SPEAK

Chapter 2: The price of defiance

"Freak!" Not again.

"Hey grandma, I'm talking to you," Deep breaths. Exhale. Inhale.

This was my coping mechanism for when my father hit my mother and I hoped it would work now. I imagined the rain was falling heavily and I stood outside, listening to every drop. Peace. Quite. Suddenly, a jolt of pain snapped me back to reality. This stupid boy was pulling my hair.

"Ha ha ha, I told you guys it was fake," he said, yanking a handful of my white hair and squeezing it in his fist. The pain was familiar, but something inside me snapped. I threw him to the ground and pinned him down.

"I'M NOT A FREAK!" I shouted each word punctuated with a punch. He struggled beneath me, but my fury gave me strength. I kept hitting him until my pale knuckles were stained with his blood. My skin, was almost pale like my father's, I didn't get any of my mother's melanin, I just got her face and body structure, but what good would that do? So I normally look like a ghost with my flowing white hair and almost pale skin. Where was I?

"Just because I have white hair doesn't make me a grandma," I whispered, having switched from punching to slapping. "Put my hair back," I muttered, knowing the hair he had torn out could not be kept back. I dug my fingernails into his skin, feeling his blood drip.

My classmates stared, their hatred was evident, it had doubled, possibly even tripled. But I didn't care. I didn't stop until a teacher pulled us apart.

The next thing I remember, I was in the principal's office, completely zoned out.

"Asha. Asha?" The principal's voice felt distant, echoing as I stared into a void until a hand touched my shoulder, jolting me back. "Did you hear what I just said?" I nodded, though her words had been lost in the fog of my mind.

"Why did you hit that poor boy until he had to be rushed to the hospital? That is bullying!" Bullying? I was the one being bullied, merely defending myself.

"But I.." I began, trying to explain.

"You have no reason for bulling a boy to the point he ended up in the hospital, is that right?" The principal's stern look and dismissive tone reminded me that the boy's parents were the school's top sponsors. I was fighting a losing battle.

"No ma'am," I said softly, trying to recount my side of the story, but she shunned me at every turn. Her mind was made up. After what felt like an eternity, my mother entered the office. It was easy to reach her; she had become a teacher at the school, transitioning from a full-time housewife after my father abandoned us. Her presence was a fragile lifeline, but I could see the weariness in her eyes. I hated myself for it.

"Mrs. Oren, I can't believe your daughter did something like this." The principal muttered, crossing her arms. Yeah, that's right, our surname is my father's first name, and two years after he left us, we were still using it. I know, I hate it too.

"If you wouldn't mind, ma'am, can she excuse us?" My mother asked, directing her gaze to me. Did she just ask if I could leave? Like I didn't know how their conversation would end. The principal would sarcastically insult my mother for being a single parent, insinuate that she couldn't take care of us properly, and suggest we should be handed over to the government. All those insults wrapped in a respectful tone.

The principal nodded, and I sighed, leaving with an eye roll. After a boring while, I pressed my ear to the door.

"Danica, we can't..." Why was it so hard to hear through a door? I lightly kicked the door and immediately regretted it as my mother opened it. My eyes widened in shock.

"We are going home now." I wondered why but didn't ask. I had caused enough trouble. I was probably being expelled. Maybe school wasn't my calling. I even thought about being in a band.

The drive home was long and quiet. I hated this type of silence; it made me feel trapped in a little box. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get out. It only got tighter and tighter until I couldn't breathe.

"Asha, we're home," I heard my mother's voice from a distance and felt small taps on me. "Inhale. Exhale. Asha." Her voice was still distant, but I followed its instructions as my eyes were shut tight. Slowly, I opened my eyes and saw my hands hugging my legs, and my mother's fearful eyes looking at me. This had never happened with my mother there before; she must be so worried.

"What was that?" she asked, her voice laced with worry, as she took my hand in hers. I immediately pulled away and laughed nervously.

"It was nothing, Mom. Let's go inside," I muttered, rubbing my hands together against the cold. As I walked toward the door, I heard my mother sigh and follow behind me.

Inside, she sat me down and gently applied ointment to the spots on my head where the boy had ripped out my hair.

"You got suspended for two weeks," she stated with a reprimanding tone as she massaged my scalp.

"Thank goodness, I thought I was expelled," I muttered under my breath, loud enough for her to hear. She didn't take it lightly.

"Thank goodness? You know this will be on your permanent record, right?" She stopped massaging my head and turned me to face her, her eyes stern. I knew it would be on my permanent record, but I was only in first grade. What was the big deal?

"Why did you hit him back?" my mother asked, her gaze piercing. I had a lot of reasons, but no words came out. I just looked at her like a lost puppy.

"Because he called you a freak? Or a grandma? It doesn't matter, Asha. It's not like you are a freak, or you're going to become a grandma overnight. You have to think about the consequences before you act." She couldn't understand. She made it sound so easy. I didn't know how to explain the feeling to myself, let alone to others, when I got called a freak or worse. She was perfect; she didn't know this feeling. No one did.

"I know he pulled your hair out, but you didn't have to go on a rampage. You could have endured." Endured? For how long would I have to endure? This was the first time I hit back, and I was the one blamed for it. "I would love to tell you that you'll only have to endure for a certain amount of time, but that would be a lie. It's time you faced the real world, Asha. We are poor." She continued, but I only listened and watched as her lips moved in anger.

"What you did today was very expensive, and we can't afford it. If his parents ask us to pay for the hospital bill, we would be drowning in debt." I wanted to cry, but my eyes were dry, and my throat felt tight. I just listened, feeling a thorn in my heart. This wasn't fair.

"Promise me, promise me you won't act so foolishly again. Promise me you will never hit back," she uttered, pressing my hands between hers. That promise was stupid and annoying, but I had to make it. She was my mother, after all. I couldn't disobey her or go back on my promise.

"Promise," I said, almost a whisper. She smiled genuinely, a rare sight these days, a smile that reached her eyes.

"I love you, sweetheart. You are beautiful, and so is your hair," she said, tucking my loose strands behind my ear. Her words felt like a balm, and I smiled back at her, feeling a fleeting moment of peace.

When my two-week suspension ended, I returned to school, but not one of my classmates spoke to me. They were either too scared by the incident or finally had an excuse to avoid me. At first, it was nice to have the solitude, a break from their cruel words and stares. But slowly, the silence turned suffocating.

I wasn't desperate for friends or recognition until I found myself trying to outrun my anxiety every second of every day. Each quiet moment in the classroom felt like an eternity, each lunch break a trial. My thoughts swirled incessantly, louder than any taunts. I would sit alone, tracing patterns in my notebook, trying to focus on anything but the gnawing feeling inside me.

Every day became a battle with my mind, a struggle to keep my head above the rising tide of loneliness. The whispers behind my back, the glances, and the deliberate avoidance became a horror. It was as if I had become invisible, yet painfully conspicuous at the same time.

I began to dread going to school, the anxiety tightening around me like a vise. I tried to bury myself in my studies, but that only worked for a few weeks. The weight of every stare, every whisper, and every moment of silence pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe.

You don't have to tell me I was pathetic. I knew it. I hated it. I hated myself.