Drevan

The initial jump wasn’t exactly what started this mess. He got caught in suction at the bottom of the pool. It was a hot summer day, blistering hot, most would say and the clouds were absent from the baby blue sky.  Drevan and his family were lounging around the pool, catching rays and sweating deep invigorating gusts of both hot sun and warm wind. It was refreshing on his body.  Nobody called him an Africaan man here; he and his family were safe from the racism that he endured at school. This was the coloured pool, well, it was everyone’s pool. The real people who just wanted to enjoy themselves near the end of the summer term at St.Charle’s School of Alternative Studies. What made it worse was that St. Charles was a private school and Drevan still got picked on by bullies. And they weren’t even white, most had been on the football team and he knew most of them since early preschool. That’s what hurt him the most. These were his friends. Well, they were supposed to be, but ever since Drevan stood up for Michael Ambrose three months ago, all his friends called him a whitey lover and that he should listen to holy music instead of rap. Not that rap had any source of distinction, but holy music was deemed white and therefore uncool to the football players. Drevan Restings parents were at the pool that day too, an umbrella behind dad’s chair. Drevan’s dad, Norse, was a retired school teacher and, from what Drevan could grasp, a humanitarian academic. Norse would donate money to St.Charles semi-yearly and ensured that the sports teams were flourishing. When Drevan was a freshman, Norse coached the varsity football team and Drevan played on the B team, no favoritism here. His love of football was passed down to his boys and he would always wear a fedora during the playoff season. Just for the love of the game. Drevan had two brothers and a sister, all three attending the distinguished St.Charles School of Alternative Studies.  Daryl was a sophomore and Jacob was just about to finish his final year of public school. Ayatola was a freshman , and my god, she was beautiful. Her beautiful hair, her hazel eyes and those kissable, sweet lips that would make any man jealous not to be kissing them. She had a boyfriend, earlier on in the semester, but she dumped his ass for gymnastics. He was a loser anyways and the school would kick him out at the end of the full freshman year. He was a stoner, a voyeur and eventually, a vagabond. No one mattered about him from the Steroids infused gym instructor to the closet homosexual physics professor noticed him around anyways. But he walked that road and knew he could do better than St.Charles, he could fly himself into Berkeley if he really wanted to and no one cared, or knew, because we are talking about Philosophy here. The vagabond on his horse with a backpack on, being stuck in school would never let him travel and love his dreams to their full potential. Where did the time go? Who matters more, Drevan or the unknown vagabond who lost at love. This is a story. Not a good one but it started so now it must be finished no matter how intense it would get. He was jealous of Drevan and his family, a burning sensation would enflame his palms and his hands would get clammy. He loved Ayatola but she was done with him. He wept in his elbow. He was tired. But that wouldn’t stop him, he just pushing forward, and forward and forward.  And he got there. He found an agency and worked out what was in his mind, but he would never forget the school where he learned his potential. And he was no longer a vagabond. But rather a creator.