She didn’t very much like Portland.

It was quiet, intolerably so, and Makara struggled to not lose her mind during the long nights while crickets chirped away. She should be happy; rather than a small, dingy apartment, she had a white picket fence, a yard, and a room all to herself. But, the people around here aren’t nearly as interesting as they were back home, or at least, what was home.

The toxic fumes of passing cars and constant streams of noise in the Bronx were the staccato of her life. The specialty stores and laundromat every street became as familiar as breathing. Her world was predictable in a way that was like a comfort blanket she wrapped around herself. Portland was brick sidewalks and lobsters, the quintessential American city, but not her city. It was foreign in the way that set deeply in her bones and unsettled her.

“Get up, Makara!” Her mother shouted in Cambodian, “You’ll be late for school!”

Makara groaned softly, and slowly but softly slouched over to the bathroom to get ready, a force of habit she supposed, it’s difficult to get used to the fact that someone wasn’t living on the floor beneath you. Her clothes felt scratchy on her dark skin; her family sacrificed new clothes for this house, she didn’t quite think it was a fair trade.

After getting ready, Makara trudged downstairs. Just as she sat down at the dining table, her mother ushered her up, and simply gave her a granola bar for breakfast.

“This isn’t the Bronx, the bus only comes once, so hurry on!” Her mother forewarned as she pushed Makara out the house, placing her nearly empty bookbag in her hands.

She waited outside in the cool September morning in where she hoped her bus stop was. Once the bus arrived, she took a deep breath and headed inside.

Once there, Makara was struck by how silent the bus was, disregarding the smattering of light conversation seeping into the background. Quietly, she moved down the aisle until she came across a seat with another person. Without preamble, she sat down and tried to ignore the strange look she received from the boy next to her. She stubbornly looked forward, staring at the bookbags slightly blocking the aisle.

As the bus rolled to a stop, Makara took note of the building. It was nondescript and low to the ground, a contrast to her old school which was built high. The kids began to file out the door, and Makara took her sweet time leaving with them, and once she was out, she began the cold trek to the front of the building. Once inside, she spared no time checking where her first class was and heading in that direction, but paused when she saw the lockers lining the halls.

“Lockers? You’re kidding me,” she muttered, eyes wide, but a grin tugging at her lips. Lockers were one of the things so quintessentially American that her old high school, and from her understanding many high schools in NYC, never participated in. But, seeing the strange looks she was getting from the kids around her, she looked down at her worn shoes, a flush covering her cheeks. She quickly sped past, avoiding their judging eyes. 
She slowed down once she saw her first class, History, and shyly opened the door to head inside. The room was fairly empty, only housing the teacher and some students. She walked over to the teacher and attempted to introduce herself.

“Hi, I’m Makara Soum, a transfer?” She stuttered out, the now familiar heat rising to her cheeks. Her teacher - An old, white woman, who seemed to have more wrinkles than discernible skin- looked up, raked her eyes over Makara’s petite frame, and narrowed them.

“You may call me Mrs Bennett.” She spoke in rushed, clipped tones, like she had better things than to deal with this new student. “We are currently learning the French Revolution, I trust your previous school covered it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” She averted her eyes, but out of her peripheral she saw the teacher’s beady eyes bore into the side of her head. The bell began to ring blaringly through the air, cutting the silence.

“Well then, sit down.” Mrs Bennett’s voice took a cold turn.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

As she found an empty seat, other students began to file in. Makara allowed her attention to float away as the taps of shoes filled the background. Just as her eyes slipped closed, Makara was jolted to awareness by a grunt to her left.

“That’s my seat,” A boy, tall and blond, hovered over her. Her voice caught in her throat; why was she so nervous?

“Hey! I’m talking to you, that’s my seat, get up!” His eyebrows furrowed, and his fists began to clench next him. The boy’s eyes seemed to widen once he took a better look at her, before narrowing again, and making an upward motion with his hands. Makara’s eyes widened, as she slowly got up. The blond rolled his eyes before taking his seat. As Makara walked she heard him mutter, “Does she even speak English?” to the response of chuckles from the kid next to him.

