Rats, Roses And Paper Bones

CHAPTER 17: a writing tale

I loved writing.
I cherished scribbling random ideas on paper. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I could never quite express my thoughts and feelings verbally, so I often poured them onto paper instead. Writing was easier. It allowed me to say everything I couldn't bring myself to say out loud.
At that point, I felt miserable.
It had been a week since Dad's outburst, and I had resumed school the day before. Mum had driven me back herself.
“You don't need to worry so much about your dad, dear,” she had said as we drove. “You know how he is. It's almost impossible to impress him, so why stress yourself trying? You'll only make yourself miserable.”
“Do you believe I'm a disappointment too, Mum?”
She glanced at me briefly before turning her attention back to the road.
“Of course not. No child is a disappointment.”
“But you believe me, right?”
“Of course I believe you, my love. Why wouldn't I?”
My expression softened, and a small smile crept onto my lips.
“You're only saying that because you're my mother.”
“Exactly,” she said. “I'm saying it because I'm your mother. I gave birth to you and raised you, so I know what you're capable of.”
She paused.
“Unless, of course, there's something you're not telling me.”
I smiled.
“You know I'll always tell you the truth, Mum.”
“Good. I'm glad to hear that. Don't ever feel like you have to hide anything from me, okay?”
I sighed.
“Okay, Mum.”
She smiled.
“Now cheer up, Doyin. Go back there and make me proud.”
And there it was.
My mother's ability to turn almost every conversation into a motivational speech.
Classic Mum.
Still, she was right about one thing.
There was probably nothing I could ever do to completely satisfy Dad.
But it wasn't only Dad.
Everywhere I went, I sometimes felt like a shadow—seen by no one, known by no one. Invisible, until it was time to point out what I'd done wrong.
I felt miserable.
So I did what I always did when I couldn't put my feelings into words.
I wrote.
I opened my notebook and scribbled down a poem.
No one is perfect,
yet I am condemned for deviating
from perfection.
Everyone sees the brightness of the sun
and the beauty of the stars,
yet few acknowledge the radiance
of the moon that surpasses them all.
Is perfection an illusion,
or am I simply trapped
in a world of fantasy?
I stared at the words for a while.
Maybe I was being dramatic.
But at least the paper understood me.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
I immediately snapped the notebook shut.
I looked up.
Michael was walking towards me.
“Hey, Michael!” I said, forcing some excitement into my voice. “You're back.”
“Yeah.”
He stopped in front of me.
“So this is where you've been.”
He sat down beside me on the grass.
I frowned slightly.
Was he looking for me?
Why?
As he settled down, the hem of his trousers lifted slightly, exposing part of his lower leg. I noticed several metal straps wrapped around it.
My curiosity immediately kicked in.
I'd heard people mention that Michael had “weak bones” and that he wasn't allowed to play football or participate in certain track-and-field events.
I wanted to ask about the metal supports.
But I looked away.
Whatever his condition was, it wasn't my business unless he chose to tell me.
“I just got back today,” he continued. “I've been looking everywhere for you.”
I blinked.
He really had been looking for me.
Was he seriously becoming a stalker?
“I didn't expect to find you here, though.”
I looked around.
We were sitting in the middle of the school football field, surrounded by grass and flowers.
Yeah.
I had wandered here because I needed somewhere quiet to think.
“Yeah. I just wanted some fresh air.”
“Oh.”
He glanced around.
“What's that?”
He pointed at my notebook.
“This?”
I hugged it closer.
“Nothing. Just some jottings.”
“Let me see.”
Before I could respond, he reached for it.
“Michael!”
I tried to pull it back, but he was quicker.
“Relax.”
“Give it back!”
“I'm just looking.”
He flipped through the pages.
I tried to snatch it back a few times, but eventually gave up.
After several minutes, he closed the notebook.
He smiled.
“So these are the ‘jottings’ you were talking about?”
I avoided his eyes.
“Yeah.”
He looked at me.
“Doyin, you're actually really good.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Your writing. It's really good.”
A strange warmth spread through me.
No one had ever called me talented before.
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
He tapped the notebook.
“There are writing teams in the senior classes. They represent the school in essay competitions, debates, word contests and stuff like that.”
He paused.
