Not when I still haven’t made up with my friend.
Dee has resisted my advances and I can’t find her anywhere near our usual haunts. At morning break, I think I see her on the other side of the quad but by the time I draw closer, she’s either disappeared or my eyesight is better able to distinguish the true identity of the clutch of girls gathered there.
At lunch, I sit around the back of the science block and pretend to be engrossed in reading. A trick I picked up from other losers during the last few years. It works well enough at getting me out of the line of fire but does nothing to restore my previous status in the hierarchy.
When I call Dee’s mother, still unable to find her, she answers but her voice is frosty. I guess my friend overcame her distaste of her mother’s coddling long enough to tell her all about my imaginary tryst with Nate.
“I did nothing wrong,” I burst out with when I think she’s about to hang up on me.
“My daughter thinks you did,” she says in a low diplomatic tone. “And since she’s the one I overhear sobbing in her bed at night, I’m going to take her side.”
The thought that Dee is so upset acts like another dagger to my self-confidence. Yesterday, I thought I could easily explain but the longer I go without being able to do that, the more the lie will cement in Dee’s head.
Even if she believes my story now, the alternate version will still be the version taking up the most head space. That she’s avoiding me means she doubts me enough to think their fabrication is the truth.
Perhaps that’s the death bell of our relationship right there. Not that I can’t find her to tell the truth but that she doesn’t want me to try.
In English, I turn around when the laughter of the two girls directly behind me takes a sharp turn. They pull faces until I turn back to the front, only to find someone swiped my refill pad and now my notes for the year are gone.
It doesn’t matter. The entire course is internally assessed, so it’s not like I’m relying on them to study for a big exam. Still, it makes me antsy. I’m uncertain if it was a coordinated attack or opportunism but with at least three against one, it leaves me feeling smaller than usual. Vulnerable. The exact opposite of the way school usually makes me feel.
Childish bullshit. That’s all it is. Name calling and weak pranks.
The sort of thing I’ve dealt out more than my fair share of over the years. If this were a movie, I’d be learning some deep lessons that fuel my internal growth.
In reality, I spend the rest of my day chiding myself every time I feel my head bowing to avoid a potential onslaught. Trying to make myself a smaller target by physically appearing smaller. Useless. I’m already tiny. Tucking myself into more complex shapes won’t change that. I should be instinctively bulking myself up instead. Isn’t that how most of the animal kingdom does it? Make themselves appear larger?
Just before my last class of the day, somebody shoves me. A gigantic hand in my back that propels me forward, straight into the nearest bank of lockers. My head smacks off the corner, immediately sending distress signals coursing throughout my body.
Whoever did it is gone by the time I think to look for them. My fingers seek the injury and prod at it, getting an overload of pain signals in return.
When I recover enough to duck into the bathroom, there’s a thin stripe of red on the left side of my forehead. Not deep enough to cause a contusion but the skin above and below the impact point are already swelling.
My hands shake in delayed response, and I cling to the sides of the basin as the bell for the last period goes. Instead of making my way to the lesson, I wait a minute longer to collect myself, and head outside, straight to my car.
Day’s over. I’ve had enough.
The next morning starts the same. I see Dee at the end of a corridor but when she catches sight of me, the two girls on either side of her form a protective shield. I’ve got an uphill battle getting her to listen to my side already. An audience of extremely partial observers won’t help.
Not that I get a choice, anyway. When I next glance up, she and her coterie are gone.
My makeup needs a touch up before class. The point of impact with the locker is an angry purple smear across my forehead. My left eye is sightly swollen but not enough to draw too much attention. The worst is that it keeps watering. Not enough to be mistaken for tears but more than ample to loosen my eyeliner and send it wandering down the steep path of my cheek.
I carefully tuck the makeup bag into my locker afterwards. In keeping with Ratty’s idea, I’ve posted an ad on a few group sites, quoting a starter’s rate of half what I’d ideally charge. So far, a few people have nibbled, asking further details, and one girl has tentatively booked in a date for next Thursday—to be confirmed. A slow start maybe but it’s enough to keep my hopes buoyant.
As I head towards home room, a boy knocks into me with enough force to send my chromebook flying. Instead of helping, he stands to one side with a smirk on his face, giving a low wolf whistle as I bend to retrieve the laptop.
Despite the impact, it’s undamaged. Built strong enough to resist the knock, purposely designed to withstand everything a pupil can throw at it. Practically indestructible.
Still, I tuck it closest to my chest for the rest of the day. Resentful that I should even have to think about how I carry things. Annoyed that the teasing uses so much of my head space.
I have an appointment with Wilbur that night and he tuts over my head injury, kissing it better. Perhaps realising he hurt me the week before or just understanding I’m growing fed up with his shit, he’s gentle. Teasing me on the couch but hugging me to his chest as we watch a movie.
He had the cook make my favourite dinner, grilled chicken with coleslaw, and afterwards he feeds me fresh strawberries. An indulgence considering it’s the middle of winter. The out of season fruits don’t seem to realise they shouldn’t exist, being both sweet and juicy.
“I’m thinking of taking a holiday soon,” he says as we’re back on the couch, a blanket covering us, the screen ahead flickering while characters I’ve long lost track of bicker about people I can’t name.
A holiday means a break for me. I relax back against him, closing my eyes. “That sounds nice. You deserve it.”
