1917

March 3, 1918

The silence in English class was almost oppressive without Abel’s presence. His absence left a void that felt strange and unfamiliar. Gone were his sharp, snarky remarks that once punctuated the teacher’s lectures or his habit of mockingly mimicking my responses in a way that was both irritating and oddly endearing. Without him, the room seemed devoid of its usual edge, the lively undercurrent of mischief replaced by an unsettling stillness. For the first time, I realized how much his presence had shaped the atmosphere, and though I’d never admit it aloud, I missed his infuriating humor.

  The classroom buzzed faintly with whispers as Mrs. Watson addressed me directly, her brow furrowed with concern. “Where is Abel Simmons?” she asked, her tone heavy with expectation. She knew I had the answer, and there was no avoiding it.

  “He’s in prison on arson charges. Arson in the first degree to be specific,” I replied, my voice steady and devoid of sympathy.

  Her face fell, and she blinked back a tear. “Oh, Abel, how could he?” she murmured, her sorrow spilling into the room.

  I couldn’t help myself. “Not like we lost anything of worth,” I said with a dry chuckle, my words sharp and unkind. The moment they left my lips, I noticed her expression harden.

  “How could you say such a thing?” she asked, disappointment clear in her voice.

  I met her gaze without flinching. “Abel was a bully,” I explained, unrepentant. “He made life miserable for anyone who crossed his path. He got what he deserved.”

  Mrs. Watson sighed deeply, her voice soft but firm. “I still feel sorry for him.”

  Before I could respond, Jackson Miller, who rarely spoke, interjected from the back of the room. “I don’t,” he said, his tone laced with certainty. “Abel was a garbage human being.”

  His words hung in the air, as harsh as they were truthful, leaving no room for argument.

  “Anyway, our lesson is on similes and metaphors,” she said, getting back on topic. I knew many of both, being an avid reader and all.

  “Do you know any similes, Jackson?” she asked him way in the back of the class.

  “Sure do. Her kindness is bright like the sun,” he answered.

  “Very good!” she said, turning to me.

  “Jeremiah, do you know any?” she leaned over to me.

  “His wrath is like a tiger,” I answered.

  “Brilliant job!” she exclaimed.

  “Can we do metaphors now?” Peggy asked, her voice carrying a curious eagerness. Man, she had never looked so beautiful. She was wearing a forest green dress that made her green eyes stand out like a prism, catching and refracting the light in a way that seemed almost magical.

  “Yes, we can, Peggy,” Mrs. Watson replied with a kind smile, her tone as warm and encouraging as ever.

  Peggy didn’t hesitate. “Her love is a fire,” she said confidently, glancing in my direction. The words hit me like a freight train. My face flushed so hot it felt like I’d stepped too close to an actual blaze. I quickly buried my face in my arms, trying to avoid the inevitable stares of my classmates.

  Predictably, a chorus of oohs erupted around the room. The sound rippled through the class, fueling my embarrassment. I could feel their eyes boring into me, their teasing smirks practically audible. Of course, they acted immaturely. A few of us were officially teenagers by then, and as we all know, teenagers are the absolute worst.

  Mrs. Watson clapped her hands lightly to bring order back to the room. “All right, that’s enough,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “We’re here to learn, not to distract each other.”

  She turned back to Peggy with a smile that didn’t waver. “That’s a wonderful metaphor, Peggy. It’s simple, yet evocative. Great work!”

  Peggy beamed, clearly unfazed by the reaction her words had caused. Meanwhile, I kept my head down, willing myself to vanish. This was exactly the kind of moment that made school feel like a battlefield.

  Mrs. Watson scanned the room, her sharp eyes settling on me despite my best efforts to become invisible. “Jeremiah, how about you try a metaphor next?”

  I groaned internally but knew I couldn’t avoid her request. Slowly, I sat up, forcing myself to speak. “The storm is an angry beast,” I mumbled, keeping my voice low.

  Mrs. Watson’s face lit up. “Beautifully done, Jeremiah! That’s an excellent example of using a metaphor to personify nature. It creates a vivid image in the listener’s mind.”

  Her praise softened the sting of my earlier embarrassment, but I still avoided looking at anyone else. My classmates, particularly Peggy, were the last people I wanted to face right now.

  Peggy, however, didn’t seem to notice my awkwardness. She was back to doodling in her notebook, completely at ease. For a moment, I envied her confidence. And then, once again, I cursed the fickle nature of teenagers.

  Biology was the absolute worst. Today’s topic? The human reproductive system. The thought alone made my stomach churn. Why we had to sit through this and learn about such a gross subject was beyond me.

  Mr. Casio, ever the enthusiastic teacher, stood at the front of the room, his hands raised like a preacher commanding silence. “No laughing. This is serious,” he said, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a certain resignation. He must have known what he was up against. “Puberty affects everyone. I went through it, and so will you.”

  I raised my hand, a mix of curiosity and embarrassment. “What can we expect?” I asked, my voice steady despite the heat creeping up my neck. I already knew but wanted to ask anyway.

  He launched into his explanation with clinical precision. “A deeper voice, physical growth, pubic hair, and... a desire to engage in s****l intercourse.” He said it as though he were listing ingredients for a recipe, completely unbothered.

  Michael, sitting two rows ahead of me, threw his hands in the air. “I don’t want half of those things!” His outburst drew a few snickers, but most of us were silently in agreement.

  Mr. Casio sighed and clasped his hands together, his expression one of tired patience. “Sorry, Mike. I can’t prevent the natural processes of life. You’re just going to have to deal with it.”

