Becoming Me (GL)

The day was finally here. I was a senior. The only problem was that I felt no different than the year before when I was a grade 11, standing in this exact spot. The difference between 11th and 12th grade was as profound as the difference you feel on your fourteenth birthday. The day itself offers no new insight into life. You are one day older and are given the gift of extra s**t to add to your already overloaded box labelled "reasons for anxiety". We met up at our usual spot. Our tree. It was a revered hangout spot that would cause any underclassman to salivate. It was the reserved property of seniors, and whilst the younger students could look at it, they remained unworthy of it. The tree, in many ways, mirrored the life cycle of a Barbie doll. At six years old, it is a source of pride and boasted about endlessly, but as soon you outgrow it, ownership of it only serves to bring shame and embarrassment. We had moved up in the social hierarchy, and like a preteen discarding a barbie doll, we traded the tree for the most prestigious spot on the grounds: the cafeteria. It was the most majestic of pigsties. We waltzed into the fluorescent-lit room filled with faded white benches.  The smell of "slap chips' wafted through the air. It was the dank, old type of smell that could induce nausea. But not today. Not in the cafeteria that we had longed to sit in since we first stepped into this school as wide-eyed eighth graders. We could have whichever bench we desired and have it be ours for the remainder of the year. We practically floated to the bench on the far side of the room. It was right next to the window that overlooked the first team rugby field. Perfect! This was it – we were officially seniors sitting on the bench that would remain ours for the rest of our Matric year! The rest of the day soared by on the back of the wind. I was practically a biological source of energy as I took my prized seat at the very back of the English class. It was something I took pride in - it was reserved for the star student of the class. I even smiled as we received our first of the many incomprehensible hieroglyphic equations in mathematics class. With the first month of school in my rear-view window, I was well settled into my classes and finally adjusted to my increased workload. Self-discipline and a few cups of coffee are essential parts of any senior’s survival kit. It didn’t take long for the monotony of the daily routine to get my friends’ attention. Outside of academic check-ins, most of their conversations revolved around their latest gossip, hook-ups and kuiers. I settled comfortably into my usual spot as shoulder-to-cry-on/ comic relief. I was more than accustomed to my role in the group. I didn't engage in the same activities as them. It did so that I had to work a little harder to stake my claim to the group than everyone else. My name was, more often than not, forgotten during an invitation session. Regardless, a pitiful invitation always slid my way. Not that I’d be caught dead at one of their kuiers. Too ashamed to be a plus one instead of a guest, I often (always) decline in favour of studying or binge-watching for the time instead. My friends were social butterflies whilst I played fly on the wall in the ecosystem of our school. My ability to speak was not the problem - it's more that I lacked the ability to be heard or even acknowledge it. My friends and I had watched "The Duff" a few weeks prior to Senior year and I related to the main character immediately. We had a lot in common. The only difference of note between us was that I was aware of my place in the world while she remained oblivious to hers. That ignorance turned to devastation and eventually outrage. That outrage fuelled her downfall, while my willingness to remain a shadow afforded me the right to keep my friends. I accepted myself as I was. I refused to envy my friends for being what I could never be. I thought myself confident, maybe even brave, to have such a well-defined sense of self. I was far too self-confident to bend to the whims and trends of those around me, I told myself. Everyone else was just a pitiful bunch of sheep yearning that would shed their wool and walk naked across a frozen plain to buy a moment of popularity. I convinced myself that I pitied them, but I knew that was a lie. The truth was that I envied them. I envied that they fit into their world so well. I was jealous of the fact that their presence meant something to the people around them. I envied that they were heard. A part of me would rather be a whisper in the choir than my mute self. They were missed on days when I slipped away so easily. The ignored truth was that I was more complacent than empowered by my self-awareness. At least, I had people to call my friends; all it cost me was my dignity every day. The walk home was not a long one. It was a clock 34 minutes from the main gate from the school to my house. I was quite a fan of walks, especially in the summer breeze. For the last year and a half, I was lucky enough to share it with my favourite person in the world. Some would call her my girlfriend. I would call her that. She would not be one of those people. She claimed that our relationship was bad for our friendship. I disagreed and insisted that the opposite was true. The last four months of semi-monogamous bliss were better than the three-year duration of a previously uncomplicated friendship. When we first started spending extra time together, I was positively surprised by her. It might be love talking, but she was more than I pegged her to be. She was a free spirit with a wound-up soul. To be fair, she was far from perfect, but at least she loved me. She listened to me when I spoke about her favourite things and looked at me when we were alone. It was inexplicable to be on the receiving end of someone’s undivided attention. It was never for more than an hour, but that was more than someone like me could hope for. