silt

I once helped a bullied classmate out of the goodness of my heart. He was picked on, so I stood up for him. His family was poor, so I brought him breakfast every day. Until the day he shyly confessed his feelings for me, egged on by the other kids. I rejected him. And then, later, I heard him in the school bathroom, smoking a cigarette, saying, "Sarah? Oh, I've already had her. She acts all innocent, but she's practically begging for it."

I went from queen bee to social pariah. My dad went to his family to confront them, and his mentally unstable father stabbed him to death. My mom couldn't handle the grief and followed him soon after. And there he was, reaching out to me from the dirt, grinning cruelly. "Sarah," he said, "you used to be up so high, out of my reach. Now, look at us, rotting together in the muck."

Then I opened my eyes again. I was back to the first day Mark transferred to our school.

Sophomore year, first period. Mr. Henderson led a boy with his head hung low into the classroom. "We have a new student joining us today," he announced. "Everyone be kind and welcoming. No bullying."

We all stared curiously at the new kid. As he looked up, a collective gasp filled the room. Half of his face was scarred from burns. He had no eyebrow on that side, and his eye looked like a slit carved directly into his skin.

Whispers erupted immediately. "Dude, that's messed up," someone muttered. "So unlucky. Out of all the classes, he gets put in ours." "I lost my appetite just looking at him," another added. "Gross, how can he even show his face?"

The boy's head sank lower, his hands clutching his pale jeans. My best friend, Chloe, nudged me and whispered, "How do you think he got those scars? You think his parents, like, burned him by accident or something?"

But I was suddenly wide awake. Mark! I was back to the day Mark transferred. The day the nightmare began. In my previous life, Mark was ostracized the moment he arrived. He was the oldest in the class, nineteen, but shorter than most of the seventeen-year-old girls. And then there was his face. He was withdrawn and gloomy, and nobody talked to him.

But I, in my infinite wisdom, decided to be the hero. I offered him the seat next to me. I chewed out anyone who dared to make fun of him.

Now, faced with Chloe’s question, I blurted, "Who knows? Maybe he deserved it."

Mr. Henderson was assigning Mark a seat. He told him to choose, but everywhere Mark went, kids recoiled like he was a rabid dog. He shuffled over to me. "Can... can I sit here?" he mumbled.

But I didn't do what I’d done before. I didn't offer him my seat. Instead, I stood up and addressed Mr. Henderson. "Mr. Henderson, I don’t want to sit next to him. If he has to sit here, I’ll just take the desk by the chalkboard."

Mr. Henderson looked uncomfortable. Mark gave me a strange look. "Sarah," the teacher said, "I just told everyone to be kind. This isn't helping class unity."

I ignored him. God had given me a second chance. I...