She looked around and found a seat that she was sure was used by no one. Sighing, she sat down. Not fifteen minutes into school and she already wanted leave. As the late bell rang, Makara took out a notebook to write down whatever notes she needed to.

Mrs Bennett moved to the front of the class, and began her lesson by saying, “Class? I’d like you to welcome our new student Makara.” She said it with a light tone, as if she found something funny.

Nearly immediately, Makara had felt eyes drilling into her once again, except from all directions. She dipped her head down, careful to avoid any looks. In the background began a low laughter, but she chose to ignore it. Surely if she ignored the looks, they’d begin to go away?

The rest of the class progressed without much incident, but however much she strove to ignore the gazes, she could always feel them at some time or other. It was almost like she was a new specimen, and her audience was waiting for a reaction, some trick a pet would pull out, maybe for coins.

Once the bell rang, she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Without waiting, she attempted to quickly scurry out of the room but was thwarted as she tripped and dropped her notebook and her bag with her on the way down.

“OW!” She yelled, wincing as she looked at the offending foot. She didn’t even get a chance to chew the owner of said foot out before she heard a large laughter spread across the room. Again, that familiar flush rose up, and she rushed to stand up, and hopefully put this behind her. As she began to pick up her stuff, she heard kids making jokes none too quietly. Without looking back, she left the classroom, hopefully, she could put this behind her.

Makara’s next few classes followed suit in much the same as her first: The looks, laughs, trips, and jokes were nearly indistinguishable from person to person. On one occasion, a girl had walked up to and began to pet her hair without permission, as a 4-year-old would do to a goat at a petting zoo.

She kept her head down throughout all this, but her breaking point was when she was walking down the hallway right before lunch. Makara’s eyes gazed up at the other students in the hallway and their pale, milky skin. When she looked down at her own skin, she didn’t see the warmth it once held, but rather a dirty tone, and she wished she could wash it all away. However, once the gravity of the thought hit her, she quickly ran to the nearest bathroom and locked herself in one of the stalls.

Her eyes were blown wide as her breath began to come in short bursts.

“What is wrong with me?” She whispered as tears began to pour down her cheeks. How could she possibly think that?

Time seemed to slow as her breath quickened and her tears continued to seep. ‘What is wrong with me’

seemed to echo through Makara's head, like a broken record. Steeling herself, she got up and slowly walked up to the mirror. Hesitantly she gazed up and saw her swollen red eyes and her heaving chest.

She held her own distraught gaze and whispered “You are good. You are proud. You are not a pet or a joke.” Makara began to whisper it like a mantra, as little she actually believed it.

She was still muttering it as she exited the bathroom, and consciously attempted to hold her shoulders wide. With the eyes still staring over at her, she just wanted to curl up, but she refused to.

“You are good. You are proud. You are not a pet or a joke.” She said with more strength.

When she entered biology, Makara once more took a seat. As the teacher introduced her and the staring began once more, she defiantly held her gaze forward. Just like before, time seemed to melt to a halt. Her breath had synchronized to beat of the mantra, and nothing else existed. When the bell rang one last time, she took a much needed deep breath and stood up to leave.

This time she saw the shoe, and avoided it, but instead of walking forward, she turned around and glared up to the offender.

“Next time, don’t be a pathetic 5-year-old bully?” She spoke loudly and firmly. The mirth around the room seemed to stop, and all eyes were drawn to her, except this time, she was confident she could hold their judgment without fail.

“Calm down, dude, it was just a joke” The boy let, shuffling his feet under the desk.

“Is the punchline you?” She quipped.

“Come on, re-” The kid tried to stutter out a response, but laughter had begun to reverberate through the room. Makara was rather happy that they weren’t directed towards her, but she still had one last thing to sort out.

“I don’t why you’re laughing.  Any single one of you would’ve taken his place a minute ago, and every single one of you would be a trite as the one before.” Makara’s voice rose in volume, until the laughter drew down to awkward chuckles, until complete silence.

For the first time that day, she held each and every one of their gazes before exiting the room. As she did so, her mantra sounded in her head.

‘You are good. You are proud. You are not a pet or a joke.’