Free Before You by Amber Hart Page B

talking to Rachel and all of a sudden, I hear people chanting, ‘Fight!’ ”
    â€œDid you see it?” Melissa asks.
    â€œNo. I was on the other side of the lunchroom. By the time I made it over, Jason had a bloody nose and Diego was being detained.”
    Lori walks in. “Hey,” she says, dropping her backpack on the ground. “Where is everybody?”
    Lori’s a bohemian. She wears bold black-framed glasses that point up at the corners in matching arcs. Her hair is almost always in braids and dyed different colors with natural products. And her clothes are made of strange things, like wheat and biodegradable materials. She makes them herself. I think it’s cool.
    â€œSally and Molly have the pox,” Melissa explains.
    â€œUgh,” Lori says. “That sucks. When will they be back?”
    â€œNot in time to help us move this mountain.” Melissa motions to the messy pile of books and boxes. Lori sighs and sits down next to us. After a moment, she turns to me.
    â€œIs Jason okay?” she asks.
    If that question had come from anyone other than Lori or Melissa, I wouldn’t answer. Anyone else would only be asking for the sake of gossip. But Lori is sincere.
    â€œYes,” I answer. “He’s mad, embarrassed.”
    â€œClearly,” Melissa interjects. “I would be, too.”
    â€œDiego didn’t need to start trouble,” I say. “Apparently he told Jason that I agreed to a date with him on Friday.”
    Melissa’s eyes go big, bursting with unspoken surprise.
    â€œWhich I didn’t,” I clarify.
    Melissa exhales. “Wow. Dude has guts, doesn’t he?” She smiles.
    I give her a look. “Don’t even start.”
    On her face is the knowledge of something foreign to me. “Might as well come to grips. You have unfinished business with Diego,” she says.
    Lori looks confused. “Did I miss something?”
    â€œNo,” I reply. “Melissa is just being, well, Melissa.”
    Lori shakes her head, understanding.
    â€œI don’t get why Diego has an issue with everyone,” I say.
    â€œWell, if he’s anything like I think he is, it’s probably because he’s not fake,” Melissa says.
    â€œFake?”
    How could she bring that up? She knows I try hard to be what everyone wants me to be. It’s not because I want to lie. I just wish I were that person. I don’t know why it’s so difficult.
    â€œYes. Fake,” Melissa says. “Most people around here don’t have a clue how fortunate they are. Their biggest worries are what time the football game starts and getting the newest whatever the day it comes out. Stuff like that.”
    Ah. Melissa means other people, not me.
    Since the mission trip to Haiti our freshman year, Melissa hasn’t been the same. We saw how some of those people lived. We viewed the world through someone else’s eyes. One Haitian man had to walk ten miles every day to the nearest water hole. Ten miles, and the water there wasn’t even clean. Many of the people we met looked disproportionate, arms and legs skin and bones, stomachs bloated. The volunteer doctors said that’s what a body looks like when it’s starving.
    And their homes—if they were lucky enough to have a home, which most were not—were heartbreaking. Some were nothing more than four concrete walls measuring about five-by-seven, a block home in its truest form. Few had proper roofs. Instead of wooden doors, they’d hang a dirty sheet or palm fronds or sticks woven together. They had no shelter from the elements or from the violence outside. The spaces were large enough for a couple of people to sleep on dirt ground. Those who were really lucky had one or two cooking pots and a blanket.
    Sometimes I wish I could fly to another country. Someplace where my problems would be things like finding clean water. Food. Things that matter.
    â€œMaybe