Lunchtime
Lunch was almost over when Noah realized that he was sitting alone. He heard the garbled white noise of the other children talking all around him, but he was too focused on the small, crimson stain on his brand new pink shirt to notice that none of the voices came from his table. Or maybe they did; he wasn’t quite sure. He never was. He had learned that not being able to discern any specific words was a good thing. He looked down at his brown paper lunch bag and at the plain bologna sandwich in his hand—as usual, the meat had grown warm throughout the day and his stomach began to turn with the first few bites. He decided to abandon the sandwich, surprised that he still sat in peace. Just when he thought that today the other boys would actually spare him the attention and leave him alone, his head bounced forward as a clump of the cafeteria’s daily mystery meat goulash collided with the back of his neck. The white noise turned red with uproarious laughter and the familiar voices all around him pelted his ears like hardened snowballs. He knew they were coming—he always did—and like always, he could not shield himself.
“Look at the little dork and his stupid brown bag. Did you forget to pack some friends again today?”
“Where’s your lipstick, Pink Shirt?”
Noah’s eyes seemed to recede into his head; they did not grow puffy and wet, as those of less experienced children would have. His heart gave no flicker of any drastic emotion; the beats merely flat-lined on the same melancholic plane as always. He looked down at the pinkness painted across his chest and wanted to rip it off. Noah had begged his mother to splurge and buy it for him—Jacob at the other table was wearing the same shirt, same color, and Noah had wanted nothing more than to gain access to his circle. But apparently it would take more than a shirt and an aspiration to shield him from the other boys’ ruthlessness.
Noah felt foolish. What had he been thinking? He wasn’t sure if it was the stain that had affected his chances at popularity, but he knew that Jacob would probably never wear the pink shirt ever again for fear of association with the “other.” He had the same clothes, was about the same size, and was far less intellectually developed than Noah, but still, his voice was one of many darting criticisms at Noah’s helpless ears. This Noah knew without even turning around. He never turned around. As always, he merely took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the yellow and blue and pink dots that covered the blackness in front of him. For those few moments, the other boys were not there and their words couldn’t hurt him. When Noah finally opened his eyes and looked up from his lap, the hate still bubbling in his ears like recycled water in a plastic fountain, he wanted to sprint out of the building. He always wanted to, but he knew it was no use.
Noah carefully collected his trash and tried to erase the remnants of the meal splattered across his blushing back, but as always, the stain remained. He stood up, the familiarity of it all striking him bluntly but without surprise. He had learned not to rush out the door as a scared animal would—true, he had been cast as the prey, but he could at least deny them the satisfaction of acting the part. However, he always felt a sense of urgency stabbing him as he picked up his backpack and barely-touched lunch. Get out. Just make it to the door before they can say anything else. But he could never escape them calling after him; their roars only grew louder as he tried to subtly fade away.
“That’s it. Run away and cry to your mommy. Boo hoo hoo.”
“Hooray! We didn’t want the germ eating near us, anyway.”
Noah wondered what would happen if one day he waited the entire thirty minutes until the bell rang to get up. He wondered what would happen if the loud, bubbly teachers would stop chirping away like overexcited seagulls long enough to listen to the cyclone of words around them. What would happen if he just threw his trash on the ground and screamed. If anything would change. He wasn’t sure, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. He was a freak and would always be a freak. This he had accepted more than anything else.
He opened the door and looked up at the sky, a giant blue tear trapped behind a huge glass dome that had forgotten how to fall. He took in an extended breath of springtime, full of new life and pollen, but the air did not warm his throat. He wasn’t surprised. Before long, all the other children ran out of the cafeteria laughing and playfully pushing one another, delighted with the freshness of the air. Jacob, the last in the pack, gave Noah a brisk shove into the shade at the corner of the gymnasium and whispered, “Loser,” as he darted off to the playground. The nothingness in his voice resonated with Noah.
