The Testimony

 March 2017

The first thing I noticed was the anger. It was hard not to notice it; it was loud, violent, and hotter than the sun on our tanned faces. She would yell and throw things, building what felt like a force field around herself out of sharp scowls and whips of her hair. The teachers would try to get through to her – Niya, they’d plead in their wavering voices – but it was no use. All they could do was let her burn until she smothered herself. She was intense, mesmerising, like the build-up in horror movies when you know something bad is going to happen but you can’t look away.

I noticed the anger, but I didn’t get too close. I didn’t like loud things and she was the loudest thing I’d ever known. Our school was small, though, so I’d see her occasionally. Across the room from me in our History class; walking down the hallways; staring at our own reflections in the dirty bathroom mirrors. When she wasn’t angry she seemed pleasant enough. She laughed like she breathed, her head thrown back and dark eyes crinkling. People flocked to her, though it always surprised me that no one did when she looked like she needed it the most.

The second thing I noticed was the sadness. I’d been sitting in the library during my lunch hour when the thud of feet reverberated through the silence. I saw her dart into the room and duck behind the shelves. Her slim frame was pressed back against the books, chest shuddering with each harsh breath. Then she slumped to the ground. I stayed in my corner and watched, transfixed. She didn’t notice me at first but I couldn’t look away. There was a moment of stillness before her lips shuddered and her forehead scrunched and her eyes squinted and suddenly, she was a different person. The tears shocked me, though they shouldn’t have. She’d always seemed so far away – even her anger was on another level. This sight of her, small and ugly and leaking, didn’t fit with the picture I’d formed in my head.

I stood, hesitantly, and her eyes snapped to mine at the sound of my chair against the floor. Are you okay? I offered, the words soft and pliant and held out to her like a gift. She sat there a moment, motionless, before she shifted to her feet. Her delicate hands wiped at her face and when she stood I could recognize her again. Her eyes were red but her shoulders were straight, a soldier’s, and she inclined her head at me before she strode out of the room. She hadn’t said a single word.

The next time I saw her was in the hallway as she walked past with a group of friends. She didn’t say anything to me, didn’t stop or wave or offer an explanation, but the corner of her lip ticked upwards as our eyes met. I didn’t mind. It felt like we shared something, a secret. Maybe that that was what she wanted me to feel, so I wouldn’t say anything. She didn’t have to worry.

I found myself noticing her in the hallways more than I used to. We smiled at each other when we met in the bathrooms sometimes, but only when she was alone. Once she let me try her tinted lip balm, leaning closer to me across the sinks and smudging the colour on my lip with her finger. The mix of our breath and the tropical air was hot and humid between us. The colour was subtle on me – It looks good on you, with your skin – and I could smell her perfume and the tang of her sweat.

Perhaps it could have continued like this, aware of each other but neither of us moving closer, for the rest of the year. Perhaps we could have graduated without another meaningful encounter or conversation, and I could have forgotten her entirely, though I’m not sure I would have. Perhaps that’s how things were supposed to have gone.

Things changed on a Friday afternoon, during a History class about mid-way through the second semester. Our teacher announced a small project for us to do in pairs over the weekend. The class let out a groan at the prospect of our weekend being taken over, and I looked around the room to try to find someone to partner with. I paused as her voice resonated above the din of the class. Could I partner with Evi, Ms. Vera? It took me a second to realise she was referring to me. I hadn’t even been sure she knew my name, but when I turned to face her she was staring straight at me. Ms. Vera looked between us with her eyebrows slightly raised. I shrugged and nodded, and at my acknowledgement she turned and wrote down our names on the board, ‘Niya – Evi’. Something about our names so close together like that made me pause.

Niya sent a smile my way but left the classroom before I could talk to her. I got a message from her through Facebook later that evening, just the words tomorrow, 11:30? and an address. I replied with an ok as soon as I got the message.

The Saturday I spent with her was memorable in some ways and forgettable in others. I don’t remember details of the project we worked on or the words I wrote. I don’t remember what small talk we made against the white backdrop of her dining room. I do, however, remember how quiet it was. How she greeted me in cotton shorts and a t-shirt and made me take off my shoes at the door (and how her hair was knotted up off her neck and her wrists were small and fragile). How her mother sat in the living room with purple shadows under her eyes and in other places they shouldn’t be. How we talked in whispers.

I suppose that must’ve been the third thing I noticed: the silence. My thoughts of her had previously been punctuated by loudness, music, sound. As we worked together at the dining room table and the sunlight filtered in to kiss her on the cheek, it was the silence of the moment that struck me. There was no chatter, no shuffles of movement, no laughter. I’d never given thought to how silence could be sad.

I left at precisely 5:30, though we still had work to do. I offered to stay longer – I didn’t have anything better to do – but Niya shook her head in an abrupt ‘no’. It didn’t hurt too badly, but I still stayed quiet as she saw me out. The lamp in her hallway outlined her in light when she smiled at me before closing the door.

I tried to contact her the next day to finish up the work we’d left incomplete, but she didn’t respond. Monday arrived far too quickly. I tried to talk to her before class but wherever I was, she wasn’t. Eventually History class started, and as I filed into the room I found Niya at her desk with a bruise the colour of violets above her elbow. She said she knocked into a door. The project was finished, but I didn’t care.

I waited for her after class, standing next to her desk before she could leave. When Niya looked at me I tried to convey what I was thinking in the worry on my brow and the purse of my lips. I didn’t want to say it out loud. I didn’t know if I could. Niya’s eyes flickered around my face before settling into a spot right over my left shoulder. She smiled and said sorry about Saturday, I finished the project, though, and then she picked up her backpack and stood to go. She hesitated as she was passing me and I felt her hand brush against mine.

The rest of the year passed in fragments. I thought about her a lot, and talked to her sometimes. I still saw her in the hallways and the bathrooms and across the room in History. Every now and then I’d hear about her getting angry in class, that bitter anger that had made me aware of her all those months before. Whenever I did I would wait for our next break, be it lunch hour or after the final bell, and I would sit in my corner of the library. Sometimes it took a while, but eventually she would come find me. She would sit next to me at the small table and we would talk, or stay quiet, or she would talk as I listened. I wouldn’t bring up what I thought I knew, why she’d gotten angry, or the tear tracks that may have dried on her face. We got through the year this way.

Then, too quickly, we were graduating. The air in the room was hot and thick with sweat, each of us uncomfortable in our gowns and hats. We were called up onto the stage and given our diplomas to the sounds of friends and family cheering. I made eye contact with Niya as we threw our caps into the air. Pushed by the flow of people, we drew closer. She whispered her congratulations through smiling lips and before I could stop myself I leaned in and kissed her. Her mouth was still slightly open and her eyes were wide. I smiled, a question, and she blinked once, twice, then turned and disappeared behind a surging wave of students.

That was the last time I saw her.