Life

I walked out of the Orchestra room in my usual rush. I had a few errands to run, teachers to talk to, projects to discuss, and only until three-thirty to handle it. I prioritized according to due dates, and how late certain teachers stayed as I swept down the hallways in a cloud of professionalism, and detachment. I eventually decided to leave my stuff at the ledge where my group socializes in the morning. I realized something was amiss.
There was a child there-- seventh grade, by the name of Dylan, and called "Elvis"-- whom I often teased lightheartedly for invading my "emo corner" a very small corner beside the ledge in which no one was allowed to smile. He had usurped my sacred spot that day, as usual, but this time it was obvious that he needed it. I shooed away the crowd of concerned individuals, who could offer no consolation, on the grounds that he needed space. I sat beside him, and allowed him to cry for a few moments longer.
Whatever it was, he was devastated. Something ached behind his crystal blue eyes. His blond hair was mussed from running his fingers through it so many times. His cheeks were even paler than usual, creating a phantom beside me. Finally, I asked him what was wrong.
His grades suffered, and therefore so did he. His parents were going to take away all of his electronics, and the entire holiday season. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas-- gone. He wouldn't be allowed to call his girlfriend, either.
I commiserated with him for a bit, because that's what he needed. His feelings justified, he was strong enough then, to take the advice I made. I told him to stay strong, and allow others to grant him help-- many of his friends had already offered to tutor. I told him how to take notes in class, and prioritize, and the most effective way to use a planner.
He thought on it, and I rose, trying not to forget my errands with this sad angel in my midst.
He rose, as well, and sparred with a friend who was being particularly callous to the whole situation. In the end-- after defending an unfair blow, he hit his arm on the wall behind him, and strode off in dismay. Alex (the callous server of injustice) apologized. Eyes blazing, I followed.
With a condescending gaze, I stared Alex away from him. I turned a gentle face toward Elvis.
"Where does it hurt?" I asked. He indicated his elbow, scraped on the back side. I gently rested my cold fingertips on the on the joint. "Does this--?" I started to ask. He hissed, abbreviating my query.
"I'm taking you to the nurse." I said leading him past Alex, who I again treated with disdain. As if Elvis wasn't having a bad enough day, already!
There was no nurse in the clinic, and after a few minutes, I asked where he needed to be. He said he needed to go to afterschool at 3:30. It was 3:28. He fretted, saying he'd get in trouble for being late.
Not on my watch.
I tried the drawer of plastic bags, and to my surprise, it was unlocked. I got a bag, and filled it with ice, placing the little package directly on the swelling elbow. He closed his eyes against the apparent pain.
As he mustered the strength and courage to rise, and go to afterschool, the nurse strode in, chastizing him for still being there. I whispered to him that she was bluffing-- a school nurse would not truly turn away an injured student. It was against their morals. As we walked out I went on to inform him that she'd get over it.
He gathered his stuff and went to head for his locker. I swooped it up instead, and hepled him open the lock, retrieve his stuff, hold the ice pack, and close the locker door. He looked at me, expectantly, as if I would give hm his belongings.
"I'll escort you to afterschool. If they have a problem with you being late, they can go through me." He thanked me.
We walked into the cafeteria, and I spoke with the attendant, there. I carried his stuff and snack (surprised that she'd hand him his snack when he was obviously struggling to carry it in an effort to keep the ice on) to a table. He thanked me again, and I informed that it was not a problem. As I passed the attendant, again I told her "I should like to see to it that if his elbow still hurts after the ice he has been adnimistered melts, he recieves more. Can you handle that?" The lady was slightly shocked at my quickness to take control; she nodded dumbly.
"Walk in like you own the place..." I muttered to myself, striding after my stuff. It was 3:35, and my mother would be fuming, but I could make amends.
As it turned out, Someone was watching after me, for watching after his own-- Mom ran 15 minutes late, and I was not in trouble.
