The Nomadic Life

What Now?

Chapter 10

You learn a lot of things when you are young and trying to make it on your own. I thought returning home to Mathiston would be an easy adjustment. Without Junior to take care of, the ache of his absence felt like a hollow space in my chest. He wasn’t just my little brother, he had become my best friend, my responsibility, and my reason to push forward. I would not miss some of the hardships I faced while we lived in the duplex. No more staying up late at night wondering where my little brother was, no one left to scold about reckless behavior. But I am certain to miss the good times and laughter. The weight of looking out for him had been both my burden and joy. Now, without him beside me, I felt uncentered and adrift, as if I’d lost the one thing that gave my struggle meaning. The motel room I have secured feels as empty as my heart.

After paying for my order at the restaurant and walking back to the motel, I could not shake the bitterly cold reception from the townspeople. The bone-chilling cold outside did not compare to the emotional frostbite left on my heart by past customers. I did not understand what was going on, or what I had done that upset them so?

After the incident at the café, I decided all my meals would be purchased at the convenience store, thus avoiding the judgmental stares and whispers from the hostile people I encountered.

It takes only a few more days for me to learn whatever I had done caused the town’s anger to extend to the one place I thought was safe.

I am about to learn the harshest and most eye-opening lesson of my life.

On Sunday morning, I woke up early to make certain I would not be late for church. With the sneers and jeers I had faced for the past several days; I looked forward to the welcome embrace of the congregation of the First Baptist Church of Mathiston. But as I approached the parking lot, a bad feeling gnawed at me. The same cold reaction from the parishioners mirrored the hostility I'd seen around town. To say I was confused was putting it mildly. Of all places, I expected warmth and acceptance here.

My confusion deepened when Debra Stockwell, a classmate, approached me.

 “You don’t want to be here right now,” she whispered.

“Why?” I asked.

“Look, I’m not really the one to tell you, but my advice is to stay away for now. Maybe later you can come back, but I wouldn’t today if I were you.”

I felt bad for being the reason her parents scolded her as she rejoined them. Their disapproving eyes cut through me.

These people were supposed to be Christians, men and women of compassion and grace, the very embodiment of love and forgiveness. That was the basis for most of the sermons the pastor preached. I had believed the church to be a sanctuary, a place of refuge and acceptance. But now, their rejection pierced me deeply, shattering my faith in their kindness and leaving me questioning the sincerity of their devotion. Today, I learned that even those you believed to be loving and devout will reject you when you dare step outside the invisible lines in which you are expected to live and behave.

I slinked back to the motel, hollow and lost. Tomorrow, I hope for some normalcy once I return to school.

The morning brought snow, a rare but bitter companion on my walk to school. The cold wind pierced through my coat, and I quickened my pace, barely making it to homeroom before the tardy bell rang. Yet the chill inside the classroom was worse than the weather. Whispers and quiet judgmental glances dominated the room. I was dismayed to see they even came from those I once called friends.

Mrs. Bates called attendance, and the murmurs thickened. I knew they were talking about me. I just didn’t know why.

The bell rang, and I rushed from the room, eager to escape the tension. My next class is only three doors down, so I do not bother going to my locker. I step quickly without looking up from the tiled floor. I have grown weary of seeing the hate filled look in everyone’s eyes. A tap on my shoulder stops me, causing my tennis shoes to squeak on the freshly waxed floor. Paula Vickery’s face is flushed, and urgent concern filled her eyes.

“The principal made Junior leave,” she said between heavy breaths. “He looked really upset when he started walking home. Maybe you should check on him.”

My books hit the back of my locker with a crash as I took off. There was only one route Junior could take. I sprinted down Highway 15, spotting him ahead, his steps slow, his head down. I called out, and he stopped.

At fifteen his pride would not allow him to admit it, but up close, I saw the redness in his eyes. He’d been crying.

“The principal pulled me from homeroom,” Junior said, his voice laced with worry.

“Told me not to come back without Mom or Dad. You know Dad’s already drunk, and Mom’s in Maben trying to get her job back. Why are they so mad at us?”

I had no answer, only shared frustration. “I don’t know, Junior, but I’ve been getting the same treatment.”

“He just came into homeroom. He literally yanked me from my desk by the collar of my coat and shoved me through the double doors of the school. He yelled at me all the way down the hall. I am sure everyone heard. I couldn’t understand half of what he said.” Junior told me, his voice a fragile mix of confusion, anger, and hurt.

His eyes darted as if searching for answers, his shoulders tense with the weight of isolation. Fear trembled beneath his words, and I sensed the shame he felt for being singled out so publicly. The injustice of it all clung to him, raw and bitter.

He and his mother hadn’t left the house all weekend, so he was unaware that we had become public enemy number one. Today was the first time he experienced the town’s icy contempt.

Uncertain of senior’s reaction to me showing up on his mother’s property I was willing to accept the brunt of his anger. It has been almost three years, and I have not seen him since the incident.

I walked Junior home, knowing his father would assume he was skipping class. I had to be there to protect him.

The woodshop door slammed behind us, and Junior’s father jumped, nearly cutting his finger on the bandsaw. His face twisted with anger, ready to yell.

I stepped between them.

“He’s not skipping,” I shouted over the saw’s roar. “The principal sent him home. He cannot return without you or Mom. The whole town’s mad at us, and we don’t know why.”

The anger in his eyes shifted, but he only grunted, “Junior, get inside. Change out of your school clothes and wait for your mother.”

Junior’s father refused to go to the school, instead he only lived for his beer and making wooden toys he would try to sell at flea markets and town fairs.

I could still see the hurt in Junior’s eyes. As he turned to go inside his grandmother’s house, I told him not to worry, he would be back in school tomorrow.

I watched as the screen door slapped against the door frame. The more I thought about how the principal treated my little brother the angrier I became. My blood began to boil as tension knotted in my chest. My pulse quickened, and my fists clenched involuntarily. A storm of thoughts raged in my head. How could the principal do this? What kind of man humiliates a child so publicly?

My frustration mounts, but beneath it, a gnawing unease simmered. What if there was something I didn’t know? What if this confrontation only made things worse? Still, I had no choice. I needed answers, no matter what the cost. The town’s hate towards me does not matter, but I will not tolerate it being forced on my little brother and mother. Things needed to be discussed and either the town learns to overcome their anger or Junior would have to find another school, mom would have to find a job outside of town and I, well, my future is uncertain as I doubt if I will be welcomed back at school once I am done talking to the little munchkin of a man who calls himself principal.