Serval and Sheep (Chapter 8)
Hafsa recalls a low point in her life.
"I said, how was the meeting?"
Molly's annoyed voice falls on deaf ears. Even though a serval's hearing is superior to all other felines, Hafsa is out of business.
The past two weeks have proven themselves to be one of the most miserable and shameful of her entire life. Sophomore year was supposed to be her official debut as a Big Deal. To be the leader of the student body, to be at the peak of charm, social prowess, and likability. This was supposed to be the year in which she cemented herself as Noah's Arc Academy's most beloved member, a legendary socialite future generations will admire from legends.
But in only two weeks, Hafsa has gorged herself on snacks in front of her herbie vice president, proceeded to assault and nearly devour said herbie vice president, and rudely turn down the one animal who could've helped her. She is sick and tired of her body acting without consulting her brain.
The serval tries to think of a time where she felt as bad as she did now. She can only remember her seventh birthday party.
Hafsa had invited all of her elementary school friends to a party at her house. Her parents agreed to do the whole nine yards: birthday cake, balloons, streamers, piñata, everything. She had prepared handwritten invitations for each of her classmates, and her young kitten heart lept with joy as she crossed out day after day on her calendar, slowly inching towards the brightly marked "birthday!!" date.
At last, the fateful day arrived. She was awoken by a breakfast in bed lovingly prepared by her mother, and put on her pretty pink dress she only wore for special days. She was sung happy birthday to by her second grade teacher and classmates, and got to choose what book to read during story time. But all this time, she was counting down the seconds to when school would be over, and she would come home to a party prepared just for her.
The party began brilliantly, like she had always dreamt. One by one, her friends would ring the doorbell, give her a warm hug, hand over her present (which was added to the ever-growing pile on the couch) and run out to the backyard, beautifully decorated by her parents.
Hafsa remembers taking a long look at the backyard once all the guests had arrived. The afternoon golden light, partially shaded by the old oak tree, bespeckled the lawn and decorations so brilliantly, it was like the whole scene had grown spots just like hers. The smiling faces of her friends and parents gave her a sense of warmth no seven year old should feel, for it was one of almost nostalgic fondness.
"It's time for the piñata!" Her mother suddenly announced, and the air was filled with joyous screams. The small animals all huddled round the oak tree, which had been adorned with a brightly colored paper mâché dinosaur. Being the birthday girl, Hafsa had first try. The rules were three strikes, and you're out.
She remembers the giddiness she felt when being blindfolded, the exhilarating elation when she was spun around and around. She remembers the giggling of her friends, trying to hush themselves but simply too delighted by the game to pipe down.
She remembers as she took wobbly steps into a thrilling darkness, trying to decipher whether the chatter indicated if she was getting warmer or colder. She remembers the uncertainty of her first swing, which made no impact.
"Strike one!" Her friends declared.
She remembers sticking her bat out to feel her way to the piñata. Upon prodding something that seemed to sway upon the touch, she arched her back and took another powerful swing. She remembers the satisfying crumpling sound as the bat made impact with the dinosaur, the inebriating cheers of her classmates that surrounded her. Her disorientation grew as she fumbled for footing, with only her vague idea of where the piñata was. But she could tell the beast was not yet slain. One more hit and that should do it.
She remembers how tense her muscles became as she quickly prepared herself for the decisive blow. How the children shrieked as she readied her bat.
She remembers the blunt crunching sound as her bat slammed into Ronnie's skull.
The party was cancelled after that. Hafsa remembers the flashing lights of the ambulance, and how pretty they looked when refracted by her window. She remembers how shrill the sirens were as Ronnie rode away on that ambulance. She remembers her parents' fearful voices from downstairs as they called his parents, knowing no apologies could ever make up for what had happened.
That night, Hafsa buried her face in her mother's lap and cried bitter tears. All her mother could do was stroke her fur.
"It's time you learned, kitten," she cooed. "Carnies need to be more mindful of their strength."
The next day, Ronnie didn't come to school. Nobody spoke to Hafsa all day, except for her two closest friends, who told her that they wouldn't be playing with her anymore.
She was called the "crazy kitty killer" from then on. The herbies would stuff clumps of mud and grass in her backpack. The carnies would move somewhere else when she came near. She learned to eat lunch by herself. When her parents would pick her up after school ended, her sensitive ears could pick up the names other families called them.
Hafsa remembers feeling so worthless she wanted to die. But then, her family moved upstate, and her shame was left and forgotten by the old oak tree. And now, here she is. She isn't a crazy kitty killer anymore. And she refuses to become one again.
"Earth to Hafsa!" Hissed a familiar voice. The serval focuses on Molly's humorless face, slightly tinged with exasperation. "The meeting? How did it go?"
Hafsa responds with radiant smile.
"It went great!"
"Hey, Solomon." a zebra student pokes the caracal, who was occupied packing up his things. He looks up.
"Yes?"
"The student council president's outside the classroom. I think she's waiting for you."
His ears perk. Indeed, he could spot Hafsa outside the room, nervously glancing around.
"Ah, we have some official business to discuss. Could you please inform Mr. Norwood of this if I am tardy for third period?"
"Sure thing," the zebra gives Solomon a pat on the back. "Have fun." He gives a quick smile and nod to the serval on his way out.
Solomon is next to greet her. His expression remains as indecipherably cool as ever.
"Hello, Ms. President. How may I help you?"
"I-I want to apologize. For yesterday, in the gym." she starts, her ears bowed sheepishly.
"There's no need for that. I was out of line."
"No, really. I haven't been acting like myself recently, and I was just overwhelmed. But, what you said was right. Carnies like us should look out for each other."
She glances at him, but he remains quiet, deep in thought.
"F-First off, Desmond wasn't in the wrong. I was. I mean, he started it, but I took it too far. And I feel very ashamed of what I did so--"
"It's alright."
"H-Huh?"
"You don't need to tell me, Ms. President," He grins. "It's best not to speak of unsavory events. Call it intuition, but I know you're not a bad animal. Whatever it is that happened between you and the vice president, I'm certain you didn't act out of malice. You're in a very turbulent phase, where it can be hard to keep everything together."
Solomon puts a hand on Hafsa shoulder.
Everything he does is so gentle... She notices.
"We're here to help and support each other. I'm glad you trust me enough to speak with honesty. From now on, please don't fret about the vice president. You do your best work with a smile, after all, Ms. President."
Hafsa's heart skips a beat. She wishes he had been in her second grade class.
"I can't even begin to thank you," she looks down, covering a bashful smile with her hand. "But, please, call me Hafsa."
The caracal chuckles. "All right then, Hafsa. I'm glad I could help. Would you like me to escort you to your next class?"
She shakes her head quickly. "Oh, no no no! I wouldn't want you to be late to yours! Um, thank you again!"
The serval offers a hasty wave and scampers away. "Have a nice weekend!" she meekly adds before turning the hallway corner.
Solomon looks off into the distance where she disappeared.
She's a sweet girl... He muses. She wouldn't have tried something unless provoked.
I 'll have to keep an eye on that sheep.