“Sometimes, but mostly a village in the middle of nowhere.”
“Shh!” the teacher behind us shushed us.
We gave each other a little smile and stopped.
At first, Oliver was sought after by the kids, both the boys and the girls. But his quiet distance and what seemed like a reluctance to socialize made kids pull away from him. He was different, and although he wore jeans and a tee like most of us, there was something foreign about him. Rumors began flourishing about him, and as rumors tended to do, they became worse the more they were spread.
If anyone called him Ollie, one look from him was enough. “Never call me that,” he was overheard saying to one kid. So, they started calling him Olinever behind his back. When one kid called him Olinever to his face, they got into a fight. I had arrived in time only to see Oliver decking him with a well-aimed punch to his face before the boys’ gym teacher pulled him back from pinning the kid to the ground and pummeling his face. He got suspended and earned more rumors and the nickname Oliver Twisted.
Back then, I hadn’t thought about what being suspended for a few days meant for him. Later, I figured that keeping a distance from everyone, thus staying out of trouble, was probably a self-defense mechanism.
I was in a completely different social strata, though I was an outsider, too. I had a few friends, but I was the fat girl who couldn’t afford or fit into anything when she joined her friends for trips to the mall. Those weren’t routine for me because I usually had to take the bus straight home to Riviera View after school. There weren’t enough kids from Riviera View in Wayford schools to justify a school bus, so I used public transportation to get home and watch over my younger sister and do my homework.
“Your education doesn’t come cheap, you know, so you have to make the best use of it,” our mom kept telling me and June. We both did our utmost to bring the best results for her hard-earned money, which was why I had been devastated to disappoint her later, in college, ironically, for the same reason I had made her proud in middle school.
When I was in the ninth grade, my mom and the other housekeeping staff at school were fired and transferred to do the same work at the same place under a contracting company with severely reduced benefits. My older sister was in high school, acing it with her grades and dreaming of making it on her own as a doctor, and my younger sister was still in Riviera View Elementary.
When the other students, their families, and the teachers seemed to be ignorant or perfectly fine with the change, I felt like I was the only one who could fight the injustice. Without telling anyone, I left for school earlier than usual one morning, four cardboard signs hiding in my backpack.
As soon as I arrived, I didn’t go in. I stood in the middle of the top step that led up to the main entry, took out the A4 size signs, leaned two against my legs, and held up the other two in front of me.
I later regretted not using bigger signs, something I could hide my face behind and get a little respite when the scrutiny, thewhat-the-hell, and the mocking glances became too much.
Most kids just looked at me and continued on their way in, some giggled, and many read my signs and whispered among themselves as they passed me by. A few accidentally bumped into me when the stream of kids became thicker. None of the teachers stopped.
I later discovered that the principal had told them to leave me alone and let me blow off steam. I was one of few students who had received a special scholarship and, while he could have shot my protest down, he let me stand there, probably thinking it wouldn’t stir anything with this crowd.
“Way to go, January,” one kid said as he passed me by.
“Not sure what this is, but I’m with you. Anything against this fucking place gets my sympathy,” another said.
“What the fuck?” another wondered, while his friend muttered, “Seriously?” They both shifted sideways to avoid bumping into me on their way in.
“Adjacent staff deserves equal rights, pension, and vacation time like everyone else,” one girl read out loud, stopping in front of me. “What does that mean?” she asked. “Who’s the adjacent staff and why don’t they get their equal rights? I’m all for equal rights.”
“It means that the cleaning staff and cafeteria staff and—”
“Kim, we’re gonna be late,” someone called, pulling the girl’s arm before I could finish my explanation. She left.
My mom knew nothing about it until much later. Her shift started only toward the end of the school day. At that time, she was cleaning an office in Wayford.
As the hour drew nearer to eight a.m., the stream of kids became thicker, and no one stopped; they just looked at me while walking past.
I fixed my gaze on some distant point behind the crowd. While I had taken it upon myself to stand there, it wasn’t easy to be so obviously alone. I felt almost bare, like I was carrying some scarlet letter.
Suddenly, I felt something lift off my legs. Before I could shift my gaze downward, I felt a mass next to me, shoulder to shoulder. I turned my head.
Oliver Madden.
He stood next to me, facing the crowd, holding up a sign in each hand. His gaze was focused on the crowd that poured toward us. His size caused them to file into two narrower lines as they reached us. He didn’t budge. We were a sign-holding island in the stream.
“What are we demonstrating for? Or against?” he half-whispered, lowering his head sideways toward mine.
My heart widened in my chest. Having someone stand shoulder to shoulder with me, by me, physically and mentally shouldering half my burden, was a relief I hadn’t expected.
“Read your sign,” I whispered back.
He turned his head toward me just as I turned mine. There was a tiny, conspiratorial smile on his handsome face and a glint in the deep green eyes. He then lowered his eyes to the signs I was holding and read them.
