Chapter 1: These Kids
"... And these children that you spit on/ As they try to change their worlds/ Are immune to your consultations/ They're quite aware of what they're going through..."
—David Bowie, Changes
Saturday, March 24, 1984
Shermer High School
Shermer, Illinois 60062
Dear Mr. Vernon,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it is what we did wrong. What we did was wrong, but we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. What do you care? You see us as you want to see us; in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions. You see us a brain, an athlete, a basket-case, a princess, a foster, and a criminal. Correct? That's the way we saw each other at seven o'clock this morning.
We were brainwashed...
Scout poked at the dark purple bruise under her eye, wincing at the bite of pain when her fingertips touched the skin. It was still tender. The brunette sighed, pushing her curls back from her forehead. Getting out of her car, she made sure to mask her expression into a blank one. The girl walked up the steps of Shermer High, basking in the warmth of the normally crowded hallways, and made her way to the library. She might have been a little late, but hopefully Vernon will look over that little glitch.
She walked through the threshold, ignoring the stares she got from the five other detainees and Vernon. Scout sat at the empty front desk—on her immediate right was two preps, Andrew Clark and Claire Standish, behind them was John Bender (the infamous burnout)—behind her was physics club member Brian Johnson, and behind him was Allison Reynolds, a quiet but talented girl. They made quite the group, didn't they? Scout removed her navy scarf, folding it as Vernon began to prattle on in that annoying, 'I'm-the-boss' voice.
"A little late, aren't we, Scheinberg?" He tsk'd. Scout wanted to throttle him.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said instead, making sure to sound genuine.
"Well, well, here we are." Vernon spoke with his usual air of arrogance. "I want to congratulate you all for coming."
"Excuse me, sir?" That was Claire's voice. Scout glanced at the redhead with bored eyes. Standish's raised hand fell slowly. "I think there's been a mistake. I know it's detention but, um, I don't think I belong in here."
It's not a damn prison cell, but, Scout thought to herself, rolling her eyes back to Vernon, expect no pampering here, princess.
Just as the brunette predicted, Vernon ignored Claire's statement, continuing his little introduction, "It is now seven-oh-six. You have exactly eight hours and fifty-four minutes to think about why you're here—" Scout restrained the urge to huff when a hacking noise began. Along with the rest, the brunette glanced over her shoulder and saw that Bender had coughed out a loogie, sending into the air before it fell back into his mouth. Scout promptly turned back to the front. "—and ponder the error of your ways," Vernon finished, throwing a sneer at John's interruption.
"And you may not talk." He gave the princess a pointed look and finger when she gave him a disgruntled expression. "You will not move from these seats." Brian paused in his movement, deciding to move back to his seat, making sure to not get on the principle's bad side. "And you will not sleep." As he said the last part, he yanked John's makeshift ottoman out from under his legs. Vernon paused, looking from Brian to John.
Then he proceeded with his little lecture. "Alright people, we're gonna try something a little different today. We are going to write an essay." He started handing out paper and pencils to everyone. "Of no less than a thousand words, describing to me who you think you are."
Easy enough, Scout thought, already twirling the pencil between her thumb and index finger. Writing things like this was her forte; she didn't make perfect grades in English for nothing.
"This a test?" Bender asked but was ignored.
"And when I say essay, I mean essay. I do not mean a single word repeated a thousand times. Is that clear Mr Bender?"
"Crystal." John's voice was filled with boredom and a hint of sarcasm as he replied to the bothersome man.
"Good." Vernon seemed satisfied with the answer. "Maybe you'll learn a little something about yourself. Maybe you'll even decided wether or not you care to return."
Johnson raised his hand and then stood, stuttering out a half-hearted, "You know, I can answer that right now, sir... That'd be 'no', no for me 'cause—"
"Sit down Johnson."
"Thank you sir." Brian sat back down faster than when he stood.
"My office," Vernon pointed behind him at the room in front of the library, "is right across that hall. Any monkey business is ill-advised." He looked at each teenager, taking in their vastly different faces and expressions. "Any questions?"
Bender immediately stuck his hand in the air. "Yeah, I gotta question." You could almost hear the exasperated sigh Vernon didn't make but wanted to as he gave the troublemaker a suspicious look. "Does Barry Manilow know you raid his closet?"
Ah, there was the tick. "I'll give you the answer to that question, Mr. Bender, next Saturday. Don't mess with the bull, young man, you'll get the horns." The man left.
"That man," Bender voiced the moment Vernon crossed the doorway, "is a brownie hound."
Scout removed her heavy wool coat, leaving her in her dad's old Blackhawk jersey. She wasn't much of a sports fanatic, but if they were on she'd look like she was; she couldn't really help it. It was the competitiveness in her. What Scout didn't know in technicalities, she made up for enthusiasm. So, did she know anything in depth about the Blackhawks? Nah, but their merchandise sure was comfy.
Picking up her pencil, Scout was just about to start on her essay when there was a muffled snapping noise. Turning to the sound, she saw that it was Allison biting her nails. She should have known; she does have art class with the strange girl, so she knew her equally strange habits as well.
