Foreign

The first day in my new school I wanted to shrink into the
walls. I remember waiting for the big yellow bus. It was a train I took in
Japan. A train with seats running along the walls on either side and people
standing in the middle. By the time we got to our stop it would be so crowded
that the people getting on would lower their arms and steam roll their way into
some non-existent crevice. In the winter the precipitation of the mass would
fog the windows until you couldn't see out at all, and I would wonder if we
were on a train at all or whether this was just some tunnel we were all sitting
in, standing in, going nowhere, then the train would come to a silent stop and
the doors would open and the outside world would reintroduce itself.

 I sat quietly at the bus stop with the other children. They were
all laughing and carrying on and looking at me out of the corner of their eyes.
A girl named Susan asked me my name and I reciprocated. I thought Susan was a
strange name. The only English names I knew were my parents and the small bit
of family I had seen in the three days we had been back in America. She asked
me where I had come from and I said Japan. She said, "Japan?" Back to
me as if it was a question as if she didn't believe me. "What were you
doing over there?" 

 "My parents worked there"

 "Oh what did they do?"

 I never want to tell. I'm always slow to say, but the pause is
awkward and I'm no good at lying.

 "They were missionaries."

 "Oh that's nice," she says but I can tell she's
uncomfortable now. She slowly shuffles away, and I can hear her telling the
other kids what's she's learned about me.

 There are four of them standing and talking together and I stand
several feet away daydreaming of the silhouette of Mt. Fuji in the distance.
Framed by the buildings of the street. The walk to school in spring when the
Sakura blossoms, and turns the world the warmest pink. My revery is put to an
end by the thunder of the bus stopping before us.

 The four from my stop pile into the only two empty seats and I'm
left standing in the middle of the aisle. I hear the driver call from the
front, "find yourself a seat there now boy."

 He speaks in a funny rolling way as if the words are all
connected, as if the sentence is all one word. I throw myself into one of the rows
embarrassed by everyone's prying eyes. I'm the new kid. 

 The girl I land beside looks over at me disinterestedly. 

 "What's your name," I ask.

 "My names Saoirse."

 That's all she says and turns back to the window, so much for
being friendly. I decide to leave it at that and the rest of the ride is quiet
except the roaring of the yellow bus beneath us.

 --

 I sat through classes listening to teachers, watching the other
kids watching me. 

 My English teachers name was Ms. Yucas, she was African American
and very proud, but her name made me think of an odd mucus colour. She was very
proper and very strict. When she was going over what we would be doing she said
that we would be giving speeches and I felt my heart flutter.

 When the bell rang and I realised it was time for lunch I could
feel the blood rising inside me. I left the brown bag lunch my mom had
carefully prepared in the bottom of my bag.

 I'd watched her the night before from the stairs. She didn't
know I was there. She was gently humming a tune. She'd cut the crust from the
edges of the bread and carefully arranged the lettuce, meat and cheese.
Eventually after pausing for a long time over the sandwich she slid a silver
knife into the Mayonnaise and spread it smoothly over the lid of the sandwich.

 I didn't leave it because I didn't want it. I just didn't want
to be any different from anybody else.

 I stood for a few minutes outside of the cafeteria door
searching for a table that looked welcoming. Searching for some place I could
slip in, some group I could fit with. Eventually I picked one that seemed to be
made up of the other misfits. They were all different shapes and sizes and some
of their clothes were in tatters.

 When I sat down they all turned to look. A short fat fellow
asked for them, "who are you?"

 "I'm a new kid. Can I sit here?"

 "It's a free country isn't it."

 "So I can sit here."

 "Sure pussy take a seat."

 I sit down puzzled. Why has he called me pussy. They didn't say
that in Japan. He laughs as if it's an inside joke between the rest of them.
Another boy on the other side of the table speaks up, "you want to play
bloody knuckles?"

 "What's that?"

 He takes a coin out of his pocket. 

 "Well you use a coin and you put the coin down on the table
like this, and then you put your thumb on the coin and slide it between your
index and pointer finger, and while I'm doing all of that you have to put your
fist down on the table like this so I can see your knuckles. I slide the coin
just like that at your knuckles. Then it's your turn and the first one to bleed
loses."

 The game sounds brutal and unenjoyable.

 "Sure."

 "You can go first," he says, "cause it's your
first time playing."

 He slides the coin over to me. It feels cold in my hand. I rub
it between my thumb and pointer finger. The ridges and lines feel like minute
scales. I place it heads down on the table. I slide it back and forth once or
twice trying to practice the motion he has shown me. He has turned his fist
down against the table and everyone's eyes are on me.

 "Go on we don't have forever."

 I throw my thumb forward with all my might and the coin jumps
through my fingers, flashes across the table, and catches him flush on the
knuckles. A few seated around the table gasp. He doesn't wince on impact. He
smiles, "not bad for a first timer."

 I place my fist down against the table. Looking around I see odd
smiles playing on their faces. Then I look back at him. His face poised in
concentration, and when he slings the coin forward it's as if it disappears
into a wormhole and reappears. It is all punctuated by the dull thud I hear and
the flash of pain and the flow of blood spilling onto the table. No sooner have
I have pressed against the coined shaped wound then do I hear a familiar voice.
The voice from the front of the opening day assembly this morning.

 "Troy take your new friend to office. I've told you a
hundred times not to play that game."

 It's the voice of the vice principal. Shame. My face is red.
I've never been on the wrong side of authority. There is an odd feeling of
fantasy as we stand and weave through the tables, almost as if I'm outside of
myself, as if I can stand back and watch my form following Troy who in turn
follows the vice principal, as if I can see the faces of other students turning
to gape at this new boy who is being escorted to the office with Troy, as if I
can hear their chatter and the collective ahhh that gathers and builds to a
crescendo as we near the door. The whole cafeteria watching us and as one
letting out a collective ahhhh as if scolding, disapproving of everything I am.

 In Japan they have a saying. I remember it as I sit in the
office waiting for the principal to speak to me. The nail that sticks out is
hammered down.

 "Rinto is it?"

 The principal is standing at his office door. He motions for me
to follow him in.