  Michael slumped back into his chair, muttering, “Fair enough,” though his face betrayed his lingering anxiety. I couldn’t blame him.

  I glanced at Michael, recognizing the nervous energy he radiated. It was the same feeling I’d had since my dad gave me the talk when I was ten. He’d laid it all out—no sugar-coating, no skipping the awkward parts. I knew what was coming, and I hated that it was rapidly approaching, like a storm cloud I couldn’t outrun.

  “I will give you all an illustration of the reproductive system,” Mr. Casio announced, flipping through the pages of our textbooks with deliberate precision. His tone carried the unmistakable weight of inevitability, as though this moment had been waiting to pounce on us since the beginning of the semester.

  When the page came into view, my stomach turned. The diagram was a detailed, color-coded monstrosity—part science, part nightmare. Every organ, every artery, every biological inevitability stared back at me in high definition. It was horrid, like some grotesque prophecy of what I’d soon have to endure. A clinical but unrelenting reminder that my body was about to betray me.

  Around me, the class shifted uncomfortably. A few muffled giggles came from the back, quickly silenced by Mr. Casio’s withering glare. “This is important,” he said, though his tone suggested he was bracing himself for the chaos he knew was coming.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the page. There it was, in all its unwanted glory, a map of what lay ahead—growth spurts, awkwardness, and all the messy, humiliating changes I was trying to pretend weren’t real. My classmates seemed equally horrified, their expressions ranging from wide-eyed dread to barely suppressed laughter.

  It was one thing to hear about puberty, but to see it laid out so starkly in ink and paper felt like a betrayal of our childhood innocence. There was no going back now; the future was printed in vivid color, and we were all hurtling toward it whether we liked it or not.

  Chemistry was... tolerable, I suppose. It wasn’t the subject itself that was the issue—balancing equations and learning about atoms wasn’t half bad. The real problem was Mr. Bailey. Today, he decided to veer wildly off-topic, as he often did, and launch into one of his infamous long-winded stories. This time, it was about his wife’s first pregnancy—a “difficult” one, as he called it.

  The details came tumbling out of his mouth like an unstoppable avalanche. He described everything from morning sickness to labor complications, painting a picture so vivid that I felt more like I was in a health class than a chemistry lesson. Nobody wanted to hear it, but what could we do? We sat there in silent resignation, exchanging occasional side glances that spoke volumes.

  Even the usual class clowns were uncharacteristically subdued, either out of politeness or sheer disbelief at the level of oversharing. Mr. Bailey, oblivious to our collective discomfort, pressed on, gesturing animatedly as though reliving the experience. “And then,” he said, his voice rising for dramatic effect, “the doctor said we’d need an emergency cesarean!”

  The words hung in the air like an awkward cloud. Someone coughed, perhaps hoping to signal an end to the monologue. It didn’t work. He plowed ahead, diving into more medical terminology than I thought a chemistry teacher would know.

  By the time he finally wrapped it up, we’d all aged at least ten years and learned nothing about chemistry. I stared at my empty notebook, wondering how he managed to turn an already mundane class into something even more excruciating.

  I ran home after that painfully boring class, eager to shake off the monotony of the day. But any relief I felt vanished as soon as I remembered the homework we’d been assigned. The task was outrageous—pretending to be a slave during the Civil War. My stomach churned at the thought.

  How could anyone think this was appropriate? It was undoubtedly a racist assignment, forcing us to “imagine” a life of unimaginable pain and injustice as if it were a creative exercise. The idea of reducing centuries of suffering into a few lines of make-believe felt not only disrespectful but deeply unsettling.

  I didn’t wish to do it—every fiber of my being rebelled against it—but it wasn’t like I had a choice. Refusing to complete the assignment would only bring down the wrath of the teacher and potentially my parents, who were sticklers for getting things done no matter how ridiculous. Still, I sat at my desk, staring at the blank page, struggling to figure out how to even start without feeling like I was part of the problem.

  Despite my frustration, I begrudgingly sat down to tackle the assignment, deciding to give it my best effort despite how wrong it felt. With a heavy sigh, I began writing, trying to summon the voice of someone caught in the unimaginable. My pen moved across the page, and the words felt like they carried a weight far beyond my own understanding.

  Dear Father and Mother, I wrote, Today the white man bought me at a slave sale. I am to cook meals and pick cotton in the scorching Alabama fields.

  The words came haltingly, each one feeling like a stab in the chest. How could I even begin to imagine the anguish, the fear, and the hopelessness of a life stripped of freedom? My attempt felt inadequate, hollow—like I was trivializing something too profound and horrific to put into words. But I pressed on, knowing that I had no choice but to complete the task.

  I tried to balance the details, drawing on what little we’d been taught in class, but the whole exercise felt wrong, like I was walking a tightrope between oversimplifying and overstepping. The story took shape, but it wasn’t a story I wanted to tell. It wasn’t my story to tell at all. Nonetheless, I finished the assignment an hour later and then promptly went to my bedroom where Mother was standing. Odd, I thought.

  She explained to me that it had been a while since she gave me goodnight kisses, and I got excited even in my sleepy state.

  “I love you, Mother,” I smiled.

  “I love you too, Jeremy. Great job beating Abel,” she said emotionally.

  “It was the right thing to do,” I explained.

  “I know, honey,” she leaned in and kissed my forehead. Had I not been so sleepy I might have thanked her, but the urge to sleep was just too strong. I fell asleep to her humming “What Child Is This?” that night.