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. She made me feel seen and I offered her her guaranteed shoulder to cry on. We were there for each other. The idea of that alone was enough to make me smile. "I got you something,” I told her once we reached my room. I pulled out the box and opened it in front of her. "Why?" she asked without looking up from her phone. She giggled while reading something, then turned her attention to me finally. "Well, um… we started getting closer four months ago today, so I figured that I should get you something to celebrate that." To say I was nervous was an understatement. Sage normally shrunk away whenever I so much insinuated that we had a relationship. I tried to play it off as a friendly gift. She seemed to buy it. I swallowed thickly and gave her the pendant that was in my hand. A rose. She examined her metallic rose with a look - equal parts confusion and wonder. "It’s from the little prince," I said while scratching, tapping my leg on the floor in an attempt to calm my nerves. "He had his rose and you have yours,” I finished just above a whisper. The animation was an integral part of our relationship. The idea that one means nothing unless they are possessed by another, inspired me to ask Sage out. Of course, she rejected me, but at least she allowed me some intimacy now and again. I’d put that in the win column. She twirled the pendant thrice in her palm and puzzled the grooves of the metal into that of her flesh. I felt so infinitely connected to her because of her action. I smiled proudly when she turned around; she wanted to wear it around her neck. She was telling me that she was not going to hide it, but instead wear it openly. I could barely contain my giddiness as I fixed the clasp gently against the nape of her neck before manoeuvring it, so it laid perfectly in the hollow of her throat. She smiled at her reflection in the small mirror on the wall of my room as I smiled shyly at the evidence of me lying on her neck. This would not be like my routinely dismissed hickeys. This was far more intimate of a reminder of us. She couldn't hide this from the world. The rose was a cheeky reference to the nickname she used for me, in private, of course. Giving her the rose was the symbolic equivalent of me giving myself to her. I was hers to claim and she had many times. I hoped, however, that she would do so in public. Not in the same fashion as she does in private, I acknowledged, but at least without shame this time. I was, as always, incorrect. Painfully so. I would be impressed if I had been so hurt by her easy dismissal of me. I fooled myself to believe that I could be one of the lucky ones who are loved ones, publicly acknowledge their existence. Silly me. Oh well, one can’t have everything. "A hidden treasure" from someone or another "thrift shop", she labelled my token. I was correct that she would wear it proudly. I was correct that she would boast about it. I was correct on all fronts except the obvious – the part that involved me. I was hiding in plain sight, but I was still invisible. What is the invisible girl to do but smile and compliment her friend on her gorgeous discovery? The first term had passed smoothly and unexceptionally. The second term promised a new season altogether. With electricity buzzing in the air as we re-entered the second term this year, coming off a much-deserved break. The relationship between Sage and I had flourished into a full-blown romance over the break. With our intimacy reaching new levels almost every night. She would be sure to visit me after every kuier hosted over the weekend. We even spend time together outside of my bedroom. My days consisted of me listening to her explain how wonderful her life was, one moment consoling her as she vented with raining eyes that her entire world was falling apart. Her problems usually centred around some girl or boy that was just out of her reach. The irony was not lost on me. They liked her. They made her feel special - like she had never felt before. They kissed her. They did more than kiss. She let them kiss her in ways that made her feel alive and then she let them touch her in ways that made her feel on fire. She screamed. She cried. They'd leave and she returns to me; used, unwashed and riddled with lies and open wounds left by people who never cared to hold her like I would every night. Idiots who took pleasure in touching and taking every piece of her but never noticed her eyes or appreciated the way their names sounded on her lips. They were valiant in their conquest and dedicated in their efforts to scrub away any evidence of her existence as soon as she left their sight. I held her each night as she'd cry and blamed the world for being cruel and denying her every chance at love as they presented themselves. I'd hold her as she said these angry words and then offer her my heart-embroidered sleeve to dry her eyes. -- Term two was a wonderfully exciting time of year. For the matrix, it was practically electricity. We walked into the final two terms of our high school lives and smoothly took our seats. I noticed that the seat at the very back of the English class, my seat, was already occupied. This sculpted girl sat in my seat with a look of sheer disinterest etched into her marble face. Without moving a muscle, she captured the attention of the entire class. That seemed to pass by her unnoticed as she looked through anyone brave enough to look her way. Her hazel eyes levelled everyone in her line of sight; I counted myself amongst the casualties. My friends took their seats and the teacher took her post. Everyone fell into place, everyone except me. For the first time in my favourite class, I felt utterly out of place. I moved towards the front of the class. I sat beside Tim, the least likely member of my class to have an original idea. He smiled at me and then asked me if I had a spare pen - of course, I did. With pen in hand, he returned to his blissfully complacent position in his seat with my pen resting unattended in his hand. I ignored the excited chatter from my peers and the questioning looks from my silent friends. I looked straight ahead at the board while my teacher introduced the girl seated in my seat. I didn’t care to look at her. Every other person did and seemed grateful for their opportunity to look at the Trojan sculpture currently displayed in our class. The usurper called herself Lara. From her brief introduction of herself, I learned that she transferred from a school in Rondebosch and played hockey. The fun fact that threw me for a loop was her casual mention of “Poe” being her favourite author. What infuriated me the most was the ease with which the literary legend’s name fell from her mouth. She didn’t