Different colored minds

Chicken Foot Soup

PAMELA POV

My mind is a blur of new information. I feel like a sponge left at the bottom of a bathtub for too long. My brother is starting at the school nearby, and I've been wondering if his experience feels as isolating as mine has.
I think the hardest part is probably my lunch period. I'm all alone with food I've never experienced before. It's lonely and the food is different which makes me miss the jungle. Which makes it hurt so much worse that we left. my eye catches onto the trash cans overflowing with uneaten food.
I remember one time we went to a neighbor's house at the edge of the jungle and all they had was chicken bone soup with the greying brown foot still sticking out of the center.
I remember my dad leaning down and telling my brother and I, "now this is all they have so it's important that you say yes And eat it." Culturally, the hosts will only eat after their guests are satisfied. We had food poisoning for two days after that.
Looking over at that trash cans in the lunch room now just reminds me of how much of a different world I am in.
Students can leave their backpacks in the bathrooms here without them being stolen. People have their phones hanging from their back pockets without a second thought because no one will mug them here. They live in luxury and they don't even know it. And Because they have the world at their finger tips, it's so much easier to see just how poor their souls are. They don't smile the same here, or hug the same here. They all look so... alone. And cold.

The neighbors that made us chicken bone soup radiated with a joy I have yet to see in the United States. Anything they had, even if they didn't have anything at all, was given to us. They had nothing—but their souls were rich.

It's an odd thing to see the people here, knowing that materially they could have anything they want But it doesn't matter. They're still unhappy. It's heartbreaking to me. They're alone just like me. What's worse is I don't know how to talk to them. To speak their language. To help them. They don't look at things the same. They don't talk about things the same. They haven't seen the things I've seen. Every conversation I've had so far feels stale as if they don't see me for who I am. They won't see past the way I talk differently. They can't understand—

if there was a level of understanding they would reach out to me. They would want to be my friend. If they cared They would show it—unless they don't know how to show it. I sigh, that's what it is, isn't it? And they'll only understand how to love me if I show unconditional love through my actions. And that sucks. Damn it all, I'm giving myself a head ache once again. I put my head down on my desk, the cold surface feels soothing to my throbbing mind.

Class feels eternal today. The teacher I have after lunch speaks in monotone. She's trying to explain a geometry concept and no one knows what she's talking about. I try to follow along but my true saving grace comes from taking notes. Sadly, I've been so lost in my thoughts I haven't written down the notes for the past two slides.

"Excuse me," i hear a deep voice say to my left. It's still odd hearing English. What I turn around to see is even odder. When I twist around, I come face to face with what must be an angel. My heart has shoved itself up into my throat. The boy has tan skin like the skin in the interior but the hair on his head and body is bleach blonde. It's white. The hair on his arms looks like snow and his eyelashes are rays of sunshine. He has blue eyes that look like mine. It's a smack in the face—I'm in America. Boys can look like this in America. He looks so different, like some wild creature I'm seeing for the first time amongst the banana leaves.
"Yea," I mutter.
"Do you know how to do this one?" He looks bored and cold like the rest of them. I look over at the piece of paper and smile.
"Yeah," I quickly write down what I would do before handing the paper back to him.
"Here you go," but when I let go he doesn't catch it and the paper floats to the ground. leaning down, I attempt to pick it up, which is when I notice he isn't sitting in a chair. He's sitting in a wheel chair.
For a moment I freeze, blinking madly. What happened to him? I hand him the paper.
"Here you go, sorry about that," I smile again and turn back to my own paper.
"Thanks," he says and begins furiously writing on his paper.
"You two in the back, what do you think you're doing?" The teacher at the front is no longer at the front but is trudging down the aisle towards us, her eyebrows creased in anger.
"I do not allow copying in my room. I'm giving you both detention. And I hope you remember this experience for the future."
I feel the lump in my throat. My heart throbbing.
Detention? I was just explaining the problem.
"I..." the boy begins.
"I don't want to hear it. Both of you will report to the office after school today for your repercussion."
A silence spreads throughout the room.
The teacher is walking back to the front of the room to grab her marker and continue.
"If any others would like to have detention please follow their example," there is a murmur that runs through the room.
"Now," her voice raises, "it's time we continue our lesson."
I may be small, and I'd be okay with detention for me, but I'm not okay with a senseless detention for the kid in the wheel chair— honestly I should learn his name.
"Ma'am, he dropped his paper and I wanted to help since he seemed to already be busy adding notes from the book. He didn't copy. He's been too focused on what you were talking about. And if I may ma'am, he is in a wheel chair and shouldn't have to go pick up the sheet of paper. So why are you punishing me for doing the right thing—"
"Pamela!" The teacher yells above the din in the classroom.
"Not after that smart alack response."
"I'm so sorry sir. I'm not meaning to be disrespectful. Please sir can we discuss this more I..." I can't help but try. If my parents know I'm getting detention something might happen again.
"I was really just trying to help," I continue. I can feel the rock in my throat. Don't give my dad a reason to be mad,
Please.
"I needed help and she helped me. Like she said, I'm handicapped so why are you—" the blonde's voice sounds bored. He must have said something because I stood up for him but when I look at his face, I know it's not the reason. He's not even looking at my face. So why?
"And I will talk to you both about this after school," the teacher concludes. My eyes meet the boy's. Why did he help me?