THE DIARY OF A MISFIT

OPERATION RED_CROSS

[7] The biggest war faced by every person is between the image reflected on the mirror and the image carved by the mind. The real struggle faced in moulding an aesthetic persona from the beliefs, desires, and inherited behaviors to fit perfectly in his environment and live in similitude to a life of peace and unrivaled prosperity in all aspects. Victory is not conceived by suppressing the will of one image over the other (that's a long road to depression), but in the knowledge of how to pick the most suitable image for that specific situation.

Imagine falling from a really tall building into a dark abyss. Nothing to grab hold to. Just an endless fall into the great nothing; plagued by wails and screams of anguish. A sting of bitterness like rust on a parched tongue. That was my worst nightmare. But it had nothing on Mondays.

Yes, I will rather pick a night with my worst fears than a school day on Monday.

There were no bright morning skies to look forward to as a Misfit. The afternoon dunned with terrors battling social pariahs. Classes were our safe haven—more like, safest hell. A few rightly answered questions—specifically picked to make a show of our humiliation, and we were in the clear.

To be honest, the only thing that rivaled Monday classes were Monday club activities. Another inventive way to make the life of a Misfit more unbearable. Worse, it had the same penalties with Roll Call, but only way easier to avoid—if you have an aptitude for high jumps and legs as quick as a hamster on a wheel. Another important skill beyond my reach.

The Club Activities were run by fellows who thought baggy trousers and high-heel shoes were still trending. Teachers who should have just stuck to what they were good at—whiteboards, markers, and anger issues.

They saw social activities as an avenue to talk about their perceived social conduct and the decline in ethics value. Presidents and other club posts were picked according to their taste—most, friends and relatives. So, no one popular enough dared challenge their rule. Their word was the law—go against it and earn a walk on the plank.

My Junior High years saw brief spells with the French club—mostly, for exam sakes. Debate club, which was a place for teachers to voice their disgust about society. Young farmers club—not my thing. Young Innovators Club—a nice place for sci-fi geeks to talk about futuristic technologies, mostly, Star Wars fanfic. And the Music Club.

The Music Club in my time as a Junior was the most overlooked club. We were hardly more than six. Seven was wishful thinking. There were no executives due to our number and the inconsistency of members. For all I knew, the last president was my cool elder brother, Steven. The club's coordinator, Mr. Alex was a maths teacher. P.s we had no music teacher. He ran the club the same way he taught—slow and boring.

But all that changed to my earnest despair after the release of baby by Justin Bieber; followed by the rise of Taylor Swift. Virtually every girl wanted a voice like Whitney Housten. A cute guy with a charming smile and scintillating voice was the jackpot. Misfit or not, you became the guy every girl wanted.

It was an offer too good to pass on.

The days that followed saw an increase in people signing up for the Music club. Boys reaching into their inner self; seeking their long lost talent for singing. And girls living out their Disney's princess dream. Most succeeded at hitting gold with their voice—a few unfortunate folks like me, succeeded at making a fool of ourselves.

Who knew a jagged metal dragged on a rocky surface could sound better than a human's voice?

A full house was the dream of every Club coordinator, and Mr. Alex was finally living the dream. With over thirty students and more trying to get in, Mr. Alex gravely suffered from an inflated ego. Old club members like us were quickly forgotten and annoyingly bossed around by the so-called talented ones. I tried to speak out against what I saw as injustice. I was swept out like trash on a dustpan.

Who needs to listen to an hourlong composition about love and heartbreak? I assured my grieving heart. You are an iron fella with a cold heart. You need something dangerous.

My eyes on the board of clubs and meeting places. It took a few seconds to find one that fitted perfectly with my current need. A club for men that could stand the sight of blood, look at the jaws of death, and laugh insanely. And nothing spelt danger and fear more than the Red Cross Society.

Apparently, a club for men had no men in it—more like a fancy tea party. Disappointed at the outcome of my judgment and caught in a dilemma—walk out and risk being punished for loitering, or an hour of giggles and uncomfortable girly talks.

I turned from the door and took a step out.

"Andrew!" a familiar voice called out my name. One that I always had little trouble forgetting even after long nights with...let's not talk about it. The shrewd Zaara Karim.

Her smile brightened the gloominess that had engulfed my heart. I walked to where she sat—hoping to indulge her wisdom for an hour. She was great at plying the perilous road called high school life. We were not exactly friends, but we were not enemies. Practically, she was more of a sympathizer.

"You are a member of this club," I queried.

"I am the president," She replied.

A bit shocked, I was. I knew Senior High I students were never elected presidents. It was a post reserved for only Senior High II and Senior High III students—mostly, the former.

But she was smart and...

"Hello. Hello. Where did we stop?" The coordinator walked in with a lab coat on her arms.

Sorrow took my heart once again as a familiar face met the periphery of my vision. It was my Basic Science III teacher—one I hoped to never see after Junior High. Mrs. Miriam Hakimi.

Pieces began to fall into place. The logic behind Zaara's appointment defined. She was Mrs. Hakimi's favorite student and world chaos protégé. Classic school club politics.

Mrs. Hakimi searched out Zaara with her eyes with a smile, one that faded quickly when she saw me. "Mr. Shilling, I have not seen you around in a while. How's your mother?'

No one laughed, to my earnest surprise. That statement in my class was sure to earn a snicker from self-righteous folks. Maybe, a sleazy comment from a Rule-breaker or a backbencher followed by a loud peal of laughter.

Backbenchers in the sense of crew lackeys kept around for their humorous clapbacks and comments.

"Fine," I said. A simple short one word guaranteed not to spark further conversation. It worked a treat as she turned her attention to the bandage in her hand.

She started. "I want to welcome you all to the Red Cross Society. Our motto is saving lives..."

Turned out that my assessment was wrong again. It wasn't a fancy tea party. Mrs. Hakimi talked more passionately than she did in Basic Science—a little friendlier than I expected, which led me to believe that she had been cloned and replaced—not that I was complaining.

She spoke extensively about the relevance of the Red Cross in our everyday world and the necessity behind their work. Dating back to the world wars and other conflicts that led to great loss of human lives.

An hour past and I knew that club was where I wanted to be. The strings of laughter that were surely going to follow the reasoning behind my club's choice mattered little. I was in a world with no bullies or side comments about my past mistakes. I was happy.

To cement my place in the Red Cross Society, I knew I had to suck up to Mrs. Hakimi; earn her trust and win myself a seat in the club's council. I had a plan.

Nothing escapes Andrew Shilling's well-thought plan.