I WANT TO BE DJOKO
Emeline Minah Naval
Copyright 2011 by Emeline Minah Naval
Cover Art: Sally Ossoukro editions
Published by Sally Ossoukro Editions Publishing at Smashwords.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Chapter 1
Morbidly Obese
“Milo, Zlata come down!” I heard someone calling out my name in a high-pitched voice. That was Jelena, my father’s girlfriend. It was dinner time. My father, Ivan Kapovic, could be happy. He had a girlfriend. I did not. He was loved by a great woman. I was not. I did not want to be loved by a woman, a girl would do. Girlfriends were made for teenagers like me, not for grown up men like him. A man of his age should not have a girlfriend. Having a girlfriend sounded childish, when applied to an adult. Jelena was not a girl; she was a woman, a real woman. Apparently, she was more than a friend to my father. Grown-ups were supposed to have life partners or companions, husbands and wives, not girlfriends or boyfriends. My father was having fun. He was enjoying life with a beautiful woman. I felt like an outcast. I could not help thinking it was unfair. I did not hate Jelena. She was the sweetest woman I knew; even if she yelled a lot. She always had her hair in a fluffy ponytail. This type of hairdo would have looked odd on someone else; not on her. She looked like a real-life model. Jelena was so gorgeous that she could do whatever she wanted to with her palish, blond mane; and still looked amazing. I could not help but feeling sorry for myself. It was a bit of a habit. Honestly, I was glad these two lovebirds got together. I could see how much better my father was, since Jelena was in his life. Well, in our life. I could be happy for them. I could not be happy for me. I had no sense of personal joy. I just had to admit that my life would have been much better without Jelena’s stupid daughter – Zlata.
We all lived under the same roof. It was both a blessing and a real pain. I would have loved to get along with Zlata. I had tried my best to do so when we first met. Being on friendly terms with that girl was impossible. Zlata was the most horrible, despicable brat there was. She was supposed to be my sister. She did not act like one. Nobody could keep her on her toes. I could barely stand her. She was fake and phony. The feeling of hatred was mutual. She was so mean, undoubtedly mean. Zlata was one year older than me. She thought she was already a woman. I could make a list of all the hurtful things she constantly put me through. Perhaps, I was the only one who could see her true colours. For everyone around us, she was a little miss perfect. I was the freakish loner. She had tons of friends. I had none. Everybody appreciated her company. Since our parents got together, we attended the same school. We could have spent a large amount of time together. We tried to avoid doing that. We had the worst relationship possible. For over a year, I had lived in heart-broken circumstances. I was still coping with a terrible loss. Nobody was sympathetic. Things would be different. I would make things be different. For starters, I had decided to quit whining. My father always told me to man up. It was high time I put his wise words into actions.
I did not like being a teenager. I was not sure the other ages of life would be any better. I was sixteen. My life was miserable. How was I supposed to man up? I was the laughing stock wherever I went. My incredibly greasy dark hair framed my chubby face like a dirty curtain. My forehead was red with acne pimples. I did not seem to be able to get rid of that plague. I would not mind, but my classmates always called me names. I did not dress as cool kids did. I had no style, so to speak. It was not that bad, anyway. Most of the time, I hung out with myself in my school uniform. My father had made it possible for me to attend one of the best schools there was, Saint Martin’s Academy. It was a very selective school, very exclusive. Those who went to this academy came from the posh boroughs of London. I had to commute all the way from the London Borough of Haringey, where I lived, to Merton, where the school was located. I could travel from a world to another without any fuss. I did not mind. My classmates did. Zlata had been thrilled to go to Saint Martin’s. I had no idea how she succeeded in passing for one of them. Her assertiveness and her dress sense must have done the trick. She belonged to Saint Martin’s, I did not. No matter how hard I tried, I did not look the part.
My weight was an issue, my main issue. I got picked on a lot because I looked different. I was heavier than anyone in school. Even some teachers seemed to be scrawny youth in comparison with me. I was enormous. A GP had described me as “morbidly obese”. I hated that term. I was fat, but I did not want to die. Death had already ripped her lot in our family, not so long ago. Would death dare to strike my family twice in such a short span of time? It would not be decent. Did death care about being decent or not? I was not sure.
