Stories about memory, healing, and the always evolving Self

Excerpt from The Second Verse

Mr. Knowles’s suit looks like it’s made from the same material as a seatbelt—cheap, dark-brown and faded—probably as old as he is.

“Bo-gang. Talk to me.”

He looks at me as if I owe him something. After all this time at this school, and still this fool can’t say my name right. No surprise. They all like this.

“Look Bo-gang, I’m here to help you. This is about what’s best for you. I can’t help you if you won’t speak to me.”

Right. The only thing that matters to him is the school’s reputation. He cares about me about as much as a butcher cares about animal rights. His eyes give him away; the stretched skin under one of them twitches. He waits.

Silence is golden and patience is a virtue. Let’s do this thing, then. His office really sucks for a deputy principal’s. It’s not much of an office actually, but then again, he’s not much of a deputy either.

I bet the head and the other deputies laugh at his punk—Punk-ass Knowles. That’s what they should call him. His office is all the way at the back of the school, in the dead zone, where nobody ever goes.

There’s barely enough space for the two of us in here, with his long legs and all. The walls aren’t even the same colour, and it stinks of boiled cabbage and old newspapers. Ten bucks says this used to be a cupboard or something.

Someone’s stupid laugh comes from outside: loud and care-free. Other boys out there enjoying their break-time, while I’m stuck in here, dealing with this petty nonsense. Mr. Knowles holds up the essay.

“Help me understand this, Bo-gang, please.”

He must think he’s talking to one of his sorry-ass kids when they step out of line. So lame.

“Sir, I don’t know what to say.”

“This essay is, well…what can I say? Shocking, to say the least. Don’t you think?”

“It’s just an essay, Sir.”

“Just an essay? No, Bo-gang. This is…a lot more, I think.”

He can believe what he wants. This fussing is way overboard. I actually thought I did pretty well on this one.

“You’ve written here about suicide, Bo-gang, in great detail. We’re concerned about you.”

Why can’t this damn chair swallow me whole and save me from this grief? Punk-ass Knowles, with his punk-ass questions. Best for me? What the hell does anyone know about what’s best for me?

Mr. Knowles goes on to ask me questions about my school subjects. I tell him. He asks me about my teachers. I tell him that, too. He asks me about English and my teacher, Ms. Hargreaves. I tell him what he already knows. He wipes his hand across his spotted forehead.

“Talk me through this essay. Why suicide?”

“It was the topic, Sir.”

“No. The task for Ms. Hargreaves’ essay was to design a project to address any social issue. You chose suicide. Not as the social issue, but as a solution.”

The man has interesting books on his shelf, the titles running along the spines. One of them is really thick: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. It’s like a bible of the things psychos suffer from, I bet.

“People should not be stopped when they want to kill themselves,” Mr. Knowles reads from my essay. “They should in fact be encouraged. Every person has the ability to make decisions. This should be respected.”

His eyes trail out the window. He turns back to me with an expression I don’t get.

“What are you really trying to say here?”

“Maybe you should read the whole thing, Sir.”

“I have, and I must say, I am not only appalled, but greatly disturbed.”

Trust Mr. Knowles not to get it.

“I thought shrinks weren’t supposed to be judgemental, Sir.”

Mr. Knowles’s brow drops. He tries a smile, but his clenched jaw undermines any friendliness he might be trying to fake.

“Bo-gang.”

“My name is Bokang, Sir.”

“Bo-kang. Look, as I have said to you already, your well-being is our greatest priority. You must appreciate the fact that you’re part of this exceptional college, and everything that affects you, affects us too.”

Yeah, right. And I’m Bishop Tutu.