The Proverbial Newcomer

I walk through the door, see them all staring at me, even with my head bowed, stumbling forward as fast as I can, they despise me. I am quiet, I don’t say a word, I don’t glare at them, don’t smile at them, yet, they look at me with scorn. With my pin-prick like eyes, I look around; see the guys, the gals, the teachers. Without their knowledge, I have become the center of their universe, I am surrounded by enemies united by a common foe- the newcomer.

I am despised, loathed by people who I do not know, yet I feel popular because I am recognised. There go the unknown kids, sitting alone at their tiny little tables in the cafeteria. They have been in this institution for more than a decade, yet they remain unknown, recorded for clerical purposes. But, now I digress.

I enter these classes, quietly I go to the middle row seats next to the wall, so I don’t offend the back-benchers, the front-benchers and even the window seat benchers. Misery deserves company they say, I say, nothing as always. Raising my hand for attendance purposes, I try to meld in the crowd by doing the best thing I know- Be quiet. I do not laugh, do not frown, do not make sarcastic remarks- I am the newcomer, I mind my business, I hope other people don’t mind me.

I am the first to enter class and the last to leave, because I do not want to attract unnecessary attention. The teachers, bless them, they understand that nobody wants me here, and through a wordless pact, they do not disturb me, other than for attendance purposes. I stay, silently content in my tiny little corner with my books, silence pervading my domain. I pretend I am invisible, I now believe I truly am, the others laugh, play pranks or fight amongst others, while I remain the silent spectator, unable to show any signs of effervescence because of my own pleasing or otherwise. I go home, then again school, then home- this cycle take place day in, day out. Still, I stay the proverbial newcomer. The time comes to pick teams for footy, I don’t even stand in the line-up, better to maintain your dignity, rather than to remain the last kid not picked, with the coach deciding, one more runt would crowd the footy field.

I go through to the next grade, classes get shuffled, kids want to stay in their friend’s classes; I, I don’t mind, I am the newcomer, why should I mind, I get a seat in any class should be good enough for me. I go to my usual retreat, the middle row next to the wall, it’s the same, explicit graffiti on the wall doesn’t count as a change, though it gives me temporary new reading matter, before it is washed away by the janitor.

I know them all- the cool kids, the jocks, the jocks + cool kids, the cheerer’s, the nerds, the foreign transfer kids, as always, they don’t know me. I know who scored, who can’t, who broke up, who will- gossip girl, meet an equivalent, except, I don’t care about these momentary changes, because I still am, the proverbial newcomer.

Told to the author by Anonymous ( Proverbial newcomer friend list-1).