Different colored minds

The Cameleon

PAMELA

Here, they have vending machines and water fountains. Here, They have roofs that aren't tin. They have drinkable water out of the faucet. Their clothes aren't dirty. their shoes aren't worn through. The air smells different, the people feel different, and above all, the people look different. These people look like me. Like I'm just another one of them. And that detail is the most off putting part, I'm A chameleon hiding in broad daylight. It was never like this down there. Down there, People would stop to stare at me because of my appearance. It only got worse as I got older. they figured they could talk about me because I couldn't speak their language. But I did. And now that I'm here, they assume they can talk about me because I can't speak more than one language. But I do—

The walls don't come down around me emotionally until the last period of the day. Something thumps to the ground next to me. I look down, and my eyes are met with a jumbo sized rainbow lighter.

"Hey Sierra, you dropped your lighter," the boy behind me mutters, leaning forward so that his body is inches behind mine. I can feel his breath crawl up my spine. Sierra nods and quickly stuffs it back into her pocket.

"What are you looking at?" She looks at me scathingly, like I'm gonna snitch. Why would I?

"Why do you have a lighter?" I whisper blankly. She looks at me with a sardonic smirk.

"Why do you think?" She snaps And looks back at the paper she's doodling on.

Why do I think? But the problem is, I don't know why someone would need a lighter. The only time I'd seen a lighter used was for candles during power outages or birthdays. Then it hits me. I've seen one other use for lighters in the old movies. People need lighters when they smoke cigarettes, but I thought that people didn't do that anymore. She's one of the only freshmen in this French class too, she can't be more that 14. How could she be smoking at 14? Not so young—

a bucket of ice cold culture shock shatters down my spine. It's worse than drowning, it knocks the wind out of me and then holds me down. And that's about when my body shatters into uncontrollable sobs. All day I told myself I can't cry so why now, in the middle of a stupid French class can't I get a hold of myself. The girl sitting in front of me turns around to pat my back.

"What's wrong?" She asks. I can't breathe between sobs.

"I'm not from here," is all I get out.

"Where are you from, dear?" Her voice is soft and calming. And my emotions explode. I'm filled with hot, angry panic.

"I'm from the jungle," and the world fades back into my sobs. I don't know the movies they keep talking about, I don't know the snacks they're so adamant about, and I can't throw away my left over food the way they can. No one is going to understand me ever, this place is nothing like home. Even if home was never home either—

I get on the bus at the end of the day, headed back to my house—but even the buses are different. I look out of the window. It doesn't matter if it's different, soon I'll be home and I can be with my family. Even if it feels worse—

A patch of trees roll past the window. This is the first time I've seen fall since I was in fourth grade. I'm trying to think which state I was in at the time when my eyes catch onto an apple. We always had guava trees around my house in the jungle. It's nice to know they have fruit trees here. And then the bus slows down to a stop, and the door slides open.
"Have a wonderful day," I say to the bus driver as I Step out onto the hot concrete. I meander back to my house and Finally making it to the door slowly reaching for the handle. I can hear them fighting from here.

"You don't know what they did to me!"

"But they need you now, at least think of the money if helping your parents won't cut it. we can't stay in a house for rent forever!" I make each of my movements as silent as death as I walk over to the stairs.

"Pamela, querida. How was your first day of classes?" My mom's face stretches back in a smile.

"It went well," I smile back. Why can't I say how it actually went? How could I, when they already have so much going on?

"Why don't you come eat? I'm making a snack for you," my mother says gleefully. my dad moves away from the kitchen to sit across from the tv. He flips through the channels.

"Don't worry," my mom whispers. "He'll come around." I smile and grab a fresh roll off of the stove top. Though in the past my grandparents weren't very good to him, they have been wonderful as grandparents. I feel like they both show a lot of regret towards the way they treated him. They want to make amends, but I'm not sure if he'll ever forgive them. I guess some things only god can forgive.

"I have to go do homework," I say as I run past my mom up the stairs. The second I close the door I drop my backpack to the floor and jump under my sheets. My parents hate how much I watch youtube but it's better than living in my head all day. Not that I'd ever say that to them. I watch a youtuber named __freetimekiller__. He apparently has other sites he uses to stream, but most of them are blocked by my parents. They let me have YouTube because I use it to play classical music in the background while I do my homework. And spend all night watching my favorite gamers on repeat. Anything to drown reality out.

my door slams open. I shove the ipad behind my back. Dread fills my lungs.

"Martin, what are you doing in here, I thought mom told you that you can't barge in like that," my heart kicks up a beat. Martin is 15 going on 16 and he's 6 feet of trouble.

"I need the ipad," he grunts.

"Mom already said I could use it for homework," I already know this is a losing battle but it's worth a try—

"But are you using it for homework?" He smirks, his arms crossed.

"I'm about to..." I trail off defensively.

"Where'd you put it?" He asks.

"No, you can have it after I'm done," I say pointedly. He raises his eyebrows and then grins.

"I want it now," he dictates.

"But," I don't even know why I even try to talk to him anymore.

"Where is it?" He's stepping towards me. If he tells my mother I'm not using it for homework then they won't let me use it until my free time during the weekends. If I tell him I'm having a hard time and I want out of my head I already know he's going through ten times worse than I am. My dad is harder on him. I slowly pry the ipad out from behind my back.

"Here," I say, and he walks away, taking my escape with him.

And now I'm left with my homework and my head.