If you went to my room, you would see large posters of Djoko plastered all over the walls. The tennis player was my ultimate idol. I did not worship him like a god. Well, perhaps I did, but just a little. But, why shouldn’t I? Djoko was such a terrific role model. I had been a huge fan of tennis way before I knew about him. The first time I had watched Djoko played, it had been a revelation, a real epiphany. He was brilliant, elegant, and powerful. He was everything I would like to be. I knew I had to play tennis somehow. Sometimes, when I felt down, I talked to him in my head. I was not crazy. I had taken that from Abu Iqbal, the owner of a little shop around the corner. I spent most of my free time with Abu. He was the wisest man I knew. He always had in store for me a valuable piece of advice, and a lot of sweets.
My father cringed every time I told him that I had been hanging out in Abu’s shop. Ivan Kapovic used to think that Abu was responsible for my indulgence in binge eating. I disagreed with that. Actually, Abu had been showering me with sweets ever since my mother passed away. The old man had done his best to help me through. He had been with me every step of the way. I found comfort where I could. Nobody could blame me for that. It was not Abu’s fault either. He was just trying to help. My father was overwhelmed by grief at that time. He was unable to communicate with me. I had never been so much of a talker myself. This period of our lives was extremely grim. Then Jelena came along, and everything went better. Too bad, she had to bring Zlata with her.
Jelena was always responsible for the dinner. I helped her from time to time. The gorgeous woman was so easy to get along with. I did not mind spending long afternoons with her to fix dinner. After school, I would drop by Abu’s. He would always have a stash of tasty food waiting for me. Most people would qualify the food I craved as junk food. It was not junk food for me. It was a treasure of salty, and sweet, and greasy pleasures. Abu did not just give away the snacks, I would also buy things. The shop was not for free. Abu Iqbal was business savvy. I could say without any doubt that I was Abu Iqbal’s best customer. I was also a dear friend. I considered him as an uncle. He was someone I could always turn to when I was in need. Jelena was just the same. I knew I could lean on her. I did not know if Zlata hated me because I spent too much time with her mother. If it was the case, I was sorry. I had never wanted to cause any unnecessary drama between Zlata and her mother. Anyway, Zlata was twisted. She did not need a reason to hate my guts.
Jelena had been calling us for a while, but it was hard to get me out my usual daydreaming. I was still in my room, lying in my bed, staring at my favourite Djoko’s poster. I was sketching his athletic body. I wished that one day, I looked like him. He oozed confidence. We had the same ethnic background, so why not? Why did he look the way he looked, and why did I looked the way I did? This did not make any sense. I had not always been that heavy. When I was a kid, I was a bit chubby. Mom used to say I had big bones. She, on the contrary, was tall and slender, sweet and perfect in every point. She was my mom. There had been a time when I could not think about her without tearing up. In that time, I would sketch her face, frantically. My period of compulsive sketching and weeping lasted for a couple of months. Then, my tears dried up. Instead of crying, I started to eat more than necessary and spend my free time drawing tennis players. I did not honestly know why. I always had a tendency to obsess over things I liked.
“Zlata, Milo! Don’t make me repeat. Dinner’s ready.” Jelena screamed from the dining room. There were three things that Jelena would do perfectly: cooking dinner, screaming a lot, and being an awesome surrogate mom. She had become a second mom to me. I did not like to upset her. Jelena was the nicest person in the world, even though she could be quite short-tempered, sometimes.
“I’m coming!” I squeaked back. My voice was changing. I had no control over it, whatsoever. I had no control over my entire body. Every little piece of me was on the wild side. When I drew, at least I was in charge. On the wall, I pinned a drawing I was particularly proud of. I stepped back and gazed at my creation, proudly. I got out of my sanctuary. I climbed down the stairs as fast as I could.
