All Thing Blue

The first time I dared to pray to God, it was for the very thing I had sworn never to desire. Love is an ugly sickness of the worst kind. The very notion of it reduces us to pitiful beggars filled with a childlike innocence, vulnerably pining for its fulfillment. Much like a caterpillar yielding to its inexorable transformation into a butterfly. We humans wrestle with the innate need for a companion, and so we attempt to rationalize it with contract-binding marriages and slanderous punishments for adulterous women. Yet, deep in the heart’s sanctum, a silent prayer lingers for love’s wild tempest of love to be tamed and thus, simultaneously denying its power. 

Foolish, gullible, preteen girls become hoodwinked through teeny boppy magazines and romance novels written by other women but the mature and sane do not. We acknowledge from a distance the dread of heartbreak and the trepidation of becoming youthful fools, bearing the weight of unspoiled hope beneath love’s deceptive veneer.

For the longest time, I had witnessed the harsh consequences of ‘love’ and had held it at arm’s length, clutching my heart against the potent surge of longing and regret. While I do not profess to be a woman of faith, I am certain that I encountered the Divine long before I bowed my head in worship or burdened Him with my pitiful requests. This divine encounter was set in motion at a most opportune moment –more likely due to His inequity to sin, at what took me a lifetime to arrive at his juncture.

More precisely, I was 180 days clean, serving an in-school suspension in the back of a public school’s classroom. Now before I am excommunicated from the church, I know 180 days isn’t anything to brag about, but it is still a source of immense pride. When I received my 90-day chip, I cherished it more than any item I’d ever owned. Santana and I celebrated with ice cream, and I kept that chip in my back pocket for three weeks, only parting with it when I ran out of pocketed pants.

This pride mirrored the regret I once felt about my inability to control my desires. The significance of 180 days lay in my newfound sense of control. I was finally normal, a typical high school student.

As a result, my high school was typical, moderately sized, and provided the perfect camouflage for me to blend in without attracting attention while still making a few friends easily. It was ideal. It took me just a week after transferring to grasp the average standards of beauty and fashion and to adapt accordingly. I avoided clothes that drew attention to my dancer’s physique and only straightened my hair on weekends. I hovered just below the school’s mean girls, with Lauren as my first acquaintance. Our school’s most popular girls were Lily McCain, Summer Merces, and Chloe Mandeli.

Lilly McCain was by far the most popular, known for her beauty and social media fame. She had jet-black hair, luscious curls, and distinctive bangs. Countless rumors surrounded her, some of which Lauren shared with me. Lily was the “It Girl,” and she made sure everyone knew it. Her entourage consisted of Summer Merces and Chloe Mandeli.

Summer, while not conventionally pretty, compensated with makeup and set the school’s beauty standards with trendy clothes, making the beauty standard here accessible as long as you dressed to impress guys. She was infamous for her mean streak, gossiping about everyone, even her supposed friends.

Santana despised Summer because they initially became fast friends, but Santana eventually saw her inconsistencies. She attended the boys’ basketball games but not the girls’, and she spoke ill of Chloe despite their friendship. Santana had developed personal vendetta against her, seeing her as a morally compromised person and I’m sure she was embarrassed about their initial association.

Chloe, on the other hand, was known for her conservative beliefs and her curvaceous physique. She had breasts large enough to make a stripper look twice and I still hadn’t completely ruled out plastic surgery. She encouraged her own sexualization and reveled in the attention it garnered. Santana’s disdain for Chloe went beyond their recurring clashes in African American Studies class, stemming from Chloe’s racism and ignorance.

This day, Santana’s sudden confrontation with Chloe in African American Studies taught by the very white Ms. Patterson was out of character, as she usually maintained a calm disposition. Santana was not the “spicy Latina” or “angry black girl” as the stereotypes perpetrated by the school board suggested. She had a disciplined, dedicated personality that came to the forefront gracefully when she played basketball.

Santana was the most talented basketball player, rewarded for her hard work and skill, but because she wasn’t white, every other aspect of her perception mattered more. The intensity of her face on the basketball court was misconstrued as aggression. Her involvement in targeted debates about slavery led to her being seen as argumentative. To make her personality more agreeable, Santana concealed her enigmatic expressions and wore a constant, albeit insincere, smile. She calmly allowed people to voice their outlandish opinions in class, ignoring their attempts to provoke a reaction from. However, this day in class after Summer and Chloe argued that slaves choose their fate and how it was one they enjoyed and preferred over freedom, Santana snapped.

