her slideshow.

“Evan, put your cell phone away and read aloud, please.” Her charming tone is in stark contrast to the brief instruction. I think she just can’t be bothered.

Evan sighs in exaggerated annoyance.

“If necessary,

1. The aim of life is self-development. Our purpose is to fully develop our own being! — Oscar Wilde

2. The meaning of life is not to actually find it once a day but to keep searching for it. — Ernst Ferstl

3. Punk rock is musical freedom. You can say, do, and play whatever you want. According to the dictionary, NIRVANA means freedom from pain, suffering, and the external world, and that’s pretty close to my definition of Punk Rock. — Kurt Cobain, Nirvana

4. I believe the meaning of life is to be happy. — Albert Hofmann (discoverer of LSD; not verbatim, but analogously).”

The class laughs at the last words, including Evan.

Mrs. Elliott’s red-lined lips don’t even show a hint of a smile.

“I want you to write your own aphorism about the meaning of life this summer and prepare a five-to-ten-minute oral presentation.” She looks at me, and I feel hot.

I hope the exemption for my oral performance will extend into my senior year; otherwise, I’ll start the new year with an F in the fall.

Then again, this problem is a universe away from my current one.

My life makes no sense anyway since I have nothing to say, verbally or in writing.

I have only one goal—to hide from the world and avoid the battle I never started, in which I’m always the loser.

And only one sentence from the slide sticks in my mind: ‘According to the dictionary, NIRVANA means freedom from pain, suffering, and the outside world.’

Kurt Cobain shot himself.

Between philosophy and English, half-eaten sandwiches and half-empty yogurt cups spill out of my locker.

Coke spills from an open can onto my flip-flops while a few seventh-graders around me openly giggle.

A group of older students avoids me like I have the plague, and Tom from the lacrosse team kicks my English book into the puddle of cola.

I’m so tired of it—all of it, but mostly the laughter.

On my hands and knees, I collect the smelly garbage, flee to the restroom, and wash my hands, shoes, and feet under the faucet.

Naturally, I’m late to English class, where I’m ridiculed by Mr. Walker, who condescendingly calls me “Silent Girl.” I force an apologetic smile onto my face, but by then, his interest in me has waned, and he’s joking with Sarah, the head cheerleader.

As soon as I sit in my seat, voices start up behind me.

Montgomery, you ugly thief, you rotten piece of trash .

Stinky bitch . All from Hills in golf gear—friends of Chester.

One of them is Hunter, Chester’s best friend.

The girls are crazy about his model face.

He plays on the lacrosse team and thinks he can do anything.

No, wrong, he can do whatever he wants. Next to Chester, I hate him the most.

I try to concentrate on class, but I’m already fearing lunch break and not looking forward to biology and art.

My upper arms hurt. Concentrating, I breathe in and out.

The air in the classroom is stuffy and humid.

Paper balls pelt my head from behind, as well as a few moldy cherry tomatoes, one landing on my already sticky English book.

Sometimes, I wonder how sick you have to be to let tomatoes rot just to throw them at someone.

As I remove the mushy tomato from my English book, Mr. Walker accuses me of being responsible for the mess in the classroom and makes me clean up after class. Stifled giggles follow his words.

I press my nails into my palm and take a deep breath.

It remains silent for a while, and I think it’s over. Now, I just have to get through biology, lunch, and art.

Hunter, who’s right behind me, whispers, “We’ll get you, Montgomery. All of us.”

My hands shake so hard I shove them under my thighs so no one will notice. I’d like to jump up and flee the room, but I’m frozen.

When Mr. Walker calls me to the board, I can’t get up.

I just sit there and listen to his words as if they were coming from a well.

Eternal special treatment, Silent Girl, a slacker who can’t get her life together .

I can’t breathe. I can’t think clearly. I don’t even notice the bell ringing, only that I get demerits for refusing to perform.

As I collect the tomatoes and paper balls, I still feel dazed, wandering like a zombie.

There are no significant incidents until lunchtime.

It’s noticeably quiet. Too quiet.

After biology class, I loiter in the hallway in front of the teacher’s lounge until everyone is in the cafeteria, and Mrs. Elliott shoos me away—to the yard or the cafeteria.