“Don’t run like that. It’s useless. You won’t be any thinner,” Zlata said. Her voice was irritating. She would always do her best to put me down. She was very good at that. I did not answer anything. There was no use of getting angry right before eating. I would not let her ruin my appetite. Jelena had prepared stuffed peppers, my favourite. I could smell the delicious aroma. The sweet scent of the dish was already lifting up my spirits. I would not give Zlata the power to bring me down. I quickly went to the bathroom to wash up my hands. Jelena was strict on hygiene. Nobody could go to the dinner table with unwashed hands. Somehow, she would detect when your hands were not properly washed. She surely had a sixth sense.
When I finally stepped into the dining room, my family was already gathered round the table. I sat at my usual spot. My father grinned. Jelena cast me an annoyed look. I smiled a poor smile. We waited for Jelena to fill in our plates. She did not like us to help ourselves. The rule was the following: the one who had prepared the meal was the one responsible for service. It was practical. I never failed to praise Jelena for her cooking. She was brilliant. I thought she was as good as my father, who was also a trained and professional cook. Jelena had worked as a chef with her brother in the old country. She did not like to talk about this period of her life. Her brother had passed away in sad circumstances. My father and Jelena opened a restaurant, here in Haringey. They called it, the Pozarevac, after their home town in Serbia. In the restaurant, my father was in the kitchen. Jelena would greet the customers, who for some reasons were always surprised when they realized that she was also in charge of the business side of things. Perhaps, she did not look like the typical entrepreneur with her girlish demeanour. When Jelena and Zlata were together, people always assumed they were sisters.
At home, Jelena was the one and only cook. I would step into the kitchen and gave her a hand, willingly. She was so patient with me. I was not a natural. I would mess up a lot of dishes. She would calmly explained how to make things right. These were the only moments when Jelena would curb her yelling. Plus, she was always eager to share her cooking secrets. I
did not have this kind of bond with Ivan Kapovic. My father did not like cooking at home because he did not have his kitchen helpers at his disposal.
Everyone looked so serious during dinner. The TV was off. Jelena could not stand to eat with the TV on. So, my father and I had to give up on our TV dinners. Jelena constantly said the real ground of an actual family was communication. Talking to one another was for more important than talking over the TV. My father and I used to comment everything we saw on TV. Jelena hated it. We dropped the habit. We also had to say grace before eating. That was a thing neither my father nor I had ever done before. I did not know how to pray. Jelena showed us how. However, I had never felt like doing it seriously. My father and I only kept our eyes closed, while Zlata and Jelena were praying. I did not know what Zlata was praying for. I had the habit of closing my eyes, like everyone around the table, but I opened them up right after. I needed to read everyone’s faces. Zlata kept her eyelids tightly closed. She had spread glitter all over her lids. Her lips were quivering a little. I was sure she was praying for Aidan to be into her. Aidan was a total tool and the strongest bully at school. For reasons beyond my understanding, Zlata had a huge crush on him. He was highly popular. He could not stop picking on me. His day at school could not be complete if he had not teased me at least once. Fortunately, he lived in the posh places of Merton. I did not have to meet him outside school. He would not stop bragging about how loaded his parents were. I had no idea why Zlata and every girl at school were so obsessed with him. Aidan was smug and self-centred. Perhaps, this trait was attractive to girls. I was wondering why most girls seemed to crave for obnoxious boys.
Ivan Kapovic was not praying. We were made of the same atheist clay. If he would have prayed, it would have been for the Pozarevac. He was hoping the restaurant would take off. If I could read minds, I would know that Jelena was praying for all of us. Her forehead was barred by a line of sorrow. She would pray for harmony and cohesion within the family.
“Prijtano!” my father said. He used this word to break up the praying time. The meaning was “bon appetite!” in Serbian. I was not able to speak the language, but I knew a few words, and a whole bunch of onomatopoeia.
I eagerly dug in. The peppers were wonderfully done. They had this sweet flavour that only perfectly baked peppers could have. Onions, garlic, beef and pork, had been minced by Jelena’s gifted hands, to make a tasty filling. She would never use already made anything. Heaven was in my mouth.
“How was school, Milo?” Jelena asked. This single question ruined my food experience. Thinking about school never failed to make me bitter. I could feel sweat warming up my palms, and wetting my nape. A few seconds later, my back was soaked in perspiration too. I was desperately trying to hide my discomfort. Every pore of my skin was betraying me. I nervously played with a juicy piece of pepper. I wanted to make this moment go away. The simple evocation of school sent me back into my daily state of anguish. The school nurse, who was the best person I knew in this pitfall of pain, once told me I suffered from school phobia.
