We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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Back in high school, I was always consumed by the fear of being labelled as an outcast. This uneasy feeling in my gut made sure that I was at the top of my game in every arena— whether it was leading the cheerleader squad, representing the school debate team, or even planning the annual summer camp down at Sherman Forest— my name would undoubtedly glimmer at the top of every list. Part of the reason being my unreal fascination with those multicolour glitter pens those days. So, when I managed to soar high out of the school with a stack of colourful pens and a calendar by my side, I thought I could carry on with this rapport my whole life. Or at least till college if something goes wrong on the road.
Though, as it turns out, being an outcast is the least of your worries when you are in the middle of not one, but two murder cases— the events of which, unarguably point at your ashen face. It's a good thing that the crowd in metros isn't really bothered about the black under your eyes or the blue on your lips— but immersed in the little world held hostage by their headsets. If I were to bother about blending in, I would have taken some efforts to get the gas in my car refilled and drive it to my heavenly abode. Like I do everyday. If not, then I would at least carry the tangled mess of earphones sitting on my bed, and listen to the Don't You album by Simple Minds on a loop. They say, circumstantial music hits different.
After an hour and a half of mindlessly exploring the underground city of NYC, the train comes to a halt at Harlem-148th Street. Pulling my bag pack onto my shoulders and the hood of my jacket over my headband, I walk past the pedestrians with an unwilling haste. The automated voice blaring through the speakers in the station, informing lost travellers about the train schedules, almost tempts me to get aboard on another one instead of taking the jammed road towards the gates of Arlington. I contemplate over it whilst standing in the middle of the bustle, when a passer by knocks the crammed up ticket I bought in Brooklyn, to the bin on the side. Taking it as a sign of the nature, I continue with my journey to the campus. The same destination often ends up offering new opportunities.
With the newly born positivity in tow, I make it to the damned halls of Arlington. And there is indeed something new over here, just not the kind of new my guilty conscience had been hoping for.
"Excuse me, but could you take a minute out and sign this petition?" A spectacled girl blocks my way with a clipboard and a list clipped on to it; the bold heading reading as Justice for Kylie Meyers. My hand, as quick as it was to reach out, withdraws itself to the pockets of my jacket.
Before I can explain, ironically my lack of explanation to her raised eyebrows, a friend of hers does it for me. A series of whispers is exchanged between the two, later following with their eyes boring in my back as I trudge down the hallway. All along the way I am encountered by enthusiasts holding onto posters and petitions and slogans, while the infamous locker is sitting broken and being used as a makeshift garbage dump. I can clean it up in a minute, but I would rather frown at a distance than choke on my breath while examining its contents.