“You should join ours.”
I laughed.
“Let me guess. You're a member?”
“Actually...” He leaned back proudly. “I'm the vice president.”
I laughed.
“Wow. Impressive.”
“I know.”
“I see what you did there.”
He grinned.
“Just trying to recruit some talent.”
“Nice advertising.”
I took the notebook from him.
“I'll think about it.”
And I meant it.
Joining the writing team wouldn't be such a bad idea.
I loved writing, after all.
And if I could win an essay competition, maybe it would prove something to Dad.
Maybe I could finally show him that I wasn't a disappointment.
Unfortunately, there was still the little problem of Michael.
I was supposed to stay away from him.
But perhaps I could kill two birds with one stone.
I could join the writing team, prove myself academically and maybe even prove to Michael that I wasn't the delinquent the school apparently suspected me of being.
Maybe then he'd stop monitoring me like I was some criminal.
Chemistry Class
“Adejare Adedoyin.”
I froze.
Every head in the classroom turned towards me.
I slowly stood up and walked towards Mr. Adegoke.
I was only going to collect my chemistry test script, but judging from the way everyone was staring at me, it felt like I was going to collect an award.
According to the older students, Mr. Adegoke had a habit of announcing everyone's scores publicly.
I hadn't believed them.
Until now.
He had already called Michael and two other students before my name.
Michael had scored 18 out of 20.
Not bad.
I was beginning to realise that he was actually very smart.
Then there was Moyo.
She had scored 20 out of 20.
Of course she had.
Forget her attitude. That girl was ridiculously intelligent.
And now it was my turn.
My palms were sweating.
I walked up to Mr. Adegoke.
He adjusted his circular glasses and looked at me.
“Here you go.”
I collected the script.
“You did well.”
I looked down.
20/20.
My heart leapt.
I had done it!
Before I could stop myself, I smiled.
“Twenty out of twenty,” Mr. Adegoke announced to the class.
A few people murmured.
Then he looked towards Moyo.
“Looks like you have competition now, Miss Johnson. You'd better stay on your toes.”
A few students laughed.
Moyo's eyes met mine.
Her expression was unreadable.
I simply smiled and walked back to my seat.
I thought that was the end of it.
I was wrong.
That moment marked the beginning of what would eventually become a very complicated relationship with Moyosore Johnson.
Mr. Adegoke's Office
“She cheated!”
Moyo's voice echoed through the small office.
One thing I'd learned about people was that desperation could make them do ugly things.
But I never thought Moyo would stoop this low.
“No, I didn't!”
Mr. Adegoke looked between us.
Moyo had apparently gone straight to him after class to complain that she suspected I had cheated.
Maybe she was shocked that someone had finally caught up with her after years of being the top student.
Mr. Adegoke adjusted his glasses.
“Moyo,” he said calmly, “what exactly makes you think she cheated?”
“Because there's no way she could have gotten twenty.”
I stared at her.
“You got twenty too. What's so special about mine?”
“That's exactly my point!” she snapped. “I got twenty!”
Mr. Adegoke raised a hand.
“Let me finish.”
Moyo fell silent.
“Did you personally see her cheating?”
“Well... no.”
“Then what evidence do you have?”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Mr. Adegoke leaned back in his chair.
“If you don't have evidence, then I can't act on an accusation.”
“But sir—”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You're free to be suspicious, but suspicion isn't proof.”
Moyo folded her arms angrily.
“Fine.”
“Good. You can go.”
She turned and stormed out of the office, her shoes hitting the cement floor with loud, angry steps.
I waited for a moment before turning to leave.
“Miss Adejare.”
I stopped.
“Yes, sir?”
“Don't think you're completely off the hook.”
My stomach dropped.
“Sir?”
“Someone has raised a concern about your result. I'm not accusing you of cheating, but I will be paying attention.”
“But sir, I didn't cheat.”
“I heard you.”
He adjusted his glasses.
“But if you didn't cheat, then you have nothing to worry about.”
I nodded.
“Still, don't give anyone a reason to question your work. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you're going to perform this well, keep it up honestly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You can go.”
I turned towards the door.
As I walked out, one thought stayed in my mind.
Why did it feel like no one believed me—even when I was telling the truth?