Underneath the Surface

I knew what I had to do.  It kept me up most of the night.  On the way to the classroom I practiced to the best of my ability.  I am not, as they say, a people person.  On walking in the door I moved mechanically to my usual chair.  It was in the corner next to the emergency exit.  That, from the time I was about five, was most important.  A way to escape.  For the past three years at school it was always the same no matter what class I was attending.  Find a safe place.  A place where no one looked at me, where I could be invisible, where I could run when it became too much. 
This class was quiet in the morning.  It started early, at 8 am, and most of the students were still half asleep.  Even through the noise inside me I could hear them talking.  About drinking, about sex, about sports, about school.  It was foreign to me and that seemed normal.  I wasn’t one of them.  They would never understand me.
The pretty girl sat down next to me as she had from the beginning of the semester.  She smelled good.  Not perfurmy, just good.  I liked her because she didn’t know I liked her smell.  She didn’t know me at all.  But I knew her.  She had long legs that were shiny from the knees down to her ankles.  She liked to cross her legs about halfway through class.  Sometimes she squirmed in her seat.  I liked that too.
Last night I thought about the color of her eyes.  I’d never seen them, but in a half dream they were green.  I saw them looking at me without judgment.  And smiling.  Her eyes were smiling at me.
The teacher came in and the room quieted.  I wondered if he was thinking about drinking and sex and sports.  Probably not.  He probably thought about her legs though.  The thought made me a little angry, and more than a little jealous. 
The class quieted even more as he dropped his briefcase on the desk.  I had to do it now.  I had to do it.  I looked up from the desktop, a heavy and desperately uncomfortable thing to do and then I looked at her.  Her hair was long like her legs.  She was writing something.  She often did that in the morning but until now I never looked.  I heard the teacher clearing his throat.  Hurry, I pleaded to myself.  Hurry and look at me.  I am ready!  “Hey freak, you want some of that?” the asshole seated behind me said.  The girl looked back at him and glowered.  My eyes shot down to my desk.  The teacher started speaking, my chance was over.
I never really sleep.  Not in the “slept like a log last night” kind of way.  I hear that people do that.  Drift off into dreams about funny things. In the morning they share their dreams with others.  Silly things, odd sequences, stupid dreams.  I guess I don’t dream because I never truly sleep.  I am afraid to sleep.
  The next morning I saw a change on campus.  I looked up to check the time on the clock tower and they were staring at me.  Not in a “he’s a freak” kind of way either.  They looked scared.  My time was running out.  The campus killings were on everyone’s mind.  The harmless geeks and recluses were now suspects.  I knew that would happen.  I knew that soon I would be singled out.
The pretty girl sat down just after me.  Her legs shined.  “You would like to fuck her, wouldn’t you?” the asshole behind me semi-whispered in my ear.  I froze.  I stared ahead and thought about the exit door.  “What a joke,” he said louder to his friends sitting nearby.  “Our class freak wants some action.”  The pretty girl looked up and spun around.  “I know you like being an asshole, but could you do it more quietly” she said.  Her voice sounded good, strong, and I looked at her.  She spun back around and as she did, she smiled at me.  I tried to smile back.  But it was too late.  She returned to her writing and then the teacher began.
My waking nightmare is always the same.  I am in a small dark room, a closet I think.  A thin band of light emanates from under the door.  It is all the light I can see.  I’m young, five or six, and small enough to curl up into a little ball.  I’m always in that ball.  First I hear nothing, but still I am afraid.  Not of the darkness, because that always feels good.  I love disappearing.  I have practiced it all of my life.  And I’m not afraid of the closet.  I still love closets and small places although I can’t ball up like I used to.  I am sweating nonetheless.  My breath is ragged and my eyes are crying.  But I never whimper or cry out.  I’ve learned my lesson about noise.  Noise is my enemy.  Then the fear really begins.  A door shutting.  First from far away.  Then another door, closer this time and louder.  I ball up even tighter.  I pretend to myself that I am invisible.  I start to tremble and it quickly becomes part of me, like breathing.  The door slamming gets closer and louder.  I start to hear footsteps.  They sound angry.  Heavy boots on a hard wooden floor.  Closer and closer.  I feel the wet stains from my tears on my knee.  I listen for the squeaking door.  If I hear that door, the pain will come soon.  If that door opens, I will be discovered.  The pain will be extraordinary.  I never pray though.  I don’t understand the importance at five years old.  What happens on Sunday never happens at home.  The door squeaks and I begin to gasp for air.
The next morning the fear is rampant.  People point at me from across the commons.  The whispering is everywhere.  A faculty member stops as I approach my classroom building.  I can see her feet from my viewpoint.  I don’t know whether to slow down or hurry up.  I am paralyzed by fear.  I try to slow down but the teacher says nothing.  I walk into the classroom and sit down.  On my desk there is some writing.  Something written right on the desk.  “Don’t be afraid.” I erase the pencil marks with the palm of my hand.  I am afraid.
Class gets out and I hurry for the door.  I can feel their eyes burning a hole into the back of my head.  The door squeaks as I open it.  I exit into the bright sunlight and feel a ripping sound.  “Around here.  Hurry!” a voice says from around the corner.  Asshole is pulling me by my shirt around the corner of the building.  The voice, which now has a body, pushes me up against the brick wall.  My head slams against the brick hard enough to daze me.  “You are not going to be next, you fucking freak,” he says.  Asshole is now right next to him.  They both look ready to beat me.  I know that look well.  “We want you off campus today.  Get your freaked out ass off campus or we will beat to a pulp,” he said spitting on me.  I wanted to curl.  Up in a ball.  Dark in a closet.  I wanted safety.  I wanted to escape.  Asshole apparently didn’t think the other gue was clear enough.  “We are going to beat the shit out of you if we see you tomorrow.  Got it?”  Then it happened.  As it always did from my earliest memories.  I faded from reality.  I couldn’t hear them anymore but they were still talking.  I was gone.  Curled up in a ball.  In a dark place.  I could still feel Asshole’s hand on my shoulder, I could feel the warm blood now on my neck from the impact with the brick wall, but I was gone.  Bye, bye.  The other guy punched me in the stomach and I guess I fell to the sidewalk.  Finally I curled.  It felt good.  Then it got dark, blissfully dark.

I awoke to the smell of her.  I refused to open my eyes.  I just smelled.  I realized in that moment that that smell made me happy.  I had eliminated the hope of happiness years ago.  But that smell made me smile.  “Don’t be afraid.”  This time not written on a desk, but connected to a voice.  And that smell.  “You’re smiling?” she asked, more than said.  You have a broken nose, a bloody head and you’re smiling?”  I opened my eyes and saw her shiny legs.  She looked at me and said.  “Why are you smiling?”  I looked at her.  I thought about the day when smiling at her was my plan to show someone I was normal.  That I wasn’t a freak.  That I wasn’t dangerous.  That I desperately wanted to be like everyone else, talking about school, sex, and sports.  “Because you make me happy.”