“Great, Auntie Jelena.” I lied. Jelena and my father were not married yet. I always called her “auntie.” I did not know how I came up with this. She did not mind. She even seemed to be pleased by this mark of respect. Somehow, the affectionate label stuck.
“No, it wasn’t.” Zlata said, triumphantly. “Milo got to spend lunch time in the toilets.”
I could not understand why on earth Zlata took so much pleasure in making a daily account of my misfortunes. I glared at her. She had promised not to tell anyone. I should have known better.
“Zlata, I’m so proud you’re telling us. Milo, don’t keep stories like that for you.” Jelena gently said.
I felt awkward. I wanted to hide under the table. I could feel the cold stare of my father on me. Ashamed, I felt sick in my stomach. I gulped, waiting for the verbal bashing. Ivan Kapovic would always give me a never-ending lecture on life, whenever he looked at me this way.
“Milo, how many times should I tell you to fight back?” he said firmly.
“I tried Tata,” I murmured. “Tata” was the only word I used when I addressed my father. It was my way to honour our Serbian heritage.
“Oh, Milo, poor baby boy. Ivan, you should go to that school and tell them the way you think.” Jelena said. She was a natural mother. She would always find the right words to comfort you.
“Don’t call him a baby. He’s a man--”my father said.
“A man-to-be,” Jelena interrupted.
“Either way, don’t call him a baby,” Ivan Kapovic went on. I cringed. My father and Jelena had the disturbing habit to talk about me as if I was not in the room.
“I should probably pay a visit to the school.”
“No, Tata. Don’t!” I almost shrieked. I was panicking over the thought of having my father in Saint Martin’s Academy. What would he do? Talk to Aidan and his clique? It would only worsen the whole matter.
“You should do that, Ivan. It would be fun,” Zlata said with her mischievous grin.
“Zlata, don’t call Ivan by his first name. You know how rude this is.” Jelena said. Zlata shrugged her shoulders. Visibly, she was not concerned at all by her mother’s remarks.
“I’ll stop when you two get married. Milo calls you by your first name, and you don’t mind.” Zlata said, pouting her lips. Zlata always did that when she was not pleased. She was seventeen, and acted as if she was twelve. What a brat! What a stupid brat!
“It is not the same,” Jelena briskly said. Her tone indicated she wanted to drop the argument. Jelena did not want to argue with her daughter, who was the queen of pointless rants. Zlata would twist any of your words, until she stripped your mind from the faintest trace of logic. Zlata was so talented at playing mind games. My father was aware of this: any argument with Zlata would be a heated argument.
“Zlata, I don’t mind. You can call me whatever you feel comfortable with,” Ivan Kapovic said.
“See, mom? Ivan gets me.” The silly teenager bragged. She flashed her teeth in a bright smile. Somehow, she had managed to win.
My father was not done with me. I knew I was good for one of his trademark pep talks, which sounded more like dragging lectures to me. I could not take Ivan Kapovic’s tough love. I was not ready for that. My father looked at me in the eyes, cleared his throat and said, “Milo, this has been going on for too long. You have to learn how to fight your own fights.” I nodded in agreement. What else could I say? There was no way I could make this thing right.
“I’m serious, son. Don’t make a fool of yourself. Fight back! ” my father added with conviction. I did not know if he thought that his optimism was contagious. I could never picture myself fighting against Aidan and his pack of Hooray Henrys. My father had no clue about what I had to undergo. I was helpless. I wanted to scream. I could not help but feeling I was alone and unloved. Nobody would back me up. Against Aidan and his clique, I had no chance. They were too popular. Everyone instantly sided with them. No matter what they did. My inner thoughts translated on my face. Jelena said, “Zlata, perhaps you should protect your brother. Don’t let the other kids be nasty to him.” Zlata almost choked on her stuffed peppers, when she heard her mother’s words.
“Can’t do,” she coughed.
