[Original Novel] Pariah of the Little People, Part 1

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The first big lie I discovered was “it gets better”. They tell you that so you’ll keep going, like a carrot dangled in front of a crippled mule. Mom and Dad thought it’d be different at the new school. All new kids, nobody knew me, a chance to start over with a clean slate.

“Don’t worry, they’re all Christians here.” I might’ve figured that out for myself, because as we approached I spied a sizable cross protruding from the top of the building. I felt some amount of guarded optimism then.

I was never exposed to much church type stuff until Mom found religion in a big way upon becoming pregnant with what will soon be my baby brother. So far, all I really know about Christianity is that Mom says it turns bad people into good ones. Sounds like what the world needs more of if you ask me.

When Dad found out there’d be a new mouth to feed, he said he wanted to turn a new page in our lives. That meant moving us all into a new, larger house. One I learned by eavesdropping on their occasional fights that he can’t really afford on top of the baby. He keeps saying he’ll make it work. I don’t see how, but Dad’s a smart guy. He must have some plan I don’t know about.

The next big lie, really just a variant of the first one, is “time heals all wounds”. It doesn’t. There’s a point of diminishing returns past which the pain does not continue to measurably shrink, but it’s small enough that you’re functional. Like a toothache or a splinter, but in your heart.

There are brief, precious periods during which something else distracts me enough that I truly forget it’s there for a while. But when it’s over, it trickles back to the forefront of my mind. Jennifer. “It’s just a crush, you’re too young to really love anybody” Dad told me, imagining that would somehow help. But reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, does not go away.

I still love Jennifer. I’m not supposed to. I know enough about how this sort of thing works to recognize that I should’ve moved on by now. It’s not healthy to linger, but I am powerless to forget. She’s there whenever I close my eyes, in searing detail. Every last strand of golden hair, every little freckle.

She’s there when I dream too. That’s what really hurts. Because there, she loves me. I have no defense against this, as of course I don’t realize I’m dreaming. I would be content to stay there forever, but of course I must eventually awaken. Oblivious, in those first few seconds, to who I am and what’s happened.

But the memories return soon enough. I rocket through the five stages of loss in a matter of seconds. In a very real sense, she leaves me every day. And the pain is as fresh and visceral each morning as it was when it actually happened. If only she’d stay out of my dreams! I am haunted by the living, and see no prospect of escape.

I hang onto things. It’s in my diverse portfolio of character flaws. Uncle Michael once told me a riddle and made me swear not to look up the answer. I was at it for several weeks, thoughts consumed with the matter day in, day out. I finally blurted out the answer one night at the dinner table, having suddenly figured it out while eating.

We pulled into a parking space and I piled out of the car, fully laden book bag straining uncomfortably at my shoulders. “Be on your best behavior” Mom whispered. “When am I not?” In answer, she scowled. Then licked her thumb and used it to wipe some unseen dirt from my face.

How easy to just go and do something to somebody else like that. I’ve never been able to make it clear to her how much of an ordeal even small interactions with another person are for me by comparison. Dad would tell me I’m whining, and that whiners get nothing, quitters get even less. So I endure it quietly as she herds me into the little office.

As I shed my pack, I envision little people easing it to the ground with great complex scaffoldings and cranes. Then moving it along on rollers, teams of twenty or so pulling on each carefully woven miniature rope. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your mother and father, young man!” The grownup addressing me is tall, bespectacled and balding. His every movement, however subtle, is uncannily rigid.

I reluctantly extend my hand towards his. Imagining it is a false wooden hand the little fellows built, extended on my behalf by crank driven scissor jack mechanism. That I might be spared the discomfort.

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself and why you’d like to attend our fine school.” I realized he was prompting me and froze. When free to formulate my thoughts, I can readily explain them. But when put in the spotlight… “I...suppose...I’m hoping there will be nice kids here I can make friends with.”

He seemed delighted, though it proved difficult to discern his true feelings as the more I spoke to him, the more I realized he always looks like that. Wide smile, immaculate white teeth, eyes wide as though excited about everything. Good enough for me. So long as he’s not frowning, I must be doing well.

