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Chapter 15

Tyler Emery

The papers cascaded down in a vivid white waterfall a moment after I slapped the horrible ogre's hand. Rage, disgust, and utter empathy rumbled inside of me and felt like they were blowing me apart, making thinking unbearable and my actions purely instinctive. There was a moment where time seemed to stop, where Mrs. Kempson's too small mouth popped open like a cherry and her extremely thin eyebrows pulled low over her bulging, judging eyes in puzzlement, where Mr. O'Brien leaned forward, his hand still outstretched and his mouth slightly open as if he had forgotten what he was going to say, and where the papers detailing out Charlotte's possible new life were splayed out in front of us like tarot cards, telling us that we were going to find love in the most impossible way, have great success in the future, and that we would be betrayed by someone close to our hearts. After that second, that moment of calm before the storm, everything fell apart.

The exhaustion hit me like a truck, plowing into me and liquefying my muscles. My vision dimmed as the sound of a tidal wave filled my ears, and I dropped like a stone, curling into a fetal position on the hated documents. Charlotte quickly rose from her spot in the center of the raggedy old plaid couch, slipping her backpack onto her right shoulder and unfolding her cane with a distinct clack as the tip hit the floor. Her cheeks were as red as fall leaves and her glasses were slightly askew, further giving her the look of someone who was coming apart at the very seams. Her lips were trembling, and her hands were shuddering violently, the tip of her cane making an unsteady click click click on the scuffed linoleum floor. I wanted to shield her, to protect her, to take back the whole meeting and make it something that would give her confidence rather than make her feel infinitely worse.

I had applauded her when she led the way to the office, jumping on the behemoth's shoulders and screaming obscenities as the woman muttered under her breath about disrespectful children who felt too entitled. I had stood in front of Charlotte like a valiant knight and tried to block the insults, the terrible accusations, and crippling feeling of failing that I knew all too well. I had felt my heart crack and furiously dashed tears from my eyes during her monologue, flashing back to my meeting in Principal Reynolds's office, of him yelling at me, begging to know when I would care. It had occurred to me that I never did, I never truly cared about my future. Even now, when I was supposed to be doing everything in my power, everything in my being, to get into Heaven, to find a way to slip in through those pearly gates, I didn't care. I didn't care that I could possibly be getting burnt by fire and hot iron in the very near future. All of my energy, all of my effort, was focused on this broken girl, whose china doll-like cracks were so faint, you couldn't see them until it was too late, until the tears, the self-hatred, and worthlessness burst her open like a water balloon. All the king's horses, and all the king's men, couldn't put Charlie together again.

Throughout this, I had wondered faintly at my zeal at protecting this girl that didn't even know I existed, this girl that I had "met" only this morning and was basically a stranger in every way. I didn't know her mother's maiden name, the way she liked her eggs cooked, or if she had ever broken a bone. I knew nothing about her, but knew that if I was asked, I would walk through fire for this little girl with black hair and scuffed sneakers. Did that make me psychotic, like a stalker? Or obsessive? The thoughts cramped my stomach, but one thing was for sure, I felt more alive right then than I had for my last months on Earth.

I had experienced this all rather calmly, considering, but the minute Mrs. Kempson, who I was almost sure was a soulless demon, had mentioned blind school I had felt rage engulf my body like an inferno, blocking out everything but the squinty eyed glare the troll gave when she growled out the words "something she obviously needs." I had imagined I was facing Mrs. Locke again, Alexis's pink sandals tapping in the front row and the DNA models hung on the walls like dusty trophies. Mrs. Kempson and Mrs. Locke were cut from the same cloth and sewn with the same thread. They were both bullies, bullies who had signed on for the wrong profession and hated kids. They made a point to prey on your weakness, to exploit your shortcomings, and to kick you when you're down. This select group of people, the few in the hundreds of thousands, they are what gave educators the bad wrap of not caring about the students. These thoughts and feelings had boiled inside me, like an overflowing stew of potatoes and carrots, and were finally released as I slapped the papers out of her hand.