All Noah could do was sit in that corner shivering, the balmy April air and the blazing pink of his shirt doing nothing for his freezing morale. He saw the girls jumping from square to square on the hopscotch board and the boys willing themselves from rung to rung on the monkey bars, all of them yelping either with delight or disappointment. At least they felt something. Their laughter was distant, but Noah thought his eardrums might burst. He bowed his head and saw the chili-colored stain burnt into his shirt like a tattoo. He listened to the flag clinging against its pole in the whimsical breeze and the teachers still chirping and chirping and chirping, and he thought he felt sick. But perhaps it was just the warm bologna. As always, he wasn’t quite sure.
“Look at the little dork and his stupid brown bag. Did you forget to pack some friends again today?”
“Where’s your lipstick, Pink Shirt?”
Noah’s eyes seemed to recede into his head; they did not grow puffy and wet, as those of less experienced children would have. His heart gave no flicker of any drastic emotion; the beats merely flat-lined on the same melancholic plane as always. He looked down at the pinkness painted across his chest and wanted to rip it off. Noah had begged his mother to splurge and buy it for him—Jacob at the other table was wearing the same shirt, same color, and Noah had wanted nothing more than to gain access to his circle. But apparently it would take more than a shirt and an aspiration to shield him from the other boys’ ruthlessness.
Noah felt foolish. What had he been thinking? He wasn’t sure if it was the stain that had affected his chances at popularity, but he knew that Jacob would probably never wear the pink shirt ever again for fear of association with the “other.” He had the same clothes, was about the same size, and was far less intellectually developed than Noah, but still, his voice was one of many darting criticisms at Noah’s helpless ears. This Noah knew without even turning around. He never turned around. As always, he merely took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the yellow and blue and pink dots that covered the blackness in front of him. For those few moments, the other boys were not there and their words couldn’t hurt him. When Noah finally opened his eyes and looked up from his lap, the hate still bubbling in his ears like recycled water in a plastic fountain, he wanted to sprint out of the building. He always wanted to, but he knew it was no use.
Noah carefully collected his trash and tried to erase the remnants of the meal splattered across his blushing back, but as always, the stain remained. He stood up, the familiarity of it all striking him bluntly but without surprise. He had learned not to rush out the door as a scared animal would—true, he had been cast as the prey, but he could at least deny them the satisfaction of acting the part. However, he always felt a sense of urgency stabbing him as he picked up his backpack and barely-touched lunch. Get out. Just make it to the door before they can say anything else. But he could never escape them calling after him; their roars only grew louder as he tried to subtly fade away.
“That’s it. Run away and cry to your mommy. Boo hoo hoo.”
“Hooray! We didn’t want the germ eating near us, anyway.”
Noah wondered what would happen if one day he waited the entire thirty minutes until the bell rang to get up. He wondered what would happen if the loud, bubbly teachers would stop chirping away like overexcited seagulls long enough to listen to the cyclone of words around them. What would happen if he just threw his trash on the ground and screamed. If anything would change. He wasn’t sure, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. He was a freak and would always be a freak. This he had accepted more than anything else.
He opened the door and looked up at the sky, a giant blue tear trapped behind a huge glass dome that had forgotten how to fall. He took in an extended breath of springtime, full of new life and pollen, but the air did not warm his throat. He wasn’t surprised. Before long, all the other children ran out of the cafeteria laughing and playfully pushing one another, delighted with the freshness of the air. Jacob, the last in the pack, gave Noah a brisk shove into the shade at the corner of the gymnasium and whispered, “Loser,” as he darted off to the playground. The nothingness in his voice resonated with Noah.
All Noah could do was sit in that corner shivering, the balmy April air and the blazing pink of his shirt doing nothing for his freezing morale. He saw the girls jumping from square to square on the hopscotch board and the boys willing themselves from rung to rung on the monkey bars, all of them yelping either with delight or disappointment. At least they felt something. Their laughter was distant, but Noah thought his eardrums might burst. He bowed his head and saw the chili-colored stain burnt into his shirt like a tattoo. He listened to the flag clinging against its pole in the whimsical breeze and the teachers still chirping and chirping and chirping, and he thought he felt sick. But perhaps it was just the warm bologna. As always, he wasn’t quite sure.