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“Oh no—we’re late!” Kaitlyn’s voice was squeezed and anxious as she wrapped her arms around herself protectively.
“It’s okay—at least we’re together,” I tried to comfort her and that was when our Gym teacher came into view.
Coach Vasquez, as I later learned her name was, appeared to be a short, sharp-faced, muscular woman somewhere in her mid-thirties to early forties. She had black eyes set in a hard face and she was wearing spotless white tennis shorts and a short-sleeved t-shirt to match. Around her neck was a silver whistle and her short black hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail.
“All right, ladies—what’s the hold up?” she demanded, glaring at us. “Every other student in Period One is already lined up and waiting for roll call. Why aren’t you?”
“S-sorry we’re late, Coach Vasquez,” Kaitlyn faltered. “We were just…just…” But here she seemed to run out of words.
“It’s my fault,” I said, jumping into the breech. “I’m new here—this is only my second day—and Kaitlyn was showing me the way. We’ll come right out on the field so we don’t hold you up any longer.”
“Oh no you won’t! Not until you dress out,” the Coach said, frowning. “Snap to it, ladies—let’s go.”
Kaitlyn made a show of looking into her black leather satchel.
“I’m afraid I forgot my gym clothes, Coach,” she said humbly. “I guess I’ll have to take demerits again today. Sorry.”
Coach Vasquez’s little black eyes narrowed.
“Oh no you don’t, Miss Fellows—I’m on to you! Ever since the start of term it’s been one excuse after another. ‘Oh, Coach Vasquez, I have a cold,’ she mimicked in a high, girly voice which sounded nothing like Kaitlyn’s soft, pleasant tone. ‘Oh Coach Vasquez, I’m on my period and I have cramps. Oh, Coach Vasquez, I forgot my gym clothes!’”
“But, Coach—” Kaitlyn began.
Coach Vasquez held up a hand to stop her.
No more excuses!” she declared, glaring at poor Kaitlyn. “Today and for every day for as long as I am your teacher, you will dress out. And to be sure of it, I have taken the liberty of having the Laundry provide some extra gym clothes just in case you ‘forget’ yours again.”
Turning, she went to the pile of towels by the showers and grabbed some black and white folded clothing which was sitting there. She thrust these at Kaitlyn, who had no choice but to accept them, though I could tell she didn’t want to.
Then the Coach turned to me.
“Well and have you forgotten your gym clothes too, Miss Latimer?” she demanded.
Actually, I had. Also, it was not encouraging to see that the extremely strict coach already knew my name.
“Yes, Coach,” I said. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think to put them in my bag.”
“Fifteen demerits, Miss Latimer,” she snapped, handing me a set of the black and white gym clothes as well. “For tardiness and for failure to be prepared for class. Next time maybe you’ll remember your gym uniform and make more of an effort to be on time. Now hurry—both of you—change!”
Kaitlyn and I retreated hurriedly back to the lockers and, our backs to each other, began to disrobe. My stomach knotted as I saw that the gym clothes were black shorts and a white t-shirt with cap sleeves which barely covered my shoulders. Great…just great.
As I took off my uniform and hung it in one of the empty lockers, I couldn’t help examining myself to see exactly how much my new gym clothes showed.
The answer was basically everything.
The long lines of neat white scars marched up the insides of my forearms from wrists to elbows, extremely visible in the harsh florescent lights shining down from overhead. Likewise, the cutting scars on my inner thighs flashed when I moved my legs. Despite my pale skin, or maybe because of it, the scars stood out bleakly, as obvious as though I had drawn on my pale skin with a sharpie—albeit a white one instead of the traditional black.
Strangely, after my mother had died, I had lost the need to cut myself to ease my own emotional pain. But the scars remained, stark and white, never letting me forget that awful part of my past as well as advertising it to anyone who saw me in short sleeves and shorts.
If there was a better way to scream, “I am a troubled teen cutter with emotional issues and a history of depression!” I didn’t know what it was.
Then I heard a muffled sob behind me.
Turning, I saw that Kaitlyn was dressed out, just as I was. What I saw on her creamy, light brown skin pushed my own neat rows of scars out of my mind at once.
Her hands weren’t the only place where the skin was twisted and pinkish-white. The awful burn marks she wore ran all the way up the backs of her arms and around the front of her neck—what little I could see of it when most of her face was hidden by her long hair. It looked like she had worn a shirt made of flames and it had left its mark all over the top half of her body.