“Why not?” Jelena asked, obviously surprised by Zlata’s reaction.
“Mom, you don’t understand! I can’t hang out with Milo. I would lose my status,” Zlata whined.
My father and Jelena exchanged puzzled looks. They did not thoroughly grasp what she was talking about.
“Sweetie, your brother needs you,” Jelena finally said.
“First, he’s not my brother. Second, I have to act a certain way to stay on top.
“On top of what?” a worried Jelena asked.
“Duh! School hierarchy!”
“Don’t you “duh”-me, young lady. I didn’t raise you like that,” Jelena snapped.
“Sorry,” Zlata said. In her tone, you could not hear the slightest hint of apology.
“But, what are you talking about?” my father asked.
Zlata tilted her head and smiled. She was secretly glad to know something our parents were clueless about. I bet she was feeling all clever and important.
“That’s very simple,” she said unkindly. Why did she have to belittle others? Did it make her feel better? “Some people, like Milo, are at the bottom of school social scale. Others, like yours truly, are on top. As simple as that,” Zlata beamed.
“Based on what?” my father asked. He sounded to be genuinely interested by Zlata’s idiotic talk.
“Looks, popularity, and natural charisma,” Zlata said. She talked with much conviction. Undoubtedly, she truly believed what she was saying. I was amazed. Unfortunately, I thought that I was the only one to be amazed by Zlata’s vapidity. My father and Jelena were so impressed by her. She was a straight-A student. This would help.
“Zlata, you’re older. Try to protect Milo,” Jelena said.
“I can take care of myself!” I blurted out in my squeaky voice. I hated my squeaky voice.
“See, mom? He can take care of himself.” Zlata said, nastily mimicking my changing intonations.
Why nobody ever talked her off? I just wanted her to keep her mouth shut. This would never happen. She was too much of a chatterbox.
“Never mind,” my father said. “Keep an eye on Milo. We’re family. That’s what we do. We stand up for each other.” My father gulped a glass of water. He was always doing his best so as not to upset Zlata. Everyone had to walk on eggs around her. It was difficult to try to talk some sense into her. I always avoided getting into an argument with Zlata, because we ended up bickering back and forth.
“Whatever,” Zlata said.
I was relieved when the conversation took another turn. I did not appreciate to be the centre of attention, especially for reasons above my power of action. All these words had spoiled my appetite. I was playing with the meat. It had gone cold. The peppers seemed exceedingly greasy. Thank you for ruining my meal, Zlata!
Supposedly, Zlata and I had to clear up the dishes. However, she had a brilliant technique to avoid her part of the chore. She would swallow her meal and leave the table before everyone. I was so jealous of her. She never had to think twice about what she was putting in her mouth. Jelena wanted to help me solving my weight issue. At first, she told me that I should keep a food journal. What a dreary thing to do! I knew I was too lazy for that. I did not have the discipline to make this thing work. I started, though. I was always one to please Jelena if I could. My good resolutions did not last over a month. I pretended that I was okay with the way I looked.
While I was fattening up, my father had never made any negative comments about my weight. We kept up pretence of normality as long as we could. He would tell me all the time that men in our family were bulky and strong. I was walking in the footsteps of my forefathers. I should be proud. I chose to believe him. His words were reassuring.
As I was placing the plates into the dishwasher, Jelena came to help me. She would always say that many hands make life work. I told her that she did not have to. After all, she had prepared dinner. I could take care of the extra cleaning. She smiled in a thankful way. I did not know why I always felt so happy whenever she smiled. I could have done a lot of things just to keep her smiling. That was comforting. She patted me on the back and left the kitchen. I was walking on sunshine. I loved these moments when we did not even need to talk to understand each other.
Once I was done, I dashed back to my room. It was my sanctuary, the only place where I truly felt safe. Nobody ever entered here. I was the only living being who ever stepped past the threshold. Jelena was not a housekeeper in the traditional meaning. She said that everybody should take their part in the daily cleaning of the house. My father totally agreed with her. We all liked her way of thinking. It was quite weird in the beginning. I had never been used to make my own bed. My mother used to take care of that for me. When she passed away, my father and I just stopped cleaning anything. Life stood to a still. We even stopped cooking.
