Hatred can hurt
hatred can kill
hatred can tear apart a nation
hatred can blow up the world
but nothing hurts as much as love.
-K.C.
I turned the lame poem in late, hoping with all my heart that Mrs. Blackwell would just accept it and not make a big stink. Usually she snapped at me and embarrassed me in front of the class, but I was silently pleading for her to not do that.
People were always prepared to make my life a living hell. Just as I walked to my seat, dressed in my ragged, ugly clothes, Kevin Hall stuck out his foot and tripped me. I didn't fall, but I stumbled enough to catch the attention of everyone in class. They all laughed like drunken idiots, pointing at me while they spat cruelty in my direction. Only Zack Bridger said nothing. In fact, his blue eyes began to look watery from behind his thick glasses.
To keep my dignity, I just bowed my head and made my way to the back seat. Mrs. Blackwell scanned my poem quickly before casting a glance of worry in my direction. I must have looked a sight in my clothes and newly-shaved head. I'd lost a good five pounds since the beginning of the school year, another thing for which the guidance office made up as an excuse to get me down there. They wanted nothing more than to look like heroes if they saved a kid from destruction. And why they thought I was heading that way was a mystery. Oh, I wished I could get enough money to buy new clothes instead of the thrift shop hand-me-downs. Maybe I'd get treated better.
After class, Mrs. Blackwell called me back into her room before I could escape. I turned around, clutching my Stephen King book against my chest. I hesitated in the doorway.
"Come over here, Kermit," she said softly.
"I need to get to my next class," I grumbled.
"I realize that. But I wanted to talk to you about your poem."
"Why?" I frowned. "It sucks. What more do you want to talk about?"
"It doesn't suck." She shook her head. She dug it out of the stack of papers and laid it down between us. "I just want to say that you did a decent job on this and I think you should enter that writing contest this year."
I glanced down at my worn shoes, concentrating on the scuff marks instead. She caught my attention when she said, "Is there something bothering you?"
"No," I lied.
"You can tell me if there is. Or one of the guidance counselors," she offered.
"I don't need help and I don't want pity!" I snapped before spinning around to escape her and the way she wanted to pity me. I was sick and tired of people feeling sorry for me! Why couldn't they just leave me alone?
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