Between the Lines

Alisha's POV

"What happens to a dream deferred, does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun ....". The literature class I would have found so interesting became one I so desperately wanted to leave. Earlier that day, there was a little commotion that involved someone from "my class", that is middle class.

I attend one of the best schools in L.A., THE CROWN, a school for the rich and the poor but not the 'middlings'. The students there believe that you're either rich or poor, the moment they find out you belong to the middle class, they forever gaslight you and make life so miserable for you to live in. The poor say you're proud and you believe yourself better than them, while the rich say you want someone to leech off of. You can't even make friends with someone like you or anyone else. Apparently, Lara, the lady who was harassed this morning, was discovered to be secretly in love with one of the big boys on campus, she was ridiculed and called all sorts of names.

So here's how it happened. My dad dropped me off at school as usual. "Have a lovely day today darling" he smiled at me as he handed my bag over to me. Somehow he knew I was struggling with something I couldn't tell him but bless his heart for not asking. "Thanks, Dad. You don't need to come pick me up okay, I'll walk home or skate or something, it's just a few minutes away so I'll be fine". I didn't wait for him to reply, I kissed him and ran out the door. I got to the big entrance and sighed aloud "Let's have a quiet and great day today Alisha Gray". I hugged my bag closer and headed inside.

To my surprise, I met the greatest shock of my life. Lara, a middleman like me, was made to kneel in the middle of the locker room, crying her eyes out, with other students around her. "You know, it's actually not a crime to fall in love, but it is a crime when you fall for someone not in your class, especially when that someone is Marvy" I heard a bitchy voice, the whole world knew it belonged to Sam. Right ...Marvy Reynolds, the crown prince of The Crown. A senior, effortlessly handsome, and heir to a tech empire, Marvy was the epitome of untouchable. His name alone was enough to make most people tread carefully, and for Lara to have a crush on him? It was social suicide.

I froze at the scene. Lara's sobs echoed in the locker room, bouncing off the marble tiles like a cruel reminder of her humiliation. As they were known, a group of girls surrounded her-The Diamonds. They were rich, ruthless, and always ready to enforce the unspoken social rules of the school. At their center was Sam, short for Samantha the queen bee herself, arms crossed, lips curled in a satisfied smirk. Well, she said she prefers Mantha, because Sam is too masculine and common and according to her, she is a femme fatale. Another big reason for her name was because she thought 'Mar-Man' would be a cute nickname for herself and Marvy. I bet you could already tell how dumb she is.

"You thought someone like Marvy would even look at you?" Mantha sneered, leaning in closer to Lara. "Poor little middle-class girl, dreaming of castles and kings. How quaint."

Laughter erupted from the crowd, the kind that made your skin crawl. I stood there gripping my bag tightly, my heart pounding. Every fiber of me wanted to step in, to say something, anything, but my feet were glued to the ground. What would I even do? They'd turn on me in an instant.

"Leave her alone, Samantha," a voice cut through the noise. The laughter stopped abruptly, heads turning to see who had spoken. It was Marvy himself, standing at the door, his expression unreadable. He walked in, his presence commanding the room without effort.

Savannah's face shifted from smug to slightly panicked. "Marvy, we were just-"

"Humiliating someone for having feelings? Real classy," he interrupted, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through steel. He crouched down next to Lara, who was trying to wipe her tears with trembling hands. "Hey," he said gently, handing her a handkerchief. "You don't have to put up with this."

The room was silent, the air thick with tension. Lara took the handkerchief, her face a mixture of gratitude and mortification. Marvy helped her to her feet, his hand steady on her shoulder.

"I mean it though..." he turned to Mantha, yeah, I think I would just call her Sam, his eyes locked on hers. He moved closer to her, "That is real classy." Before I could blink, his lips sucked in hers and he pushed Lara back down with his hand. The hallway echoed with scorned laughs again. His lips were still in Sam's mouth when his eyes landed on me for a split second, and I felt like I was about to be swallowed by the Gaia. I could feel my heart sink in ...my chest. My pulse was pounding, louder than the mocking laughter that filled the locker room. For a moment, I thought I was invisible, just another face in the crowd, but Marvy's eyes had locked onto mine with an intensity that made the room blur around me.

I wasn't sure what I expected him to do. Apologize? Laugh it off? Instead, he broke the kiss abruptly, his gaze still fixed on me. Sam, caught between surprise and triumph, clung to his arm, trying to read the situation.