Then, my father met Jelena and everything changed. Jelena held the family together. The house stopped looking and smelling like a pigsty. We made an effort to reclaim our place as decent and healthy human beings. As long as my health was concerned, damages were already done.
Night had already fallen. I took a time to gaze at the moonless sky. I had never seen a pitch dark night. There was always a light somewhere in a city like mine. I had to get prepared mentally for another day at school. I thought that Saint Martin’s Academy was the worst place in the world. Thinking of it made me nauseous. I went to the bathroom to freshen up. The door was locked. Zlata was inside. She could stay in there for hours. I did not even dare to knock on the door. I knew what kind of treatment she had in store for me. Whenever I interacted with her, it was an open door for disaster. Without brushing my teeth, I went back into my room. I had to put my jammies on, but I did not want to. Fully clothed, I slipped under my sheets.
My thoughts ran back to Djoko. In my mind, I could see him play whenever I wanted to. In my head, I was not obese. I pictured my inner self just how I was when my Mom was still alive. In my mind, I was this slim boy full of stamina who would do anything he wanted to. My mind was the best of cinemas. I was playing against Djoko and we were equally skilled, equally handsome.
Chapter 2
Empty Court, Full Heart
I was late for the school bus again. I did not know why this kept on happening. Well, deep down, I wished I could skip school; hence the tardiness. I was not the most popular kid, but I had earned my place in this school. Academically speaking, I had nothing to envy to anyone. Saint Martin’s Academy could easily compare with the crème de la crème of London grammar schools. There was a fierce competition to enter this institution. Most of the pupils were overachievers. I had lost my love for studies, since my mom passed away. However, I would try not compromise my place in this academy. My father had worked so much to put me in this school. I did not want to fail him. However, my dislike of anything Saint Martin’s related was eating me up. Going to school was a never-ending torture, a real ordeal. Unconsciously, my body was responded to the exhortations of my mind. I poisoned myself with sad thoughts. I could not help but feeling awful. No matter how early I went to bed, I always ended up being tired and late. This one thing did not change. I was constantly sleep-deprived.
I ran as fast as I could in the hope of catching the bus. If the bus had left without me, it would have been such a relief. Out of breath, I managed to drag myself into the bus. I could hear a group of nasty girls giggling, as soon as they saw me. Zlata was among them. As usual, she would pretend we were not even related. She usually left home before me, so nobody would believe that we shared the same household. I even suspected her to sleep over from time to time. I was not sure about that, though. I had no hard feelings towards her. I only resented her attitude. She could keep away from me if she wanted to. I did not need her. The bus was crowded. I could feel a sea of nasty looks converging towards me. I was sweating and panting. Running was pretty hard for me. I hated that feeling when my body reminded me of my own limits. One of the loud girls strode in my direction. She was skinny with a flock of wavy, strawberry blonde hair. She looked nice in her Saint Martin’s uniform.
“Why don’t you sit there, you fat lard,” she said, with a mischievous grin. She called me names. I did not tell her to back off. I looked at her for a while, unable to understand what she wanted. She pointed at a seat which was empty. Another girl with a pricey headband came to back her up. She was also wearing the uniform of Saint Martin’s. Without any warning, she pushed me. I fell on the seat.
“That’s your place, now. Don’t you dare moving,” the strawberry blonde girl said.
At first, I did not understand why people were laughing at me. They usually did not need any reasons. Nevertheless, something was up. I could smell it. The girls had me sat next to a sleeping man who reeked of alcohol and pee. I wanted to get up. The girl with the headband shot a hateful glare that froze me on the spot. People always assumed that Saint Martin’s girls were nice and dainty. These two were from hell. I could have stood up and pushed them away. I was paralyzed by fear, and it showed. Drops of burning sweat were water-falling down my forehead. I did not even dare to wipe them out. I cast furtive glances at the drunkard slouching next to me. He was drooling, unaware of my discomfort. The nightmarish ride would not be too long. Saint Martin’s Academy was not that far away. I could have requested a stop, and walk all the way to school. I would have been late, but it would have spared me the humiliation. This trip was long, awfully long. I did not dare to breathe. I did not want to wake the horrible man. I could hear every beat of my frightened heart.
