My stomach growls, not for the first time today, the pangs of hunger becoming too much to ignore.
I curse internally, something that would certainly disappoint my mother, but I overslept this morning, meaning Ionly had time for a banana.
So against everything in me, I start toward the cafeteria, a place I’ve learned to avoid at all costs if I want to make it through the day unscathed.
By now, I’ve memorized every route that avoids the locker rooms, the back stairs, the benches outside the gym. I know which bathrooms are empty during lunch. I know that if I take my time walking to the library, I can miss the football team.
Today I have to walk right past the gym or go hungry until dinner.
I can hear the voices drifting from the cafeteria, so I walk faster, almost there. I make it past the gym when I hear footsteps behind me, followed by boisterous laughter.
My stomach drops.
“Yo, Kaaaaavi,” I hear in a sing-song voice behind me.
I stiffen, but I keep walking.
“Hey, man, don’t be rude! We’re trying to say hi,” another voice calls.
I don’t look back, but I don’t run, either.
That would only make it worse.
There’s a tug on the strap of my backpack, jerking me back a step.
It’s three of them this time. I don’t know all their names, but I recognize their faces. Juniors, football jerseys, the same group that hasn’t left me alone since school started.
All three of them are at least a foot taller than I am, twice my size in every way.
“Where you headed, little guy?” one of them asks in a mocking tone. “Gonna draw some pretty flowers?”
I’m not quite sure what’s so amusing about drawing flowers,but I suppose in their macho brains, it makes me less of a man.
That doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
“Hey, Kavi!” One of the other guys speaks up, “I got something you can draw!” He follows that up by grabbing at his crotch.
Ugh. Disgusting.
They always say something about art. Or my clothes. Sometimes they make stupid voices that are supposed to sound like me.
And sometimes they get straight to pushing me around.
It seems like one of those days when one of them grabs me by the shirt and shoves me into the locker. The force of the hit knocks the wind out of me, making my sketchbook fall from my arms.
It hits the tile and loose pages scatter everywhere.
“Oops. Better be careful with that,” The big sweaty guy says, moving back to join his friends again.
I peel myself from the lockers, dropping to my knees to gather the pages with shaky hands.
I’mnotgoing to cry in front of them.
A foot kicks a few pages across the floor, so I have to crawl after them while lockers slam around us, other students acting like nothing is happening.
I’m invisible.
While I’m picking up my scattered drawings, a fourth pair of shoes joins the group.