I learned about what caused their altercation afterward; all I initially saw was a crowd in uproar while heading to class. I promptly ignored it, pushing through the crowd till I heard my best friend’s name amongst the cacophony. I immediately pushed to the front seeing she was the center of the chaos.

Santana had Chloe pinned to the locker by the throat effectively choking her.

Ignoring the recording phones, I attempted to break through to Santana. I couldn’t hear their words yet, but the terror on Chloe’s face was evident. Desperate to defuse the situation, I yelled for Santana. “Stop Santana! We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile remember,”

Santana turned hearing my voice and immediately softened. Then Chloe just had to open her foul mouth.

“You heard her Nig-”

Before another syllable could escape, Santana slapped that girl so hard she banged her head against the locker and as the resounding slap was heard around the world, the crowd erupted in chaos. I swiftly grabbed Santana’s wrist and pulled her away to evade the approaching administrators.

Santana’s fury was evident, her anger permeating her entire being. She was cursing and crying, and her skin was lava to touch. As we tried to escape, we were confronted by the overseer, Ms. Patterson, who with a gaze that can only be described as unholy promptly sent us to the principal’s office. I did most of the talking since Santana was too angry to speak and got our punishment reduced to a few days of in-school suspension.

Of course, Chloe only had to attend a diversity and inclusion module featuring a racist be gone video taught by a Martin Luther King look-alike.

And so, while in ISS we deliberated. “I hate stupid fucking school. So dumb,” Santana grumbled while scribbling angry doodles.

“Want to leave?” I asked, genuinely concerned. Santana shook her head. “It’ll be the same wherever I go. As long as I’m in this city, I’m stuck,” she sighed. I grabbed her hand, suggesting, “Our schedules aren’t finalized; we still have time to go somewhere else.”

Santana rationalized her face forlorn for a moment, “I’m good at putting the ball in the hoop, and this is the best school for that.”

The bell rang, marking lunchtime, and immediately three tall, handsome guys entered. I looked briefly but Santana’s gaze lingered on the only black guy with a buzz cut, until her jaw dropped.

“Where has he been hiding since we got here,” Santana whispered to me. We laughed at her joke before gathering our stuff and I attempted to head to the library for lunch. Of course, the three guys decided to sit directly in front of us, skipping several rows on our column. After averting their gaze, I walked through with Santana parting ways in the hallway. “I think I know one of them seriously,” Santana said.

“I bet you want to,” I said, and we giggled.

““I’m going to the gym to talk to the coach.” I doubted Santana could play with a suspension on her record even if it was served at school.

I asked, “Will she understand?” Santana’s coach valued her talent but had high expectations, constantly making allowances for her being neither a scholar nor a perfectly composed player.

“She’s about to have to,” Santana sighed before leaving. In the library, I dozed off to sleep and when I eventually woke, realized it was time to leave. After lunch, my schedule was a series of study halls, and I didn’t even have a last period which I greatly appreciated. It was my favorite new perk to leave school early due to the lack of education at public schools. I was determined to maintain my usual routine despite being in ISS. But first, I had to get Santana to join me since we always rode to school together.

The trinity of guys were the first thing I saw as I made it to the ISS room and they were boisterous, so I timidly glanced inside, hoping to avoid them at all costs. “Santana,” I called several times quietly from the entryway, until one of them overheard. “What are you stupid? Maybe if you come in, she’ll hear you,” he teased, causing my embarrassment to grow.

Before I felt too much like a fool, one of his friends interjected, “Don’t mind him. She’s asleep; that’s why she can’t hear you.” Determined to reach Santana unnoticed, I moved to the back of the room, my gaze fixed on her. I gently shook her awake, and her eyes slowly opened, revealing drooping eyelids and bloodshot whites.

I instantly recognized the signs of her being high, and my best friends only ate edibles. I knew right then that this day wouldn’t be a walk in the park and like always, I had to accept the blame.

You see, Santana’s first experience with edibles was shared with me.

Santana had just returned from Mexico, and during that time, my life was steeped in a world of drugs, unbeknownst to her. Although we talked daily, always while she was away, we never delved into the specifics of my changing interests and life. So, upon Santana’s return, I sought to gently introduce her to my new reality without causing undue alarm.