The bus came to a halt. It would be over soon. The crowd of Saint Martin’s students got out in a hurry. I had to wait until my two torturers gave me the green light. I stayed in my place, without doing much. My discomfort was growing. The girl with the headband turned her back to me, so I stood up. The strawberry blonde girl shoved me. She was surprisingly strong. I would not have thought that so much strength could come from such a tiny frame. I landed on the man. He was blind drunk. He woke up, groaning. The man was soaked in his own urine. I could feel it on my hands.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, bashfully. I tried to wipe the urine off on the bus seat.
“You pissed over me!” the man screamed. His foul breath sickened me.
“I told you that I’m sorry.” I mumbled.
“You peed on me!” the man insisted.
“I didn’t! You wetted yourself in your sleep. I got nothing to do with that.”
“This did not smell like my piss. Smell it!” The man grabbed my hand, and forced me to rub his crotch. I could feel a rush of blood burning my cheeks. Why nobody was ever helping me when I needed it? Somehow, I kicked the man and freed my hand from his embarrassing embrace. I jumped off the bus without casting another glance at the lunatic who kept yelling at me. The bus moved away. I fell on my knees, gasping for air. I looked up. Zlata and her group of loud girls were staring and at me laughing. Wait, Zlata was not laughing! Perhaps, she got some sense plugged into her brains. Our eyes met. My heart was suddenly beating in slow motion. All my being was waiting for a hint of compassion. One of her friends elbowed her and she laughed and laughed, louder than the others. They passed me by.
I managed to gather my composure and entered Saint Martin’s. The school was an old-fashioned school in Merton. Nothing was more depressing than the reddish bricks of the old building. A couple of scrawny trees stretched their branches up to the grey sky. I wished I could be somewhere else. As I strode into the boys’ room, I could feel the contemptuous stares of my peers lingering on me. I was not walking with my head held high, as if the hostile stares were stomping on my back. I smelled foul. I got to clean up quickly. The toilets were only a few steps away. I bumped into Aidan.
“Hey, fat lard! Where do you think you’re going?” Aidan barked.
Why did he always have to yell like that? I was not deaf. I could hear him perfectly. I remembered that years ago we used to be friends. Somehow, we attended the same nursery school in Haringey. His parents got divorced and he moved away in the posh boroughs. People said that his mother married a filthy rich man. Then we grew older. I grew fatter, and Aidan grew muscles. His mentality changed. I was no longer counted among his friends. It was such a coincidence to meet again and attend the same school. Aidan kept on acting as if we had never met before. That was just a shame.
“Hiya, how’re you doing?” I said. I did not know where I found the courage to greet them.
“How dare you talk to us?” Hugh yelped. I came to realize that talking to them was not courage but sheer madness. I had just signed my death warrant.
“Who gives you the right to?” Aidan asked. He was slowly moving towards me, frowning. Was he trying to threaten me? I did not feel threatened yet. I was just uncomfortable.
“I’m just saying hi. For old times’ sake.” I mumbled with a forced smile.
“What is he talking about?” Hugh asked to Aidan.
Everyone had that unpleasant, rude habit of talking about me, as if I was not in the room. This was infuriating. I could have told Hugh that I had known Aidan for a long time. Even if we had not stayed in touch, we had been in friendly terms when we were toddlers. We used to be best friends. I could have told Hugh, if he had asked me directly.
“Hey, fat lard! Don’t talk back to me! You know the rules!” Aidan screamed.
“What rules?” I stupidly asked.
“Hush! The man is talking.” Hugh said, waving his index finger in front of me. I wanted to tell him how ridiculous his remarks were, but I had to be careful. I was walking on eggshells. Those guys could snap anytime, for no apparent reasons.
“Gentlemen only. Sorry to bring it to you, but you’re not a man,” Aidan said rather calmly as if he wanted to put some emphasis on his words.
