TORN

by Amirah Mohamed Rafi

            It’s the last minute of sixth period when Mrs. Davenport points her red expo marker to the whiteboard, teaching us how to write a perfect response to literature essay, the last thing I will ever learn from her. I’m exhausted and just want this last day to be over with. I still take notes, paying just enough attention to write down what she’s saying, but not enough to process any information. Then again, this was better than a final on the last day of school. I watch the clock tick, and the bell rings. I exhale, not realizing I was holding my breath.

            “Come with me. With me now!” Mr. Cooper places his hand on my shoulder, pulling me harshly toward the end of the one-way hallway. He opens the creaky door that leads to the staff room, and I’m face to face with my history teacher.

            “Kiara? What is it this time?” Mr. Anderson asks, staring at me with his soft brown eyes.

            “Uh—” I’m cut off my high school principal.

            “She was caught with this weapon!” Mr. Cooper points to the butter knife in my lunch box. He scoops it up, inspecting its fine silver blade.

            “Kiara, you brought a weapon to school? You can’t afford to be expelled next school year!” I’ve never seen Mr. Anderson so flustered.

            “I—” My face begins to flush.

            “She has a weapon, sir! She needs to be expelled! She’s a threat to the kids! So many schools have already shut down because of this!”

            My hands and legs begin to shake. It was just for my bagel. Mr. Anderson looks at Mr. Cooper, then to me, then to Mr. Cooper.

            “Mr. Cooper, Kiara and I would like to have a private conversation.”

            “I don't want to—” I say as I feel myself heating up. Breathe, I tell myself.

            “Kiara. Yes, you do,” Mr. Anderson replies, watching Mr. Cooper grudgingly leave the pale blue room covered in posters.

            “This cannot happen any longer. You cannot bring anything even the slightest bit dangerous to school, especially here.”

            “Yes, sir.” I concentrate on my breathing, hoping for everything to go away. I tug at my bracelet. I fiddle with the beads, pulling them one by one.

            “This is the last time. Bringing a weapon makes the kids feel unsafe.”

            “Yup.” He looks at me, trying to figure me out. Meanwhile, I blink rapidly, trying not to faint. I cannot be expelled. They would definitely alert my parents.

            “I mean mhmm, sir?”

            “You will be let off with a warning, just because it is the last day of school.”

            “Yes.” I want to thank him so badly, but I’m afraid he’ll notice how choked I am.

            “Your parents will pick you up shortly.”

            I snort. It’s a 30-minute ride on my bike, but at least I’ll have some time to myself, away from school, away from the residents of Springfield. I walk out of school, taking a minute to sit down on a bench and pretend to be on my phone. As soon as I can’t feel my own heart racing, I step onto my skateboard, short hair flying in my face. I stop for a minute at the white benches, plugging in my headphones to my phone and hitting shuffle on my favourite playlist. I set the volume too high.

            I get home. Or I guess the house where I live. It is June now, the beginning of summer break, and no one has realized that I don’t live at 3085 Thyme Avenue anymore. I live alone, but I have my job at the diner and my electronic devices, enough to keep me going.

            No one could believe that I would ever bring a weapon to school, in the way that our society was run. There were constant patrols, a gated border preventing contact from the outside war. Every town was unique, with its own special attributes, but Cape Town was dangerous. No one was permitted to exit or to enter in fear of being tagged. Everyone who has passed the border is marked with a tattoo on their left palm, and sign that they have the special ability. And in Cape Town, that ability was to harness the best trait of another individual. But for that to occur, the person needs to have been killed. Everyone was wary, for anyone could be out to kill them. Only, what you think is your best trait may not be the right one.

            But now it’s finally summer vacation. I can keep to myself, isolated from the rest of my society for protection. No more metal detectors, no more security guards at the front doors every school day. No more homework, no need to make meet with friends for projects. I can finally spend time to sit and relax in peace by myself.

            Precisely 7 minutes after I arrive at my house, I jump when I hear a knock on my door and a faint cry for help.