Center Stage

Contentment. I had struggled for years, trying to understand the meaning of the word. I had struggled even more to grasp the concept. Contentment felt like a cruel joke. Because, the more someone spilled the word out to me, the more I didn’t want to survive. I wanted to win. I wanted people to look at me and feel envy, right from the moment I knew the meaning of the word. Every time someone told me to be "grateful" for the little I had or for being alive, it felt like another hand tightening around my throat. My life wasn’t a dream. It was rebellion. Maybe it was a rebellion against the harsh cold that life had slipped to me, enveloping me in its mean blanket and stealing any warmth. Maybe it was sheer rebellion against the smallness life kept offering me. As a child, I would constantly dream of a world where people loved me—be it real or fake—and jump at the slightest opportunity to receive that validation. I still find myself there sometimes. Lonely, pushing my own standards away because I thought I had the opportunity to be seen, to be heard. I used to close my eyes and imagine it: I stood, bathed in golden light, a crowd waiting just for me. In those dreams, I wasn't broken. I was limitless. The bell screeched through my thoughts, and just like that, the dream scattered. A dream that already felt stupid the second I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes to peeling walls, broken desks, and a classroom that smelled like sweat, chalk, and something worse. I sat at the last desk, the one with a leg shorter than the others, the one nobody wanted. Perfect, really. "Hey, look," a voice sang from somewhere in the front, "Sleeping Beauty's awake." A ripple of laughter crawled across the room like cockroaches. I didn’t bother looking up. "Must be nice," the voice added, dripping with fake pity. "Dreaming about a life you’ll never have." I finally glanced up, slow and cold, daring whoever it was to say one more word. It was Alia, of course. Pretty face, ugly heart. "At least I’m dreaming," I said, voice flat. "You’re wide awake and still pathetic." Her smile wobbled. The room got quieter, just for a second. "Poor orphan girl thinks she’s better than us," she muttered, trying to laugh it off. The word orphan hit like a whip, but I didn’t flinch. Not anymore. I'm tired of letting them think that they're better. I leaned back in my chair, letting it creak dangerously under me. "Better than you? God, Alia. A dead rat’s better than you." The class roared. Even the teacher, Mr Dermont, late as usual, hadn't arrived early enough to save her pride. I turned back to my battered desk like she was beneath my notice like they all were. Inside, my heart beat too fast. Inside, I hated that they could still reach me. But they'd never see that. They'd never see me bleed. So instead, I put up a front. Alia got angry. Angrier than I’d ever seen her. Like she couldn't stand being outmatched by an orphan girl who couldn’t even afford shoes that fit. Her voice sharpened, raining insults louder, faster, desperate to claw back her pride. I gave it back. Harder. Meaner. I was done playing soft. The door slammed open. Mr. Dermont stormed in, his glasses slipping down his nose. He took one look at the chaos and zeroed in. "Alia!" he barked. "Enough! Apologize, now." Alia's mouth dropped. "But — but she's saying worse things to me! You can't just—" "You don't make fun of people," Mr. Dermont snapped, "especially people like her." The room fell into dead silence. My hands balled into fists. People like her. Like I was a different species. Like I was a stray dog lucky to be tossed scraps. The fury rose so fast it scared even me. "Save your pity, Mr. Dermont," I said, my voice, sharp as a blade. "I didn't ask for it. I don't need it. And I sure as hell don't want it from someone who wouldn’t even notice me if I was bleeding out on this floor." I spat. His face darkened. "Detention." He growled, "After school." He looked at me like someone who was ungrateful. "Whatever," I muttered, grabbing my bag without waiting for the bell.