“Oh! Look, he got moobs!” Hugh said, laughing hysterically. I was wondering what he was referring to. I understood, as he tried to pinch me in the chest, aiming for the nipples. I dodged him. He fell, and got back on his feet quite quickly. Rather embarrassed, Hugh checked if no one had witnessed the incident. He gave a swing in his hair and regained composure, as if nothing had happened. I could not suppress a giggle. Aidan grabbed me by the collar of my school jacket. He released me promptly as if he had touched something foul.
“You stinky butterball, you reek of pee!” Aidan shouted. He pushed me away. Hugh came nearer and sniffed me! I had forgotten about the nasty smell the drunken man had left all over me.
“Phew! You’re right, Aidan. This fat lard stinks of pee!” Hugh said, pulling a disgusted face.
“I can’t believe this! Fatty here pissed himself,” Aidan said.
“That’s not how it happened. I fell into someone else’s piss.” I promptly said. I had the urge to intervene. These blokes would spread crazy stories about me, otherwise.
“As if,” Hugh laughed.
“Because that can happen,” Aidan said, incredulously. Both of them gawked at me in disbelief. There was in their gazes more contempt than incredulity.
“Give me a beat, I have something,” Aidan said to Hugh.
Hugh started beat-boxing. Aidan began to rap in his own peculiar style. I was not an expert, but I knew that what I was listening to was not good. I could not remember most of what he said, but the chorus went like this, “Fat lard pisses his trousers. With such a fat arse, his shit is the shit.” Aidan rapping skills were truly limited. His flow was slow. His lyrics were poor and unnecessarily offensive. However, he somehow, succeeded in gaining the adhesion of everyone. In no time, we were surrounded by groups of idiots cheering for more, clapping in unison. They kept on screaming and screaming. They would not stop laughing at me. I felt like the whole school was making fun of me, for no reasons. I was fed up with being humiliated on a daily basis. This time, I would not put up with that nonsense. I would not take the abuse.
“Enough! It’s not my pee! Smell it!” I screamed. I pounced onto Aidan who fell under my weight. I flew into a fit of rage. I rubbed my smelly fingers on his face. For a split second, the hubbub died down. Everyone stared in shock, not knowing what to think. Nobody had seen me in such a fury before. I had never thought it would be that easy to take Aidan down.
“Get off me!” Aidan shouted. The rage I had felt was slowly fading away. Seeing Aidan in such an awkward position was the best feeling ever. My euphoria did not last long enough for me to enjoy it. I could feel Hugh seizing me up from behind. He could not have got hold of me without the help of another guy from the crowd who came at their rescue. Aidan got back on his feet. He could hardly contain his anger. Whether he liked it or not, he had been humiliated in front of everyone. Somehow, I had avenged myself. With the help of the others, a furious Aidan dragged me to the toilets. My heart was pounding in my chest. I knew what would happen. I was done fighting back.
They beat the hell out of me. I did not even try to defend myself. I knew they would not enjoy beating me up if I kept silent. I curled into a ball, clenched my teeth and waited. I waited and waited for a few seconds which seemed to last for an eternity and beyond. I did not make a sound, not a whim, not a scream, nothing. They could beat me up all they wanted. I would not drop a tear either. They got tired before me. The bell rang. It put an end to my misery.
“That’s what happens when you mess with us!” The guy I did not know said. He was playing tough to be admired and accepted by Aidan. How pathetic!
“Don’t you ever put your fat fingers on my face again!” Aidan yelled as loud as possible.
“Shitty pants!” Hugh added. He always needed to say something.
“Hasta la luego, fatso!” Aidan said. It was not even the proper Spanish phrase. The correct sentence was “hasta luego”, not “hasta la luego”. I would have corrected him if I could. I’d rather not.
The lads high- fived. They sniggered and left. I did not move for a while. The attack had been brutal. After a long moment, I painfully got back on my feet. I stumbled to the mirror. What I saw was heart-breaking. They did not touch my face. They had a way of doing things. I could see in the mirror my rosy lips quivering. I promised myself that I would not cry. My vision was blurred. I could not repress a teardrop. What a way to start a new school-day! As insane as it was all of this was mundane for me.
Nurse Ciaran had always been my favourite person in Saint Martin’s. He tended on me a lot. I spent much of my time with him. I got bullied a lot.