Immersion

The sun will come out, tomorrow.
Then, when the clouds swim past and block it, that'll be my day. In meteorology or in my mind, those clouds will come. But at 7:45 AM that day, Monday, they hadn't arrived yet to put that dreary spin that I was anticipating. I guess more shit had to happen to have them roll in.

It took me half an hour to get ready, and 5 mins to get Yoplait and a spoon. Sitting at the dining room table, flavored cream in my mouth, making it stick, I waited for my mother. The living room was a ghost village with not even Casper claiming residence. The families that kept the TV on while getting ready, either cartoons for their younger children or CNN for themselves, would panic at the silence.
They would panic even more if I told them this was normal.

Oli would sleep in til' all hours of the day, which meant the occasional arriving home and finding that he hadn't moved an inch since I awoke unless to roll over on his torso.
I didn't know what to think of this sometimes.

There was the half of me that wanted to laugh at his laziness, but I think that was to cover up the half that was sincerely disgusted. My brother was a bum. How was I supposed to have friends over? Play video games, or walk down the block to pick on kids to hand over their leftover lunch money? Yeah, I thought that was a good joke too.

The metal utensil had hit plastic; the bottom of the container.
To call it a 'ritual' would give the routine a religious twang, and that's certainly not intended. Every morning, Monday through Friday, I'd grab a yogurt and sit. I'd stare in the direction of my mother's bedroom in a hope that maybe it would be one of those days when she would enter the kitchen and tell me "Good morning"
Although, one of those days never came.

No matter how slowly I ate the custard, savored its taste ten times over, and separate it into sparing bites of an anorexic, the only thing I ever got out of it was a tardy to school.
Bye Oli.
Bye mom.
Then head out the door.

You'd think that the optimism in that waiting would diminish, and don't worry, it did.

Feeling defeated once again, I rose from the table like one would rise from their grave, and threw away my 100-calorie meal. This house was better off dead, but why couldn't I claim it so?
The clock read 8:30, and it was time to leave.

Bye Oli.
Bye mom.
Then head out the door.

[........]

I walked up the lawn of Madison High School with 15 minutes to spare. The home of the "Mighty Mavericks" was polluted with color all the way up to the building, which was a Lego block of deep orange. Simply being me, I would watch all these shades intersect, then disconnect periodically until the bell would sound. Groups of all varieties would coalesce with one another, while us loners would spot the plot as outliers. The terrain would crunch under the weight of my trainers like freshly sprinkled snow, but it didn't matter now, for I wasn't trying to keep my presence unseen.
Or maybe, in fact, I was.

Being another, mediocre, timid student, I guess you could say that yes, invisibility was always a skill necessary to survive through the shadows of dynamic cliques. I say 'skill' because it takes practice.
Lockers, toilets, and warnings have taught me well.

Voices, high and low, bounced against another in the atmosphere, while crowding my ears to the point of 'no vacancy'. You just become accustomed to it in high school.
I was soon halfway across the lawn with these thoughts/pitches playing highway in my head. Keeping quiet in a sea of sound was easy, but treading through it was the difficult part. No one moves their asses anymore in the name of courtesy, or even simpler, common sense.
Either out of being carved from stone, or molded by burgers, take your pick.

"Watch where you're going,"
The bark of someone unknown resounded to my drums as they shoved me to the right, walking on. I stumbled, then looked behind me in an effort to see them. Too many bystanders though.

Slightly shaken, I dusted off my shoulder and continued, making sure to be extra cautious to avoid another physical dispute. I could have slithered if I wanted, for it was clear that I had no fucking backbone.
As the time came to approach the football players, a spurt of fear inevitably erupted, which could be seen in my movements and stature. I stood completely still, and my torso became frigid; frozen, as my limbs were the icicles. They never hesitated to bother a floater like myself, and I've seen what they've done to other kids.
So yeah, it's never been done to me, but there's a first time for everything.

I took in a deep breath, one that I didn't realize I had been refusing, and began once again.
There was no need to be another dip shit standing around, holding up traffic. They, the jocks, always appeared to be occupied in the oxymoron of deep, shallow conversation, but you could not be fooled.
It could possibly mean your drawers being pulled halfway up your ass.

I saw Steven Brook, Jose Johnson, Curt, Buckley, "Big-D" who scared me the most.
I just had to keep walking.

Keep walking.
Keep walking.
Keep walking.
Keep-

"Tom!"

In the middle of being fearful, and a stranger calls a loner's name, my name. Plot thickens.
It was a guy that escaped all the color of the students to be noticed by me in his navy blue polo with white stripes. Shaggy chestnut hair and a pearly smile were all that could account for his face, for he wore over sized, square-framed, white sunglasses.
Too bad the sun was barely out.
He ran up towards me, and I wondered how I could have heard my name from such a distance. I raised my eyebrows, but stood waiting for him. Football players were long out of my mind as this mystery person beckoned for my attention.