But I can’t go to the cafeteria. I don’t eat in public.

Besides, the Hills always take my tray away or sit next to me so they can squirt ketchup all over me or dunk my face in mashed potatoes.

During lunch break, I have only two options: hide in the closet in the basement near the old stage sets or spend time in the rarely used restroom by the gym.

Since Chester is in art class, I don’t dare go into the basement, so I retreat to the girls’ bathroom and sit on the floor right next to the door.

The ceilings are high here, too, the brick walls block out the smell of incense, but at least I’m safe.

Tired, I lean my head against the cold wall and pull my legs against my body.

I feel burned out and empty. Maybe I’m seriously ill.

I hardly sleep anymore, and my grades are getting increasingly worse.

I can’t concentrate in class, and I know I don’t eat enough.

I’m often so exhausted after school that I can’t even do my homework.

At night, when I can’t sleep, I do laundry or clean the house because no one else does it, and everyone expects me to.

According to them, I don’t contribute anything else to the family.

After all, I have the time because I don’t go to parties, shop, or have any friends who want to get together with me.

We’ll get you. All of us .

I try not to think about that threat, but I can’t get it out of my head.

I should have jumped this morning.

With trembling hands, I wipe my face.

NIRVANA means freedom from pain, suffering, and the outside world .

Exhausted, I close my eyes. I just want to rest a bit.

Escape the panic and loneliness. Feeling completely alone is perhaps the worst thing.

When Jenny went to school here, it wasn’t that bad.

We were two outsiders who got together and were mostly left alone.

But that was before the incident. The incident .

The one that made Arizona stop talking to me and caused me lose control of my life.

Suddenly, the door flies open so abruptly it smacks the wall loudly.

“Montgomery! Look at that! So this is where you’re hiding. Abigail was right.” Chester’s voice sends a feeling of disgust and panic through my veins.

Out of instinctive fear, I stand up and retreat to the middle of the room, which he acknowledges with a mocking grin.

I wish he knew how his smarmy model face and blue-and-white-striped golf polo, that snobbish demeanor, and his upswept, blow-dried reddish-blond hair disgust me.

If I had my way, he would drown in his father’s koi pond.

He strolls casually toward me, flanked by his loyal followers, Hunter and Zachery, with Evan remaining in the background.

“Why so quiet? Did you become speechless when you saw me?” he asks with a suggestive wink, and the others laugh.

It feels like he punched me in the stomach. Step by step, I back up until I run into a wall.

He stops right in front of me. “I have something special planned for you today. If you don’t want to, you’d better tell me straight away. Now! ”

Something is different. My body is cemented by my silence, and I am unable even to shake my head.

In return, Chester raises his shoulders, smiling strangely. “Did you hear any protests, boys?”

“Not a word.” The dark-haired Hunter assesses me slyly with his jackal eyes. His whispered words from English class crawl coldly and eerily across my skin.

“Me neither.” Chester looks at Evan. “Wait outside the door, and don’t let anyone in, okay?”

The fear seeping into me like water becomes an explosive flood that drowns all thoughts. I want to pass Chester, but he’s too close to me. And he’s big.

“Zach!” He nods to the pale boy with the middle part, who picks up my bag, opens it, and throws it into the sink.

“And now, Montgomery? What shall we do with you? You’re all alone here.” The glow in Chester’s watery eyes has become even more intense. And more meaningful.

I stretch my arms forward defensively, but he grabs my wrists, pushes them down, and encircles them with one hand. I struggle in his grip for a few seconds, but it’s useless, as always. I can’t fight him. I can never compete with anyone.

He looks at me strangely before nodding to Zachery, whose fingers are on the faucet. He barely turns the tap, and a few drops drizzle into my bag.

“Why don’t you tell him to stop?”

“Oh, yeah, tell him,” Hunter agrees. He leans casually against the wall, huge and terrifying.

I glance from one to the other in a panic. Hunter’s eyes shine unnaturally, almost feverishly. It’s not about my bag. No, it’s never about the trivial things. It’s always about power. About submission. And, naturally, I remain silent.

I hate myself for that.