It’s Russian roulette to try and guess what they want to hear. I used to think it was easier just to speak my mind. I owe many of my worst days to that naive decision, but at the time felt I’d rather be rejected for who I am and what I think than embraced for some carefully cultivated false impression. I didn’t realize then that being able to tell the truth is a luxury I wouldn’t always be able to afford.

“That’s as good a reason as any. And indeed, our students live their lives by the teachings of Jesus Christ, our lord and savior. Whatever troubles you may have had at...secular institutions….” His voice dripped with disdain for a moment. “...will be but a distant memory, like a half remembered nightmare once you’re settled in here.” Just what I wanted to hear. Which troubled me, as I know what that usually means.

But, not wanting to sour the occasion nor to make enemies before I’d even started my first class, I mustered as much cheer as I’ve ever been able to. Not really a lie so much as an exaggeration, I told myself. It really did sound like an improvement to hear him tell it. The prospect of a school free of ogres powerfully enticed me.

“There’s just the matter of the statement of faith”. He slid a paper across the desk to me along with a fountain pen. I carefully read it all, then scratched my head. “I dunno if I believe most of this.” His formerly bright, immaculate smile now faded as the corners of his mouth crept downwards. Looking over at my mother, I discovered she too did not expect such a reply. I must’ve really put my foot in it somehow as there were tears in her eyes.

It began to dawn on me then that all of this, the school, the move and so on, was being done to me rather than for me. Nobody ever asked what I wanted, rather the plan had long since been finalized and now I was being wedged into it whether or not I fit. I must’ve appeared lost in thought as the suited fellow once again asked me to explain, in my own words, why it is I want to attend this school.

Deceit is a practical life skill they really ought to teach you early on. It turns out lies make for a powerful social lubricant. I’ve also learned recently that honesty is worse than useless when you’re dealing with people who all but demand that you lie to them. Who often will punish you if you don’t. So I carefully formulated my next sentence, balancing what they wanted to hear with what I could stomach saying.

“I don’t really know what I believe, never thought about that much. All I know is that for most of my life, with only a few exceptions, the world around me and everybody in it has seemed hostile and poisonous. I don’t know where my home is but I’m not a native of this place, I’ve never felt like I belonged here. When I seek out people with the power to help, I instead find them aligned against me. I often wish I had an ally, stronger than any of them.”

No reaction was apparent for several seconds, save for his inscrutable, news anchor style empty grin. He simply studied my face, hands arched on the desk before him. Then at once his tone of voice changed. As best I could tell, he was sincerely pleased with my answer.

“That’s good enough for me! Young man, I think you’re in exactly the right place. I’ll save this form for you. If I’m right, before long you will sign it wholeheartedly and with as complete an understanding of why as we can give you.”

With that he folded up the form, tucked it into a manilla folder, then stashed it in his desk. It was a tense ride home, though I couldn’t figure out why. I’d apparently said the right words. Perhaps they knew that’s what I did and were upset? Mom turned back once, eyes still a bit puffy, to remind me that I’d promised to be on my best behavior. Hadn’t I been?

I spent the afternoon as I often do as of late, searching the field and charred remains of the forest for miniature settlements. Finding none, I’d begun to fashion my own. Breaking up twigs to the appropriate size, painstakingly building little chairs, beds, cabins and the like. Hoping I might persuade them to return. Couldn’t imagine what someone might think if they should happen upon me during the act. Probably that I’d lost it.

The third big lie is “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. Like how a broken bone heals to become sturdier than before. Not so with the heart or mind! Asylums are filled with evidence to the contrary.

As I put the finishing touches on another little cabin, my mind helplessly dwelled on memories of Jennifer. Of that single, cherished Summer for which life loaned her to me, only to then snatch her away for good. I am past those desperate, pathetic fantasies that she will somehow return to me one day. If I wait ten, twenty, fifty years for her heart to miraculously change. But I still hurt.

