A Maple Among Elms [2017]

Chapter 3: Melancholy

The next day I wake up and look out the window at my maple tree. I hope today will be better than yesterday. I get dressed, make myself a bagel, and leave for school. When I reach my locker, I know there is something wrong.

"What on earth?" I whisper. My lock is locked, but it has been flipped backwards so I can't reach the combination. I tug on it, mystified.

"You locked your locker backwards?" Jayla leans against her locker, a smug smile on her face. "That was stupid of you." She rolls her eyes. "Idiot."

I glare at her before entering the classroom. "Mr. Davis?" I said. "My, um, my lock was locked backwards." A few kids snicker.

"Oh, that's all right. I have a key," Mr. Davis says, holding up his ID lanyard, from which dangles a small key. He unlocks my locker and I unpack my backpack. Then I take out my new schedule, which Mr. Davis gave me yesterday. Mr. Davis hands out homework planners. I cross my fingers that Jayla isn't in any of my classes.

Again, wishful thinking.

First period is math. Jayla chooses a seat on the left side of the room, and I choose a desk on the opposite side. The teacher, Mrs. Stamford, makes an alphabetical seating chart two minutes later, and I am stuck back next to Jayla, who shoots me a mischievous look.

A few minutes later, a handwritten note falls into my lap. I open it and read it to myself.

You know I'm going to make this torture for you, Arce. You're ugly and stupid. You think you're all that just because you're rich but you're NOT. Don't think I'll play easy on you just because you're weak. Not my fault. And don't you dare tell on me, or else.

I look away and pretend not to care. I hate her. I hate her. She's evil. She's a jerk. She's a monster. I can't think of any other words that wouldn't cause Mom to wash my mouth out with soap. My thoughts are interrupted by Mrs. Stamford saying, "Esperanza Arce! Are you paying attention?" I hear the usual titters when people heard my last name. I sit up straight and nod, ignoring Jayla's smug face.

"What's that in your hand?" Mrs. Stamford continues. "Give it to me." I fold it up and hand it to her. "This is seventh grade, and here in middle school we do not tolerate note-passing. See me after class, please." I sink down low in my chair, feeling Jayla's amused eyes burning into the side of my head.

At the end of class, I pack up my supplies and made my way to Mrs. Stamford's desk. "Esperanza-- Jayla, move along, please!" Mrs. Stamford said sternly as Jayla hangs back in the doorway. Once she has disappeared around the corner, Mrs. Stamford watches me with beady eyes.

"Mrs. Stamford, it wasn't me. Someone passed it to me," I say.

"What was the topic of this note-passing?" she said.

My throat closes. "It was--" I can't speak, so I gesture toward the note. She unfolds it and reads it.

"Esperanza," she says. Her voice has changed drastically. "Who gave you this?"

"I-I don't know," I lie. "Someone slipped it into my locker, it was lodged in the vent." I am holding back tears.

"I'm so sorry this is happening. We will try to find out who did this, and I promise this won't happen again. Feel free to talk to the guidance counselor if you ever need help." Mrs. Stamford gives me a look of sympathy. "You're dismissed. I'll talk to the rest of the teachers about this."

"What-- what if they find out I told?" I gulp down my tears.

"We never give names," she assured me, but I know if Jayla finds out that someone told, she'll know who it was.

My first impression in science class is not the best. I run in and immediately hit a lab table. I scan the room and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that Jayla is not here.

"You're late, Esperanza," Mr. Harrison, the science teacher, says without looking up. I am breathless, nearly in tears, and holding a hastily filled out hall pass.

"Sorry, sir," I say. "It won't happen again. Mrs. Stamford kept me after." I hand him my hall pass and take a seat next to a small Mexican girl I've never seen before. I give her a small smile. "What's your name?" I whisper.

"Gabriela," she says softly, pronouncing it in a Spanish way. She has dark brown hair and thick-framed glasses.

"Nice to meet you, Gabriela," I say, pronouncing it the way she had. She smiles. "Me llamo Esperanza."

"Esperanza," she repeats. "I like that. It is very nice to meet you, Esperanza." She trills her r's and her Spanish accent is almost as thick as Papa's.

"Want to sit with me at lunch?" I ask, and she beams.