"Thomas Sykes, right?"

Consider me drowning in deposition.
It doesn't happen very often that you're recognized by your looks by someone unknown to yourself, unless you have star power. Then the scenarios came like an assembly line; was I in trouble?
What did I do?
Was I about to get jumped?
Right in the front lawn, in front of everybody?
Was this guy the bait to see if the fish would bite?

Nevertheless, I sealed my fate and nodded.
He looked instantly relieved and loosened a few screws within his body, saying heartily,
"Oh good. I didn't want to seem like some crazy dude."

You still do.

I tried to chuckle to ease the comfort on my end, but it came out as a choking attempt. I opted after to just stay silent and scratch the nape of my neck in awkward embarrassment.
And god, did i feel embarrassed.

Blurs of yellows, reds, blues, and brown from the grass flashed as a simultaneous picture show, which I found more interesting, and even better, relaxing, than him. He seemed to realize my discomfort, thus he continued, "Um...yeah. So I saw this the other day,"

He reached into his messenger bag at his right and scrambled for the nerves of his fingertips to touch what he needed. I observed as he pulled out a newspaper, rolled tightly, and even with a rubber band constricting its middle.
Just like a paperboy.
People passed as I took it from his grip, with his unspoken consent of course, and moved the band upwards by the motion of my palm. It unraveled before me, not revealing a newspaper, but a school paper. I didn't pick up its significance. I gave hims a questioning look, expecting an answer soon before the bell rang.

"What's this?"

"The newest issue, the one where you submitted your work?"

It was more of a question than conformation.

"My what?"

The emotion that swept across my face could best be named as 'confusion'
I scanned the headline, the corners, the edges, anywhere that could be a potential place for giving the credit to the rightful owners of what was inside. I didn't know what exactly I was supposed to be looking for, but I figured my name would be a good place to start.

"Your photography. You take pictures, am I right?"

Photography on Pgs. 7 & 8 by: Thomas Sykes
I didn't answer, just flipped the paper full of extra-curriculum activities and sports news. The jocks no longer worried me. I'm sure "Big-D" and Curt knew that they "achieved a phenomenal retrieval at the end of the 4th quarter".

I went past the newsletter, the PTA schedule, the orchestra calendar, and I skipped the academic recognitions for all the lonely geniuses that stood on the same plain as I.
Pg. 5- Lacrosse.
Pg. 6- Latin Club.
Pg. 7- Drama.

The heading was in golden swirls of letters, creating an elegant font for Razia's Shadow: A Musical. Beneath it was printed the name 'Nidria', played by Adeline Meyers.

I dropped my jaw as I saw a dozen of my photos scattered along the sides, acting as a frame for the biggest one in the middle, also taken by my Kodak. It was as though my whole world had crashed all around me in ruins, and I was the only survivor to gape at personal creations that sought to destroy me in the end.
The next page was no better, for this time instead of encompassing an artwork, it encompassed an actual article. The guy, who I was guessing had something to do with the Journalism department, grinned at my reaction. Probably thinking it could placed in the genre of joy.

"We had the idea of focusing on only one character for each weekly printing, which explains Nidria's very own spotlight."

She's always had one.

I think I redefined 'speechless' in that moment.
Those photos were the most intimate belongings I had possessed, and here they were for the student body to see.

Everyone would get a taste of the musical.
Everyone would get a taste of Adeline.
A taste that had been simmering in my mouth for months only to be regurgitated like a momma bird feeding its babies, yet all I wanted was to pluck out their tongues.
This was supposed to be mine, not flaunted around.

"So, what do you think? You like it?"

This guy was so enthusiastic, so happy about the project he had completed. It was fucking disgusting.

"I...I didn't give you permission to use these."

His eyes widened as he took a step back; not expecting my hostility to come out against him personally. I wasn't thinking about how Journalism was a class that held 25 students at the least, or how it wasn't a plan conjured by a single individual who acted alone to go against me. I wasn't thinking that it wasn't the guy's fault.

I was hazed by anger and hurt, and the only one I could pin it on was the one standing in front of me. The number of kids outside was decreasing, and out of the ones that were still there, none of them were aware of what was happening.

"B-but, you contacted us about wanting this section of the paper to be included."

"I did not," I spat venomously.

So not only were they stealing what was mine, but now he was trying to convince me that I gave them up voluntarily?

"Yes, you did. You brought them earlier in the week; last name 'Sykes', I swear."

He added the last part as though we were pals, and he was telling me that no, he never fucked my girlfriend. He swears.

I was so pent up in rage, I didn't even have anything to say.
I just let the paper fall to the dirty ground and stalked off hotly, but also, slightly scared.
If you can't understand something, it's best to be afraid.