Finally, after a few seconds, Allison noticed she had an audience. She looked at the others through her dark bangs, clenching her jaw.
"You keep eating your hand and you're not gonna be hungry for lunch," Bender said in mock concern. Allison retorted by spitting part of her nail at him. Of course, it didn't go far, but hey, props for trying, right? "I've seen you before, you know…" Bender pointed at Reynolds before turning his gaze on the girl with tightly curled hair. "You too," he smiled then, pointing at the place under his eye as he remarked, "Nice shiner."
Scout stopped herself from scowling and simply turned away, refusing to show any reaction; especially to these sorts. After that, a lull fell, and her pencil danced across the paper.
Who am I? In short, I am Scout—no middle name—Scheinberg. I'm just like any other student here at Shermer High. I do what's asked of me when here, and I do what I have to when I'm not; it's a cycle. I don't really have any friends, but I don't really care. Befriending people isn't really my thing. I like to watch them instead. Sometimes, I'll even make up little stories for them, but since I already know who most of them are and what their lives are like, it's kinda of pointless.
Like I said, in short, I am Scout—no middle name—Scheinberg, I make good grades, and I like to watch people. But in the long of it?
I am a foster kid. A foster who was adopted by a lovely couple who couldn't have any kids of their own. I love them with every fiber of my being, and I'd do anything to keep them in my life. They're my family now, the Myers. And trust me, they love me as much as I do them—they even wanted to give me their surname. I didn't take it though. Why? Because I wasn't a Myers at birth. I wasn't a Myers when my biological parents died; I wasn't a Myers when my uncle died; I wasn't a Myers when I chose what path I wanted to take.
I wasn't a Myers when I decided to not be who life was trying to make me be. I am a Scheinberg through and through; I am the Scheinberg life tried to change into a Myers who's life was perfect and there were no speed bumps. I am the Scheinberg who was bullied every day at the foster house for having a funny name, funny hair, and a funny nose. I am the Scheinberg who witnessed shit most people didn't witness in their lifetimes. And life wasn't going to take that away from me when I became the Scheinberg who was going to make something of herself.
I'm going to be the Scheinberg who got scholarships. I'm going to be the Scheinberg who went and graduated from the college of her dreams. I'm going to be the Scheinberg who's a best-selling author for children's books. I'm going to be the Scheinberg who's going to give the family she will create something her own didn't have the chance to give her.
I am going to be the Scheinberg life tried to make into a Myers.
I am the Scheinberg life tried to make into a Myers.
I am a foster with a family.
I am a Jew so many have tried to erase.
I am still here, and I am going to kick ass.
I am Scout—no middle name—Scheinberg; a girl who's biological parents died in a terrible fire; a girl who's uncle drank himself to death; a girl who was shunned till she couldn't even see the sun; a girl who learned how to be lonely; a girl who learned to find beauty in the moon and stars; a girl who embraced the sun once it found her again; a girl who is stronger than she may appear at first glance; a girl who is not afraid to walk through the dark tunnel without a lighter; I am a girl who has peered into the unending abyss; I am the girl with the funny last name, and funny hair, and funny nose.
I am Scout (like How to Kill A Mockingbird)—no middle name—Scheinberg (a name that means "beautiful mountain" in German). I am not Scout Myers; I am not the girl who started all over; I am not a glitch within the system. I am a music maker, and a dreamer of dreams, but know of my reality and how to make it so. I am a world-loser and world-forsaker, but a first place taker. I am a mover and shaker, but am unmovable and unshakable force of nature.
Scout—no middle name—Scheinberg—that is who I am, Vernon.
I am the Scheinberg life abandoned; the Scheinberg who lost sight of who she was. I am the Scheinberg with scraped knees and broken ribs and fire in her lungs. I am the Scheinberg who life tried to kill.
But I did not die.
I am alive.
What am I?
Who am I?
I am a story maker.
A dream starter.
A foster with a dream of her own.
That is who I am, Vernon, and I didn't even have to think about it. I've always known who I was, and I never thought as being a waste of space; I was never what you thought of me as. Neither are these other kids. While we may judge one another, we are never what those judgements are. Only we know who we are, and no one can tell us any different.
We are not a waste, and we are not something to be taken lightly.
A whistle sounded over her shoulder, causing the junior to tense.
"Wrote a novel there, didn't ya?"
Disclaimer: I do not own The Breakfast Club. Although, I wish I did—it's a straight up classic masterpiece.
Also, the "music makers, dreamer of dreams" bit is from Arthur O'Shaughnessy's Ode. It really is a great read!
Anyways, I actually couldn't wait to publish this! Gosh, I am so pumped! Wooooo! WELCOME TO THE NEW AND IMPROVED "Ink and Cigarettes"! I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED IT! I CAN'T WAIT TO HEAR WHAT YOU ALL THINK OF THE CHANGES! WHOOP!
Love ya!
P.S. The title comes from Cold War Kids' song "Part of the Night".