Ottis's Bad Day
By Lilly Rodriguez
The entire day was horrible. I didn’t think that a single 24-hour time-span could cause so much grief. My head aches, my fingers are dirty and my clothes reek of some type of alcohol. Not to mention my bloody lip, severely bruised up back and spinal cord. Jesus, all on a Friday too. Note-to-self Friday is no longer my favorite day of the week.
Nevertheless, there I was hobbling home. I finally reached my doorstep. Carefully trying to maneuver my hands into my pant’s pocket without getting my pants dirty. I end up giving up and I shamelessly shoved my dirt-encrusted hand into my pocket, grabbing my keys and shakily opening the door.
Once I am in, I am greeted by my father sitting on the couch in front of me. His “GO EAGLES” banner was right above his head, and he was sipping a glass warm water. The reason I knew it was warm was that there were no ice cubes or condensation on the glass. Which begs the question, how long has he been sitting there? He places the glass by his foot, slowly and almost tauntingly shifting himself back up. He leans back, draping both of his arms horizontally on the back of the couch.
I stare at him with sweat and blood dripping down my face. I’m visibly distressed and filthy. Why won’t he say anything, yet?
“Where ya been, boy?” He says staring me with his fatherly face.
I look down at my dirt-caked shoes, to which after further inspection also blood on it as well. Grand.
“Out.” I say, knowing that’s the wrong answer.
“What did you get into?” He says, almost worriedly. He was never one for emotions, but it was obvious he had them.
“Some crackers thought it was a good idea to mess with me.” I laughed as if I won, which judging by my current state, I did not.
He sighs, rubbing his bald head. Grunting as he stood up. Without saying anything, he heads upstairs. I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or just didn’t know what to say. I follow him upstairs but make a mad dash for my room.
As soon as the door closes, I collapse onto my bed. Re-thinking the situation that just took place. Flashbacks blaze through my mind like fire. I attempt to conceal my thoughts under the covers, but they’re too loud.
Walter Terryson. I played baseball with him. I was "lucky" enough to have parents who threw me into a predominantly white private school. Of which I play baseball for. I was the only black boy on the team. I say "was" because after today, I'm quitting. It kills me because I love baseball but that entire school tries to come off as progressive, just like all the other hoity-toity private schools that are secretly run by white supremacists, but in actuality, they aren’t. In fact, Walter was are star player. He was white, of course. And he always treated me as if the team did me a charity by letting me play. I never paid him much mind, until today.
Today I was walking home from practice enjoying the new Chainsmokers album that just dropped, while wearing my headphones with the wires still on them because I can't afford airpods, until a group of familiar hooded faces greet me 3 blocks away from my house. They beat me into the dirt. I look down at my disgusting finger nails and I can feel my bruises begin to ache again, hitting the rewind button on the feeling of their privileged fists and overpriced sneakers hitting my bare skin. I gripped onto the ground for dear life. It was the only thing I could hold on to. Walter, who is drastically taller than the rest of us, peers through the smoke of dirt and the visible breathing of them all in December. He pours a stinging liquid onto my raw skin, lights a match and holds it over my head.
“Things like you, shouldn’t be in schools like ours. Let alone tarnish our team’s name with your kind.”
Before he could drop the match, headlights could be seen from down the road and they all ran in unison. The princes couldn’t be caught doing something so barbaric. God forbid it destroys their “good” name.
I closed my eyes and thought about whether or not I should tell my dad. I come to the conclusion maybe if I was a little lighter, this wouldn’t have happened. And that’s the last thing I think before I fall asleep.