"Why are you just standing there, Gray?" Sam's voice cut through the tension like nails on a chalkboard. "Got something to say, or are you here to join the middlings pity party?"

My mouth went dry. I could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on me, waiting for a reaction. My brain screamed at me to turn and walk away, but my legs didn't seem to get the memo. Then, in a split second of reckless courage-or stupidity-I found myself speaking.

"Maybe the real pity party is thinking cruelty makes you interesting." The words spilled out before I could stop them, my voice louder than I intended. The room seemed to hold its breath. Okay... I just died the second death.

Sam's smirk faltered for the briefest of moments before she let out a high-pitched laugh. "Oh, how noble. Guess the middlings hero routine is contagious," she spat, glancing pointedly at Lara.

But Marvy didn't laugh. His expression was inscrutable as he stepped away from Sam and turned to me. "What's your name again?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, as though he were genuinely curious.

I blinked, feeling the heat rise in my face. "Alisha," I managed to say, my voice quieter now but steady.

He nodded, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a smile. "Thanks, Alisha."

What was he thanking me for? Standing up? Calling out Sam... Mantha? Or maybe just for being there when everything spiraled out of control? Whatever it was, it didn't matter. The moment was fleeting, and the weight of the room returned as soon as he turned back to Lara.

"Let's get out of here," he said to her, his voice softening again. She hesitated, her wide eyes darting between him and the crowd, before finally nodding. Together, they walked out, leaving the rest of us in stunned silence.

The crowd began to disperse slowly, murmurs and whispers in the air. Sam shot me a venomous look before strutting off with The Diamonds in tow.

I let out a shaky breath, realizing I'd been holding it the entire time. The locker room felt emptier, but the weight in my chest hadn't lifted. What had just happened? And more importantly, what did it mean for me?

Why did he thank me? I was expecting a milkshake on me or maybe a slap across my slap... not thank you! Yeah, that is why I don't care about a dream deferred right now. I just want to be buried. Alisha, what happened to keep a low profile? As if all this was not enough, tell me why Ms. Finch asked me to explain why I think Hughes started with a rhetorical question. I mean, am I him? Is he me? How am I supposed to know what he was thinking?! On a good day, I would.

"Erm, ma'am, I did not get your question" I simply answered. But yeah, I did, maybe if I stall a bit, the bell will go off. Or maybe a school shooting and I would not have to answer the damn question.

"Why do you think Hughes started "Harlem" with a rhetorical question?" Ms. Finch asked again in her Scottish accent like she could do just that over again a billion times and wouldn't break a sweat.

I sighed and tapped into my spirit animal's energy, "Langston Hughes begins "Harlem" with a rhetorical question-"What happens to a dream deferred?"-to immediately engage the reader and provoke thought." I was done but Ms. Finch still kept nodding her head like she wanted more. I sucked in my teeth and then continued. "This technique serves several purposes. First, it sets a reflective tone. The question invites the reader into a contemplative state, framing the poem as an exploration rather than a definitive statement. It opens a dialogue, asking the audience to consider the impact of unfulfilled aspirations."

Then she did her 'and?' again with her eyes while smiling weirdly. "Erm, okay... erm... By not specifying the dream, Hughes makes the question universal. It applies not only to racial inequality," I did the air quote thing with my fingers, "the historical and cultural context of the poem, but to anyone who has experienced delayed or denied aspirations. This inclusivity ensures the reader can relate personally, increasing the poem's resonance."

She was going to do that thing with her eyes and head again when a piercing sound erupted in the room-the school bell. The sweet, glorious, life-saving school bell. I had never been so thankful for a break in my life. Ms. Finch paused mid-nod, her mouth slightly open like she was about to unleash another probing question, but instead, she clapped her hands once and smiled.

"Well, Alisha, good points. We'll pick this up tomorrow. Class dismissed."

I shoved my books into my bag with a speed that could rival a sprinter. I needed to get out of there, away from the weight of Sam's glare, although she was not in class and the lingering curiosity of my classmates. The events of the locker room was still happening in my mind.

As I made my way through the crowded hallways, I couldn't help but notice how people glanced at me. Some were amused, some indifferent, but a few looked... impressed? No, that couldn't be right. I was Alisha Gray, the invisible middle-class girl who'd managed to momentarily paint a target on her back. I was not ready to be anyone's hero. I just have to get out and bury myself in the old books in my family's bookstore

I reached my locker, grabbed my things, and left as fast as possible. I put on my helmet and rode my skateboard with my ear plugged, The Beatles' Paperback Writer blasting in my brains.