~~~~~~
I finished my homework at 12:45, was out of the shower at 1, and had one more task before going to bed. I sat at my computer, and wrote............................................. ........................
I do not wish to impose my opinion where it does not count, but I am bound to my duty as a person to offer aid to others, and so, if my input offends you, I am deeply sorry.
I am a not close friend to your son, but he is among my social group. As far as people go, I have noted him as a very worthy individual. He has obviously been raised with the highest expectations, very much like I was raised, and with the same morals; he is respectful of his elders, even those who are only Sophomores, like myself; he is kind to others, and takes lighthearted teasing with apparent grace, as he is apt to recieve from high school friends; he is diligent, and puts effort into his comic on the Tomahawk Talk, where he is the only honorary middle school contributor. Whenever I see him, I am made glad by his presence, because he is such a shining soul. Yesterday, though, I saw his spirit marred by misery, and tears dance behind his eyes. After shooing away the group of concerned individuals on the grounds that he needed a little space, I sat beside him and asked what was wrong.
It seems he is more like me than I had expected.
My parents are ones that are absolutely horrified by B's, and would likely suffer cardiac arrest were I to bring them home a C. D's and F's are unspeakable. I maintained all of my expectations throughout elementary school flawlessly, but Middle school threw me a curve I couldn't adjust to. Even in seventh grade I struggled. One nine weeks, I brought my parents the unspeakable grade— a D— in Orchestra, no less. And upon me came the same verdict as you have struck Dylan with— the entire Holiday season, cancelled in one fell swoop, and also my birthday in April. No phone privileges, no visits to my Grandma's, no internet.
I was devastated, as the dictum loomed for eight days. Consumed by guilt, which I masked with ire, I was resolved to revolt. When the deserved sentence was to be instated, I would take my place among every other teenager to walk the Earth— rebellious, cocky, and condescending, I would begin to rule my pretended roost, and degrade anyone who dared enter, thus becoming a ball of angst and hormones.
As I stood, brazen in the face of my "enemy" parents, the sentence was passed down— mercy. Upon that instant, I took up— with the same passion— a different cause. I would remain loyal to my parents, never becoming a miserable teenager, maintaining good grades, and becoming more mature. I had decided to revolt with such haste— such parsimoniousness— and there were my parents, noblest of all, granting me mercy.
To this day, I exist to serve them, and to make them proud. Mercy was my savior, my parents its administrator.
There is another side to this, though. I had another friend, whose parents were of a like mind. They upheld her penalties, as promised. She grew restless, she did revolt, and she has taken her place among the very worst of them all. She drinks underage, sneaks out at night with older men, has an eyebrow ring. She answers to no one— not even her own welfare. This, to her own demise.
And the schism between my path and hers began with a single decision on both of our parents' minds.
Often, the threat of something is enough to straighten someone out. I have seen your son truly miserable, and with that suffering he has already served his sentence twice over without your notice, at all. Why then make him suffer more? There is a point in people where the point is made— any further penalty only plants seeds of resentment in the hearts of those who love you most.
Please, sir, remember this as your verdict is passed down, and the relationship between parent and child is forced to its potential breaking point.
With deepest concern,
Amber Houston
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, I gave the signed, typed note to the attendant, with instructions to see to it that it be given to whoever picks him up, most importantly his father.
Alex, after deepest scorn on my part, begged forgiveness from us both, apologized profusely, and promised not to ever hit another man again, unless that man had hit a woman.
Now, I wonder how he is doing, after his father reads the note. Perhaps mercy has been granted.
I can only hope.

Yesterday, I recieved a forward from one of my dearest friends. There was a touching story of a man whose car broke down at a gas station and he was granted the opportunity to help another human being, which he gladly took.
I recieved that after I had gotten home, yesterday evening. and took special note to a particular line...
"Angels are really busy, so sometimes God uses regular people."
I am blessed with a person like that, my Sunshine, who is constant, and bright, and never fails me. Now, I live every day to be a little miracle to someone else.
I hope that, today, I have suceeded.