I was never a strong person. Like a damaged spiderweb, a sandcastle or ship in a bottle, even the most skillful repair attempts can’t restore it to exactly how it was. With no option to start over, I could only feebly set about rebuilding the collapsed parts of myself as best I could. A rickety patchwork, barely functional, and liable to be destroyed by a stiff breeze.

My fault of course. Many things are. I’d come out of my shell and finally begun to connect with another human being. To grow around her like a tree grows around a boulder, such that it becomes a critical structural element. A load bearing pillar that, once removed, leaves the tree irreparably weakened and not long for the world.

That hollow space has a very particular shape that nothing else will fit into. However my parents insisted I would heal, I just never improved. What little confidence I’d accumulated until then blew away like the ashes of the burning forest. Maybe that’s why they won’t appear to me now.

Their settlement is still in the lake. When I bike over there at night I can see lights down there, so somebody’s home. The pier is intact, there are occasionally boats or submarines docked, but they don’t come out. I sometimes catch a glimpse of their faces through the submarine portholes or the window of the adjacent shack, waiting patiently for me to leave before resuming work.

During my last visit I found something new next to the pier. A three inch tall statue of me holding aloft the baseball bat, Winston at my side. When I visited Winston’s grave in the remains of the woods, a similar statue stood atop it. So they remember! Perhaps as a legend now, instead of history. I don’t blame them if they don’t believe in me anymore. Neither do I.

As we pulled into the driveway, Dad told me he wanted help unloading some stuff from the back. I peered over the seat and sure enough there were three crates of what the logo identified as motor oil stacked behind me. “That’s a lot of oil. Do we really need that much?” He lightened up a little, laughing at my apparently foolish question.

“It’s not for us. I’m going to sell it. With your baby brother on the way I took on a second job to pay for all the stuff we’ll need.” Mom beamed at him and cooed about what a hairy chested breadwinner he is. It was terribly heavy and even a single crate was about my limit. Nonetheless I managed to move two out of the three from the garage to the master bedroom without help.

He explained it all to us over dinner. “It was a heck of a bargain, only fifty bucks plus the cost of the oil to get started. I bought a lot because they said to make the big bucks you’ve got to go all in. Dave recruited me, so he gets a small cut of my sales. But I also get a cut from the sales of anybody I recruit. The more people you bring in the more money you make, and everybody gets to be their own boss.”

Mom’s eyes sparkled as she listened. She said it sounded too good to be true, but was plainly already sold on the idea. I wondered aloud why, if it was so ideal, everybody didn’t do it. They both became quiet and Dad frowned at me. “Wait and see, Mr. Negative. They warned me about naysayers, I can deal with that. I don’t wanna have to in my own home though.”

He had me there. I’m hardly an optimist, anyway. Mom told me to head upstairs and load all the additional school supplies she’d recently bought into my already overloaded backpack. I had a lot of fun with it, thinking about the prospect of starting at a whole new school the next day. All too soon! A tornado of butterflies twisted up my stomach. Equal parts excited and apprehensive.

Somehow the butterflies only multiplied overnight. It was tough to keep my cereal down on the drive over. I resolved to have fun, first and foremost. Whatever was different or unfamiliar, I would embrace it. Do as the Romans do, even try to be the best at it and make some friends along the way. “I learned so much from my old school” I thought, “All I have to do is not make the same mistakes here.”

The principal met me in the parking lot and stiffly escorted me to the cafeteria, where I’d just missed breakfast. No big tragedy to me as I was far too nauseous to eat. He introduced me, the familiar agony gripping my body as all eyes in the room studied me for any flaw however small. I’ve long since learned to always be vigilant for attacks that can come at any time and from any direction.

Then some of them smiled. Briefly, it occurred to me that I might be misreading their intentions. It was only a room full of other students, after all. They looked either friendly or indifferent, none of them menacing as of yet. So I scolded myself for assuming the worst and picked a table to sit down at.

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^{Stay Tuned for Part 2!}