With the help of Alex, I acquired two potent edibles, deeming them the least harmful choice amid my regular flirtation with various illegal substances. However, Alex handed them to me while I was on the phone with Jameson, and, consumed by my conversation, even I couldn’t fault him for what happened next. In my defense, Alex had a reputation for providing elaborate instructions and warnings with every drug, and I assumed this occasion would be no different.

I had prepared a lengthy speech, aiming to invoke the war on drugs to convince Santana. To my surprise, she agreed without requiring persuasion, only inquiring, “How much of this are we supposed to eat?” I was clueless, and I thought it was like a pill. So, I simply shrugged and replied, “I don’t know, just eat all of it.” It wasn’t one of my finest decisions.

We fell asleep while watching TV, convinced that the edible had no effect. However, I awoke to Santana crying, a sight I seldom witnessed. Her tears and runny nose hinted at a breakdown. My efforts to calm her proved futile; she seemed frozen in terror and fear.

She was having a panic attack.

“I’ll go get you some water,” I remedied and rose to go to the kitchen. But the second I stood, a peculiar heaviness overcame me, first in my shoulders, then my arms, and ultimately my head. My body felt like a leaden anchor. My head was an immense weight, like a thousand-pound burden, and my legs were as heavy as lead, each step akin to lifting the foot of an elephant.

With great effort, I managed to pour a glass of water, immediately forgetting it was for Santana. I kept drinking glasses of water till my belly was full although it did little to quench my unnaturally parched mouth. The process continued endlessly, with my paranoia intensifying as I made my way to Santana’s room, convinced of unseen eyes upon me. This kind of high rendered me incapacitated, leaving me crawling and scooting across the floor.

After placing the water on Santana’s nightstand, I helped her through her bout of vomiting, and in a moment of desperation, I inquired, “Do you need to go to the hospital?” I couldn’t fathom how we’d get there, but I suspected this wasn’t a typical drug-induced experience. Santana shook her head, her illness persisting.

We sat together in the room, our afflictions abating as long as we remained still. However, an ominous presence, a shadowy figure, loomed in the periphery of my vision, gnawing at my sanity. It was an abstract, malevolent entity, and its unwavering presence deepened my paranoia.

Desperate to escape its grip, I sought to comfort Santana, but it seemed she remained oblivious to the shadowy intruder. I eventually succumbed, closing my eyes in hopes that it would dissipate. The weight of my sins bore down heavily, and I lay motionless, fearing that any movement would invite the sinister figure to claim me as well.

Santana eventually joined me on the floor, and my guilt was overpowering. We remained there, struggling to breathe, captives of our own minds. I knew Santana felt the same way because she asked a question not very becoming of her.

“Claire, how do you know you’re happy, and like really happy with yourself?”

I felt the figure look at me.

“You just try not to think about it,”

We exchanged no more words that night. We fell asleep on the floor just like that. When we awoke, we were still under the influence, although the drug’s effects were finally beginning to wane. The high persisted for nearly three days, eventually turning into a source of amusement as we giggled and found humor in everything.

I assumed we would never want to look at another edible again, and my attempt to introduce Santana to my new world had clearly failed, as my guilt never truly dissipated. However, Santana embraced it, insisting she’d never had a more spiritual experience. Despite her rocky history with edibles, which included two trips to the emergency room and a scare at the aquarium, Santana continued to indulge, coming to the same bitter conclusion each time.

“I am never taking an edible again, Jesus Christ, my head is pounding,” she said, slumped in the desk with bloodshot red eyes.

“I thought you were serious about not taking them anymore,” I teased.

“I know, I know, I was supposed to, but I can’t resist. They combine two of my favorite things ever. And this time, the muffin was so good,” Santana moaned. I had to ask her friend Sydnee on the basketball team to stop making them for her.

“Well, let’s get you home before you run into Chloe again,” I suggested.

Santana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, let’s go for real. Wait till I tell my mom about this.”

I gathered my things and navigated the row of handsome young men, keeping my head down. I led the way out, assuming Santana was following, until I heard her distinctly say, “You play for the basketball team, right?” as she turned to engage in conversation with the black handsome guy she’d marked earlier. Just as I took a step forward, the guy in front of me decided to turn around, resulting in a collision, causing the notebook and papers in my arms to scatter onto the ground.