I don’t belong in this petri dish. I am the normal one here. They are the ones that are broken. Makes sense, they’re all assholes. I snicker at my sad joke and keep shuffling until finally the hall empties and I’m left alone to rectify my “situation”.
“Fucking jocks,” I mutter to myself as I yank my backpack out of the locker.
This is the second uniform they’ve ruined for me this year alone, and I really can’t afford to replace it. I’m pretty sure these assholes are being calculated in their attacks.
Multiple dress code violations will lead to increasingly severe disciplinary actions, which will end up on my permanent record and ruin my chances of ever getting into Juilliard.
Why it should bother them so much that I’m on a scholarship is beyond me, but I don’t try to pretend to understand what happens inside their messed up heads.
The only change of clothes I have left is my work uniform.
I pull the unflattering outfit from my backpack and make a face at it before running to the bathroom. It’s a warm enough day as it is. The last thing I need is to be running from class to class draped in heavy polyester.
“It’s either that or my underwear, I guess,” I mutter to myself as I strip out of my blouse. It has dried to such an uncomfortable level of sticky that it’s clinging to my skin like a newborn as I try to peel it away.
Cleaning up feels like a lost cause, but I do my best anyhow. I’m wiping and sopping with paper towels and tap water, but who am I really kidding? This damn soup has permeated my bra pads and is practically growing tentacles on my skin.
Whatever.
I take the bra off and toss it on top of the shirt and into the plastic bag. I consider going bra-less for a second. They can’t ruin what isn’t there, right? I mean it’s only the first period and I only have one clean bra left. Sure, somebody might notice, but I doubt it. I would rather be called out for being braless than walk around being smelly and sticky all day. Or worse, lose my last clean bra.
The underwear situation isn’t much better. A huge black-ringed hole is burnt into the center, exposing most of my left butt cheek. I drag it off and unceremoniously toss it aside with the rest of today’s trash before grabbing the last clean emergency undie I have left.
“Fucking morons,” I mumble, trying not to lose my balance and topple over into the bowl.
I decide to take a chance and wear my bra with all my fingers crossed that this is the last time I’ll be wet for the rest of the day.
Once I’m decent again, I go back to my locker and check on the contents of my binder. Nothing important has been destroyed, and by some divine intervention, my English essay has just a little pink around the edges. That’s nothing compared to the last time. At least they hadn’t thrown away this assignment.
Jerks.
Beer bottles, rancid soup, and a flaming ass. That’s definitely one way to start the day.
It’s how I, a star student and teacher’s pet, end up walking into class a half an hour late and out of uniform. I don’t attempt to excuse or explain myself. What would be the point? Instead, I march up to Mr. Anderson, hand him my streaked and spotted essay, and take my usual seat.
My butt barely hits the chair before they begin to snicker. I sit, trying to keep a straight face, but the snobs are all focusing on me.
I rise again, slowly… and there it is. The familiar pull on the back of my pants. What is it that I’m smelling this time? A distinctive watermelon and vomit flavored mix.
Gum. Of course. Why the hell not?
I don’t bother looking up at anyone or saying anything, I just grab a pencil and started separating the fabric of my dickies from the glob of goo.
“As I was saying.” Mr. Anderson clears his throat, tearing everyone’s attention away from me and my imposed difficulties.
“The critical thinking exam returned abysmal results. Your grades will take the hit, but I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror if I sent you all out in the world ready and eager to believe everything you hear. So we’re going to review the unit we just completed until you’re all capable of telling truth from lies.”
I’d gotten an A on that test and I’m infinitely grateful to Mr. Anderson for not telling on me. My classmates don’t exactly need another reason to hate me, not that they have one now.
Mr. Anderson releases the class five minutes early, but asks me to stay behind.
“Told you they were fuckin’,” some guy says loudly enough for both me and Mr. Anderson to hear.
I ignore it. So does he, but I can feel his blood boiling just as hot as mine.
“I’m sorry I was late,” I say before he can say anything, “I ran into an umm, bit of an incident in the hallway.”
“So I heard,” Anderson says grimly. He takes off his glasses and cleans them, then squints through them before putting them back on his face. “I would ask if it was true that they ruined your uniform, but seeing as this isn’t a school for baristas, I assume it is.”
“Yes, sir,” I sigh.
He nods. “Do you have any more?”
“No, sir,” I mutter.
He sighs and runs a hand through his ashy black hair, then pulls a pass out of his desk. He fills it out and hands it to me.
“Here’s your excuse,” he nods, “You won’t get a dress code violation today, but you do need to go talk to the Dean after school. There are financial aid resources available for things like uniforms and school supplies.”
“I know,” I whisper, feeling a twinge in my chest.
I more than know. I have had to use them every year since my enrollment. “Thank you, I’ll do that.”
Anderson is one of those people who always manages to look worried, but as he meets my gaze, that worry seems to transform and intensify.
“Try not to let them get to you, Beth. You’re a very promising student. All of this nonsense will be behind you next year. You just have to hang in there.”
I smile and thank him, then hurry to my next class as the bell rings.
I want to believe him, but I can’t quite seem to bring myself to his level of faith. My parents have always done everything they could to give me the best education available. I’ve been gifted virtually from birth, and they have no intentions of letting those gifts go to waste.
It’s been a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I’ve gotten a full and rich education, filled with all those soft little niceties that colleges look for.
On the other hand, I’ve never belonged anywhere. Kids hate me for being different, for being poor, for being smarter than they are, for being quiet, for talking, for working, for showing up to parties, for not showing up to parties.
No matter what I do, I’ll never be able to win more than a tentative tolerance from a few of the students. I spend a lot of energy reminding myself that some people don’t socially blossom until college, and that is okay. Still, it’s been a long, lonely school career, and I really can’t wait for it to be over.
2
“Look, Maverick, you gotta understand. The state title game is your big chance! You know how many guys get drafted right out of high school? If you make it to this game, it’ll be one more. I guarantee it.” Coach’s shiny bald head is reflecting the fluorescent light in the Dean’s office. It’s interesting what age can do to a man. It’s much more interesting than anything Coach is actually saying, that’s for sure.