Detention

A sullied piece of paper hung loosely between his fingers. Fidgeting, he stepped forward into the cold room, bathed in a flat, fluorescent glow. His breath came short gasps. He felt as if he couldn't breathe properly; the air in the room was too stale. He tried to steady himself and count to ten, driving his mind away from the fact that he could have an asthma attack in any minute and there was no inhaler to save him. That was, after all, what had brought him here.

Row after row of boring beige desks made the class look like a retention cell in some kind of juvenile reformatory. Students sat in small groups throughout the class. Even though it was supposed to be detention, some of them were talking animatedly. He was not very familiar with this part of Europe, and this was not at all like his former school in Germany, but he had gathered teenagers here couldn't be much different than those back home. However, after a few days, he was shocked; he found it hard to believe that in his same continent he was treated this way, that a relatively short distance could mark such a prominent difference. Instead of stepping into what his mother said would be "a movie-like life", he thought he had stepped into a nightmare, the dreadful and frightening visions of a drugged hoodlum.

He muttered a few words of reassurance to himself in German and stepped forward to the desk, handing the slip to the nonchalant teacher on duty. Her hair was messy and rebellious, tied into a bun with a pink scrunchie.

The teacher sighed as she took the paper and tossed it into the bin. She looked behind the insecure boy in front of her, scrutinizing the class with distaste. 'These criminals', her face said, 'they should all know better'.

Raising a chipped bright pink nail, the woman pointed at a desk that seemed to be in the exact middle of the class and that had a few insults written on it. Mark had no choice but to slump there for the next hour.

The eyes of the people in the room burned into his back like scalding bits of coal, or perhaps even ice. He could not bear to steady his hands; all around him murmurs of distaste fled from quick-moving lips into ardent ears, shortly followed by impish giggles, sordid curses and rough laughter.

Before he had taken his seat, Mark had managed to take a quick glance at the gang sitting in the back of the class. Perhaps those were their usual seats, perhaps they had arranged this second encounter to make it clear to the German boy that they were there to make his existence miserable. They had been quite aware of the way he had been adverting their gaze as he entered the room, and in those few seconds of ocular contact, they managed to sneer at Mark with tremendous force; all of them held the same amount of distaste, anger and control over the hopeless victim.

Mark couldn't even understand how he had brought this on to himself; he had just been walking to his next class when he tripped on a scattered bag and fell to the floor amidst the laughs of many strange new faces. Then he noticed a strand of copperish hair hovering near his own head and he hastily moved his own head back.

"Oh," the other boy said grinning. "Don't worry, I'm just helping you with these books."

That's when Mark had to rummage desperately in his bag for his old blue inhaler, because what he had just seen took his breathe away (quite literally). The honey-colored eyes and copper curls hanging over pale skin, the enthralling smile and the soft touch of his hands as he handed the books over...Mark couldn't help letting his heart run at a thousand beats per hour.

The boy stood there extending a friendly hand for Mark to shake as he pulled up his brown messenger bag with the other. "James," he said, still smiling, "do tell if you need any help."

Mark tried to cover his blush by pretending there was something in his eye, and shook Jame's hand with his own free right hand. "I'm Mark," he said in a low voice. "I moved from Germany."

Instead of laughing or walking away uninterestedly, James smiled curiously and cocked his head to one side, trying to get a better peak at Mark's freckled face, which he was hiding in some sort of shame. He noticed James didn't mention Mark's blush, even though it was obvious in his eyes and his smile that he knew.

The bell rang, but James seemed reluctant to leave. Mark glanced nervously from side to side, and James began walking ahead of him, beaconing Mark to follow. "I'll take you to your next class."

Every breath was harder for Mark, and his grip on the inhaler became weak. His sweaty palms and shaky fingers weren't helping, either. Then it all happened so quickly.

Mark's grip on his books loosened. Both he and James put out a hand to catch them. Their hands touched and time seemed to stop there, yet it all seemed to go even faster. Both realized they were surrounded by a fast-moving crowd, pushing through to get to class, and they retreated their hands. Mark's grip on his books had secured, but he accidentally let go of the inhaler, which landed on the backside of one of the gang members. The insulted gang guy spun around violently and stared into Mark's shocked face. James was pulled away by the sea of people, glancing back at Mark who was now pinned to the closest wall, his books cascading down unto the floor and landing next to the pieces of his now broken inhaler. The gang members laughed viciously and a scarred fist flew up into the air and sliced forward swiftly, stopping centimetres away from Mark's face. He had no idea why they'd took off so quickly, but he took the heaviest book he had and flung it backwards with all his strength. However, before he could throw it forward at the dissipating (and laughing) gang, he realized he had hit something: the headmistress's face.

Mark had not had the courage to see James again. He had spotted the red mess of curls bouncing in the distance, but he ducked his way out of it, looking down in shame for the rest of the day. Wherever he went, laughter and rough whispers followed. People mocked him not only for what he wasn't, but for what he was and had not dared admit.

He now sat in this room where he was sent by the outraged lady to "reflect upon his actions". Was this the way he intended to start his new life? Was this the way he would want to be known in this new country? No, it wasn't.

It was hard to think of his old home and everything he had left behind; his culture, his house, his friends, his family, Johannes...Now he was alone, and thinking about all those things wasn't going to make them magically appear. It was time he stood up for himself.

A twisting pain emerged in his stomach, a complaint of hunger mixed with fear and the insecurity of not knowing what will happen next. He turned around and faced the gang with an unreadable expression. He was determined to right the wrongs, to redeem himself and live true to what he was.

The gray sky was beginning to clear, he could see it through the windows. Outside, beyond the plaza were the lockers, infested by a chatting throng of students getting ready to go home. A gray figure emerged from all the bright colors, his long coat trailing behind him, caught by the wind. James's curls bounced softly and glinted in the afternoon sun as he approached the classroom with his quick step. He turned right toward the parking lot, but just before striding off in his gracefully rapid walk, he looked at Mark and smiled.

Reassurance flowed through all of Mark's body and he knew this was going to work out. He didn't know what he would do next, he didn't know what he would say to the confused yet pretentious gang at the back, he didn't know what would make the school forget that he was an idiot. It didn't really matter as long as he had himself and a will to live.