Crossroads of Two Worlds

1- Janitor Man

(Above is Alana at eleven years old)

I was born in Haleiwa, Hawaii. My mom was twenty six when she had me, and as soon as my father heard that he was going to have a daughter, he was out the door. Or at least, this is what I was told by my mum and my grandmother who raised me. Both of them drilled into me from the second I could understand the concept of commitment, of dedication, of hard work, and belief in yourself. And I know that those qualities will always be at the forefront of my personality. I believe in myself and in my mom even though we had to make the impossible decision to move to England a year ago. I am committed to my mother even though she hardly looks at me anymore, ever since my grandmother died. I am dedicated to my beliefs and my thoughts, one of those beliefs being that perhaps the worst thing in life is secondary school.

As an eleven year old girl in a big city school made for kids much older than me, I was naturally the target of bullying. I was just a bit too smart and a little bit too different for anyone to really get along with me. I was moved up a grade when I was in elementary school. In Hawaii, nobody really thought twice about it, but as soon as I stepped foot in this school, I was an outsider. It didn't help that I'd left my best friend on an island and hadn't made another. This caused me to mature more in a year than any eleven year old girl should have to. My mom took a job that caused her to be away from home when I was there. I had no relatives, not even a distant cousin. I had been in England for a year, and I was already aching to leave. Thankfully, I only had one day left of the school term, and then I was home free for the summer.

Unfortunately, a lot of things can happen in one day.

May 31, 2027

3:25 PM

"Hey vermin, why you roaming the halls?"

I groaned, and the first thing that came through my head was the fact that this meathead must've gained half an IQ point, because he usually couldn't come up with quite as inventive of insults.

Full to the brim with snarky comments, I barely managed to stop myself from shouting in his face. I didn't really care that the boy was my worst enemy. The kid sought me out for heaven's sake! I had successfully avoided Marcus for two whole days, then foolishly allowed myself to hope that I might be left alone today as well, but apparently hope is an illegal emotion... at least in England. I was tired of being bullied, and who wouldn't be?

I walked faster. Attempting to escape from the school's biggest bully was no easy task, he happened to be a school year ahead of me and three or four years older. He must have felt the need to give me a parting gift, as I would be transferring schools next term, having received a scholarship from a school North of here.

I was not a fan of his type of a going away present, but I must've not made it clear enough. Apparently, I couldn't walk fast enough to get away. A big, meaty-fingered, bristly, thick, calloused hand gripped my left shoulder and I froze where I stood. As if his touch had injected ice into my veins and nerves, even if I had wanted to I could not have moved. My sassy thoughts were somehow muted as soon as he touched me. I wish that it didn't hurt me, to be the one that got bullied all the time, but of course it hurt, physically and mentally. Sometimes words were worse than punches. Bruises faded, words would remain forever. Marcus himself didn't scare me, just his actions and the emotional tsunami his insults left behind in my head.

Marcus cackled as if he could read my thoughts, but then he shoved me into the stuccoed wall face first. My bony cheek dug into the bad paint job that graced the walls of this prison. I knew he was having a grand old time when I managed to turn around and saw the smirk on his face. At this point I finally recalled what I'd always been taught, that self defense was justified in the face of danger.

Surely this counted as danger.

I whipped around and faced him with anger blazing through me now, more than fear. I knew that I didn't deserve to be treated like this. We both glared with hatred, both standing poised to fight. Within a split second, I stomped up to him and shoved him backwards as hard as I could with both hands. I stepped further away from the wall he had shoved me against, like a prisoner walking past the bars. Growling in a low volume, I glared holes in the bully, wondering where this sudden confidence had come from, "Stop harassing me or you'll regret it."

My entire body was tense, stiff as a board, and my hands curled into fists, my knuckles turning white. My toes curled in my boots as Marcus smirked again, clearly still thinking I was a worthless insect destined to be crushed under his feet. Then he took a step closer to me. Instead of backing away like I normally would have, I took a step closer. I was almost relieved to be able to kick him in the chest and see him stumble back and slam into the stairs, his face slamming into the metal with a loud CLANG.

Shocked at how far he went back from one kick, I simply stared at his giant, limp body on the floor. Eventually, I shrugged and chalked it up to adrenaline. I knew he'd been seen bullying me before and that the office ladies wouldn't blame me for his injuries even if they had seen the scene, so I just turned around and walked away, school papers in hand. I'd followed all the rules, even waited until he physically hurt me before I hurt him back. Thank you Grandmother for making me take those defense classes. My Grandmother had been a highlight in my life until she died last year, due to a house fire.

I'd only been walking down the hall in the first place to make copies of music for my music teacher, Mr. Collowy. I played the French horn in the school band. I had already made the copies when the harassment began, so I made my way back to the band room.

Mr. Collowy was a middle-aged man with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. However, his beard was almost always scruffy and his school keys (which he loaned to almost anyone) were always dangling from the pocket of his jeans. His obsession with Coca cola concerned most of the students, as did his desire to ride his four wheeler around the city without a helmet. I usually, when the topic was brought up, recommended that he try wearing flip flops and swim trunks too, just to add to the danger. He was sitting in his office rolling chair when I got there, on the phone with his wife. He smiled at me and held out a hand for the papers, which I then deposited in his calloused fingers. He held up one finger to signal me to wait a minute, but then the bell rang. Before he could catch me and bring me back, I was out the door and headed to freedom.

I was more than glad, because as of now, the day was over. And so was the year.

I ran by my locker and grabbed my bag before walking out the front door, or trying to. The door was stuck and it wasn't budging. After yanking it one final time, I turned around to see if I could find the janitor, Mr. Meekson, so he could unstick it for me.

I nearly leaped out of my socks when I found him standing just a few feet behind me. I soon realized that his tall, lanky body was stiffer than an iron rod, his neck so crooked so he looked towards the floor that I might've thought it broken. His kind, hazel eyes were wild and his pupils dilated so much that he barely had any color to his eyes at all. I waved at him and took a step closer.

But Mr. Meekson simply stared at nothing with a haunted expression on his face. His eyes wide and his mouth slightly parted, I would have thought he belonged in a nursing home if he weren't standing up as straight as ever, his infamous neon green broom in hand. He claimed that he actually loved being a janitor, and most of the students loved him, he was wacky and kind enough to not be hated by anyone. Even Marcus had been seen ignoring him. (Ignoring is a big step up for him).

Concerned for one of the only people in this school who had ever been genuinely kind to me, I walked up to him and tapped his shoulder with one finger, "Mr. Meekson? Are you okay?"

His head snapped up so suddenly that I involuntarily flinched and took a few steps back. He now stared at me, his eyes completely black, almost as if he were possessed. In a voice as haunted as his face he recited what seemed to be a prophecy, "One will die and three survive. On gold and silver and lightning thrive. A leader old, heroes new, choose to fight or choose to die, choose to shout or choose to cry."