Sink or Swim

The cafeteria, the room that divides. Tossed in like meat to sharks in sixth year, the blanket of assigned seats was ripped away swiftly. Left to fend for ourselves, lines were drawn and packs were made as best friends were pulled from another's arms for a seat. Those who say they don't wish for a moment of peace from the constant fighting, swimming closer to the mere air supply a head seat at a table can have are delusional, lying to themselves and those around them. We all want a raft, a place to stop, catch our breath, but only a death or tragic accident with allow that. Even then, it's only so long before the apologetic glances and gentle allowances are changed to those of jealousy or irritation, a needle is stabbed into your small rubber bed, and you're left to continue swimming.

I can remember the longest a raft ever was—only the eighth years would, it was so long ago. It was our sixth year, and the first tragedy we'd known of the source. One of the Bekklor twins had hung herself—Nellie. Her sister, Sarah, had been the talk of the school and the web for a month—none of which she spent at school. When Sarah returned, her raft had cast a shadow among us all, as all rafts due. I often wonder if it is still there, as I never saw the gleam of a biting stare, aimed at the thin plastic. Perhaps it had been the first, maybe the only, time our school had unified with common goal—protect our friend. I knew neither of the twins, nor did my pack, but we had shared the somber tone of the school.

It was as though that one month, we all stopped kicking and yanking each other down to the depths of the ocean and realized it was big enough for us all to have a place to breathe. Maybe Sarah didn't have a raft of plastic, but the school had all stayed on top, together, lifting her out of the water. Nellie's last Facebook status, saying she was tired of how she was bullied, had reminded us all how fragile some are. We held on to those who were tired, so tired, who needed rest.
Too bad it was only a month.

I'm reminded of Sarah's death when I sit at my seat, surrounded by my pack. We, the outcasts, the hated, the shunned. We have flaws, so do everyone. Ours are more projected, louder. Not the prettiest, smartest -except Nathen, who counts the days until he rules the nation, without much complaint- or the most talented. Nor the least. Yet here we sit. Some of us have made their own grave, others were buried alive.

"Hello Veyda!" Dug. While Nathen has an IQ higher than some student teachers, he lacks in his own hygiene, and yells rather than speaks. He has been apart of the pack since the first day of our sixth year, and I wonder how long before.

"Hey, Veyda." Buried. Ellie, however, simply crossed the wrong path. Nothing wrong with her-she came to us from the Artists. I had been hopeful when Ellie joined us, it is so much easier to swim to air with four legs kicking, but her treason was too large. Ellie was exiled from any higher levels, sending her to us.

"Hi, guys," I set my tray down, as light as I could, like Ellie. Despite my concentration, my already open milk tipped over, onto the floor.

"Oh, Veyda, leaking!"

"Veyda's having some fu-u-un!"

Three athletes had been walking by, making racy jokes when they saw the white liquid. I suppose it does look wrong-it brought a smile to my own face, and I laughed along with them.

"What's so funny? It's just milk," Benny frowned. Dug. Benny, with large round glass that failed to meet his goal of looking smarter, will never worry about laugh lines.

"Benny, it is funny-"

Choosing to tune out Nathen explaining this to the frowning boy, I turned my attention to Ellie. Joined us midway through our seventh year, more towards the end, the black haired girl had the same reaction stages most have when they join us. Stage one, not lasting long in anyone. Most are dug out and return to their rank during Stage One. Many felonies sends you in a plot among us, but the dirt is soft enough among this time for one to be dug out by a loyal member of their lost pack. Bruised and broken by their fall, accepting only their former pack's help, those in Stage One are quite, lack appetite, avoid lunchroom, and even school. Ellie had no Stage One. Stage One, not awarded to the exiled. She knew she had no hope of climbing out-her grave was filled with concrete.

Ellie went through the rest of the six stages, taking the whole of seventh grade-what was left of it. Actually I hadn't even seen her over the summer, so I wondered how long it took her to complete it. She was in stage four when school let out. The start of eighth grade -hard for us all, when hopes of rising from our graves are proven, as always, futile- might have been her last breath, finally proving her grave was full.

Now, the black haired girl accepted her fate. She didn't speak to us, but that was expected of exiled. Though your image and skills factor into your rank, your personality had the largest effect. Aside from ourselves, packs are strong because they are similar. Our pack, pliable and ever changing, was almost divided in two. Those exiled-Ellie-those who belong-Benny, Nathon, Lisa, Harley-and those who just...

I was all who was left. I didn't even fit in with the outcasts. Sixth year, I made my grave, and I belonged among these people. Seventh, before Ellie came, was spent trying to find a pack who would accept me. After Ellie, was spent plotting my climb up, her included.

And somewhere between sixth and seventh year, I changed. I grew as a person, but was left among these people. Loyalty, image, history, I tried so hard to understand why no one had come to dig me out. The answer came in my eighth year, not too many weeks ago-no one cared.

"Veyda..?"

Ellie frowned. My mind had wandered away, as did my eyes, like so often, betraying me into seeming like I was staring.

"Sorry, I zoned out," I tried to say calmly, without showing humiliation that burned.

She bobbed her head, still frowning. "Right. Next time, try to stare at the ground, not a person. You look kind of creepy." I tallied the suggestion. Ellie had a way of slipping hints to me, ones I didn't complain about.

The athletes had walked away, but my mess remained. Unoccupied eyes turned to me as I weaved among the maze of packs to the janitor station, fighting to be left alone. I was a minnow among sharks.

Closer to my destination, dread filled my stomach with heat when I saw the janitor at the yellow cart. Not shocking, but I'd been hoping he'd been busy elsewhere.

"Um..." No response. "Mr. Gray?" I asked, quietly. Nothing. Da__ it to he__. "Mr. Gray?" I asked louder.

"What'cha need?" the almost elderly man turned around. Well, gee, I was wondering how your day was. Why else do we talk to you?

"Can I have some paper towels..?" My voice trailed off.

"Here'y'go."

I returned to my table, mopped up the milk, and sat down just as a whistle sent us to sixth hour. Food forgotten, I rushed out of the lunchroom.

It's really good! Nathan reminds me of my brother Nathan, only my bro isnt as smart and he doesnt go to school... I like it, a lot! I would probably be in the Outcasts too. Its really relatible which is really really good!

Thanks so much!

Anytime, sista!

Very interesting.

Indeedly