Battered, With Love

Chapter 16 -- St. Augustine

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            “Alright, everyone, ready to go?” Mr. McPherson claps his hands together, effectively catching everyone’s attention. It’s dark outside; the sun has yet to make an appearance. We’re standing at the bus ramp at school at six o’clock in the morning, about to head to St. Augustine for the day. We’ve been learning about the Spanish discovery of Florida and today, it was time to go experience history

            “Yes!” We all respond in unison. Mr. McPherson orders us to get on the bus, saying we can sit next to whoever we want. My palms start sweating at the thought. I don’t have many girl friends, mostly because they already have their little groups and cliques. All my guy friends will feel awkward sitting next to a girl, so…that leaves me with nobody, really.

            I take my time getting on the bus, which is a major mistake. I should have been one of the first people on and just sat in an empty pair of seats. Then, if someone wanted to sit next to me they could.

            For the bajillionth time, I wish that Sayeeda and Omar went to my school. I wish Harun wasn’t sick so that he could come today. Without them, eighth grade has been lonely and boring.

            Don’t get me wrong, in sixth and seventh grade I had plenty of friends, mostly girls. We did the usual girl things, and it was fine for a while. Then, in seventh grade, Hamza showed up and he and I became enemies in such a short amount of time, I still can’t think of the deciding moment where he first started hating me and I started loathing him and his actions. For the four months we were stuck doing that group project in science, I used to want to tear my hair out in fury.

            At the same time of this field trip, Musa and Isa were a year and a few months old, and Musa began to exhibit the first signs of autism. We were scared, all of us. My parents, in particular, were grief-stricken, forced to watch as their own daughter, the one who gave up her teenage years to raise her younger brother and sister, experienced the pains of having a child with a disability all over again.

            No matter how much I dislike my sister at times, I will be the first one to say that she has had a tough life, and I can’t even begin to fathom the pain that she’s gone through in her twenty-seven years of life.

            Musa’s autism took a toll on all of us as a family, and seventh and eighth grade were tough times for all of us for a myriad for reasons. Some of them affected the whole family; others, just me. I neglected to tell my parents this but as the problems at home grew worse and more persistent, my personality started changing.

            My already too-mature-for-her-age self grew even more mature and I became quieter, no longer interested in talks of boys or clothes or fashion. My mind was preoccupied with bigger things, and I became the outcast.

            The one thing more painful than being formally kicked out of a group of friends? Being informally kicked out, where they don’t tell you they want nothing to do with you; they just show it. The remaining year and a half of middle school was hell, with my stomach dropping at every prospect of social interaction in the form of academic work because I had no one to turn to.           

            I’m not blaming Hamza for all that happened, but it’s safe to say that he was part of the reason why that year and a half was nearly unbearable.

            The bus is nearly full and I try stalling by walking slowly so that I can search for empty seats next to people where my company is welcome. All the girls in my class have their best friends, so they’re sitting next to each other. The boys have their friends too.