even feel the need to utter his full name. She threw out the fact she “had a thing for (Edgar Allen) Poe” without feeling any need to embellish that factor so much as taking pride in her great take in literature and poetry. She name-dropped him nonchalantly as if it was an everyday occurrence that someone our age would take pleasure in the works of the most classic example of psychotic poetry. How could this girl not boast about her connection to such a brilliant and infectious literary fiend as Poe? How could she sit so casually with the cursed attachment to such a writer; knowing full well that by claiming to be a fan of the dead writer's work she was condemning herself to social pariah status? She didn’t seem to care. She sat there and looked absentmindedly at her audience and gave the teacher a lip curve that said: "Okay, I'm done now". That was it – not so much as a snide comment or petty whisper was aimed in her direction at the full breadth of the class. I thought after having to endure her intrusions in English, I would be rid of her for the day. I have never been more wrong in my life. As luck would have it – she shared every one of my classes. And in each of them, she casually claimed my seat without fail or guilt. She sat easily and without consequence in my place for the full 50-minute duration of each place period. She made no attempt to answer a single question and warded off any attempt of a teacher to pose one to her with a single deflection of her eyes. The whole day passed like that. I'd enter my class and she'd be sitting in my seat. The last seat at the very back of the class. The seats are reserved for the best of the students in the class. A seat that took me four years to earn, she took within a day. Seems to be aligned with the theme of my life so far, but that didn’t make it easier to accept. She simply claimed it with impunity and a whisper of arrogance in her every movement. To the rest of the student population, her confidence oozed out as she spoke and emitted from her every move like radioactive charisma. I, unlike my blind peers, saw straight through her arrogant core. She was arrogant in the way knowing what you want and pursuing it makes one arrogant. Her arrogance also shone through in the way she refused to bow down to social pressure. She seemed untouched by the things that plagued everyone else daily. She effortlessly struck up spontaneous conversations with the prettiest girls in our class and made idle chit-chat with the captain of our first hockey team like they were childhood friends. She easily took a seat next to the most revered amongst us during break and walked away from them without looking to see if they were following her. She knew they would follow her. They welcomed her into their lives, into their group, as if she had always somehow been a part of their group and they were simply saving her spot until she showed up. Now she was here, and life could resume as it had before the long wait. A few weeks went by and I tried to put her in my blind spot. I tried very hard. I almost succeeded. I failed only when I had no other choice than to listen to my girl gush about the latest crush she had. She went on about the softness of her crush’s lips and the way her hair felt like silk as she tugged her body closer to her own. She touched Sage more thoroughly than anyone had ever touched her. She told her that she had a beautiful voice when she would shyly moan out her name. Sage refused to pull any punches as she went on to stress how at home she felt in her new love’s arms. Apparently, my raven-haired girlfriend was feeling especially lonely during one of the many kuiers that she lived for and our resident heartthrob had offered her the most valuable thing in her world - attention. Her attention. They talked and she laughed. She laughed at her jokes and offered her water when she complained of being drunk. They danced for hours and she felt magic in her presence. Their first kiss was slow and calm. Sage was the one to increase the heat. She led Lara to a room on the top floor of the house they were in. I listened with a clenched heart, as the girl I loved described how much care my replacement used when she undressed her. She said that Lara’s touch was delicate and mindful, as if any hint of roughness would break my girl. What Lara didn’t know was that her shattered soul was bearing the consequences of those stolen touches. She thinks Lara is the "One". They shared a kiss afterwards and the golden-locked Casanova opened her arms "wider and more warmly" than anyone Sage could recall. Those words felt like personalised daggers embedded in my carotid as I held her in my arms. I prayed that she wasn't comparing my embrace to Lara’s. I prayed so hard that she wasn't. If she did, she might run back into her arms because mine would only serve as a reminder of everything she was missing. I let myself hug her though. Enjoy it while it lasts, I told myself. I spent the remainder of the night memorising her scent, the feel of her skin and the taste of her lips. I tried to etch every molecule that comprised my love while I still had the chance to do so. I knew that before long, Lara would return to claim what was hers. I was right. It took her a mere five days to make Sage hers. My friends were all so happy for her. Our tables had fused with those of the kids who we peeked up at. I had never dared to give them a real look for fear that they might look back. Now we shared a table and my friends spoke to them as if they were friends. I tried to join the conversation, but everything I said or tried to say would always be a second too late to be relevant or a topic's length out of context. I realised quickly that I added nothing to the new group dynamic. The rest of my friends were oblivious to my lack of existence in the crowd. I suppose they felt more comfortable around them. They partied together. I stayed at home. I resigned myself to watching my girlfriend exchange sloppy, sweet kisses with the intruder. I soon realised Lara had more of a right to be at the table than I did. I, a four-year student at this school, had less of an identity or a presence than someone who had arrived just two months prior. I was invisible and silent again - this time, not even the girl I loved could spare me a glance. I simply stood up from the table and walked away.