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By Monday morning, I was exhausted, poking around in my bag and digging out a thin white binder labeled Language Arts. It wasn't a Language Arts class, it was AP English Literature, but I'd gotten the binder from this shelf in the office where they kept used materials for students who couldn't afford them. I opened the thin binder and started sifting for my writing assignment.
I couldn't remember what I did with my homework. Last Thursday I'd started my essay. I completed the outline and prepared a first draft. Then, after my headache went away, I got it out again to write the final draft but could not recall anything beyond that.
I strained to remember . . . sitting in my room, lying on my stomach. I was on the floor, my knees bent up behind me. I remember, music playing and I was stretching, trying to touch my head with my toes. Then . . . nothing.
Did I fall asleep?
As I sifted through papers, keeping my eyes peeled for the corner of the page-I knew I labeled it with all of the pertinent information and generally, when I started a task, I didn't stop until it was finished.
Finally, I found the details I was looking for and grabbed the page and took the assignment up front. After placing it neatly in Mr. Harmon's basket, I headed back to my desk. Before I got there, Mr. Harmon called me back.
"Miss Patel, is this what you intended to turn in?" He was holding up a paper by one corner.
Trekking back, I looked at the page I'd just handed him. My name was in the corner above the beginnings of the assignment. The top half of the page looked just like it did when I spied it inside my binder. But at the bottom . . . I hadn't noticed. I assumed the essay was complete, but the bottom half of the page he held was covered in slashes of ink. Shapes that looked like someone had drawn a picture of a meadow with a little dog standing in it.
With shame on my face, I took the assignment back and stared, figuring Austen was playing some kind of stupid joke on me. He was always doing stuff-nothing mean, just lame tricks-like he'd always horn in on my conversations with Avery, acting like I was talking to him and not her, or tell me that I already washed the dishes when I know I didn't. Or say I forgot something at the store that wasn't on the list Deanna gave me just so he could go back and get it. It was his way of trying to get more allowance to spend on his girlfriend.
"Can I turn it in tomorrow?"
Mr. Harmon nodded. "Yes, but its ten points a day-I'll have to dock you if you don't get it in by the end of the day."
I returned to my seat and opened my text book to the page written on the white board and dug into the lesson, resolved to talk to Austen about messing with my school work. But first, I was going to kick the reading assignments' ass, and hopefully have time to redraft my essay.
When the bell rang, the class collectively sighed in relief. I scrawled out the last two sentences of my essay as everyone filed out. Mr. Harmon gave my cramped hand a high-five when I set my completed assignment and essay into the basket on his desk.
Out in the hallway I was desperate, nearly jogging as I cut a path through the flood of students. I had to pee and had been holding it too long. It'd gone away for a while, but returned with a vengeance the moment the bell rang.
School bathrooms were the worst. They were usually filled to capacity or totally empty. Either way, they all smelled like shit and hair spray. And there was this girl, Rosa Dominguez, who'd been taking her turn messing with me that quarter. She was a senior, like me, but she had a lot of friends and she was on the Softball team. Damn jock-chick with rotten breath and horrible bleached hair that clashed with her brown skin. She had to have dyed it herself because it had a distinct orange tinge. It was ugly. Like her soul.
Rosa had a gift for finding me at the most inconvenient times-usually when I went to the bathroom. Sometimes, in the girls' locker room, too. The locker room I understood-she was a jock-but damn if we didn't constantly end up using the same bathroom at the same time. Every freaking time. So I tried not to use any of the bathrooms in the main building and never went near the ones by the gym. That pretty much left me the English and science wings.
When I finally made it to the end of the passageway, I hooked into the middle-section, the corridor that housed the freshmen lockers, and launched myself through the swinging door and into the first available stall.
My nerves were tight; listening to the voices of carefree freshmen, listening for the one voice I didn't want to hear.
There was exactly seven minutes between classes. Three probably expired before I got to my preferred toilet. As I relished the release of two diet colas, I heard the rumble of girls piling out, complaining about their hair or a boy, all sighing as they herded to class. In a rush, I buttoned, flushed, grabbed my backpack, and flung the stall door open.
Rosa Dominguez was standing in front of the mirror. Of course. She tousled her long orange hair, smoothing the sides. Her reflection caught mine and her eyes flickered. Two girls still, lingering near the sinks, tucked their heads down and shuffled out.
"You know I told you to stay away from my boyfriend, right?"
My mouth dried up. Her boyfriend was in my science class. We sat at the same table, but I never talked to him. Not even during labs. But I couldn't tell her that. My lips couldn't move, suddenly stuck to my teeth.
With a quick spin, she was suddenly facing me. "Why the hell do you keep talking to him?"
When she stepped towards me I backed away, landing myself back inside the bathroom stall. I tried to shut the door, but she was too close. Her wide palm clamped onto my shoulder, shoving me and my back pack over the open toilet. She gripped my shirt and hauled me out.
I covered my face right as her jetting fist smashed into my mouth. The soft skin of my lips burned against her bladed knuckles. I stumbled back and felt myself curling in, cowering away, prepping for the next blow which was usually the same as the one before by way of the other fist. I closed my eyes, wondering how I'd hide the bruises from Jake.
The sounds were there, the smacking of flesh and bone, but I didn't feel anything. I hesitated before looking up to find Avery hovering over the orange-haired monster. Relief coursed through me. She had Rosa by the arm and was twisting it behind her back. Rosa was pleading, though she sounded furious. When Avery didn't relent, she started back on the insults.
Avery yanked Rosas arm up further behind her back. Taunting, "Hey, isn't this your pitching arm?"
Rosa cursed and tried to twist out of Avery's hold. Avery kicked the back of her knees in turn, forcing Rosa down and hitching her arm up high. Rosas' already pinched face winced and she squealed.
"Don't," I whispered, quietly begging Avery not to push the confrontation. She couldn't get suspended again. Besides, Rosa was beaten and she had to know it.
The knots in my stomach tightened as Avery looked down. I recognized the deceptive softness as she stared at the girl bent below her. "What if I pull a little higher, Rosa? What will happen?" The girl spit a high-pitched curse as Avery wrenched her captive arm up. "Come on, only a little higher? Would another inch be enough to break your shoulder? Do you think you could still pitch after that?"
