Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > The Poison
Okay, you're all totally jealous of my new "PANTS!":http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6hhprS1ss1rsg1gwo1_500.jpg Yeah, I bought them on Saturday :3 The cashier and I got into a conversation about existence and the Bauhaus. T'was fun.
Also, summer school has really worn me down, which is why this damn thing wasn't up until now D: But I made it longer, so it's okay, right?
Also, as a tribute to my aforementioned pants: a "song":http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpWOvK-mz7U, brought to you by Mystery Science Theater 3000
::
The Poison
Chapter Eighteen
No more dreaming like a girl
So in love with the wrong world
Long before I stepped foot back inside the school, I knew there would be rumors. I expected them- I didn’t welcome them by any means- but I was prepared for them. I knew what I would say in response, “Shove off” or “Leave me alone, asshole”. Not exactly poetry, but they would discourage most of the idiots at school. I was ready for it. All of it.
Until the very moment where I had to actually deal with the problem.
I stood in front of the school, worn corduroy bookbag slung over my shoulder, positively nauseous. Other students brushed past me, each and every one of them and unfamiliar face. I picked through the crowds, trying to find someone I knew, but to no avail. Before the real crowd crush came, I walked faster through the twin doors into the hallway, outdated radiators blowing hot air onto my face, much like Gerard’s house would-
Stop.
You can’t think about that now. I told myself.
I pushed through the throng of chatting students towards my locker, where I awkwardly fiddled with the lock until I remembered my combination, and grabbed all my school supplies as quickly as I could before rushing to Math, what I recalled to be my first period of the day. Along the way, I felt thousands of stares scalding my back and whispers flitting by my ears, just beyond my hearing. I tried to keep my head down and ignore them, but that was easier said than done.
“I heard she was kidnapped by like, a rapist guy or something.” I heard one of them say. The statement was followed by sounds of agreement- that would be the official story for my adventures, then.
"Yeah, his name was Gerald or Gary or something."
"Didn't he used to be a priest or something? And then they found out he was , like, a pedophile or something and, like, kicked him out?"
"I think so... Why don't you ask her? She's right there."
As soon as I heard this, I sped up my walking. I didn't care if they didn't mean to be malicious, I didn't care if they were just curious. I didn't want to talk about it. None of them could ever understand what truly happened at 0012 Cemetery Drive. None of them would ever know Gerard's true nature (or, based on the previous conversation, the correct spelling of his name), and none of them would ever know the true story. The verdict had already been returned- no jury needed. My family was far too poor to file a lawsuit against Gerard, and even if we had the money, I would bet everything that my father wouldn't even think about investing it in suing Gerard. In his eyes, I wasn't nearly as important as his precious booze.
It was just as well, though. I didn’t want to know how everything would have panned out for Gerard if my father had felt even the slightest inkling of care for me.
At the front of the room, a great vulture of a woman stood in front of the board, writing some foreign equation that made my head spin. She turned and squinted at me through her half-moon glasses, face twitching slightly in recognition- but not of my name, most likely. The fact that I’m the mentally damaged rape victim that’s just gotten back from her stay at Hell Hotel makes me much more recognisable among the students and staff at Belleville High.
“Welcome back, Atropine.” she says lightly, trying to keep things casual. She made a face that was probably supposed to be a smile and then goes on to tell me that I was in the wrong classroom and this was the Advanced Calculus room and I belonged in the Algebra 1 room, dear, so go on your way it’s down the hall.
The students in the classroom heard me suck in a breath, and many faces turned to stare me down, almost as if they were a pack of hyenas and I was an antelope. They certainly weren’t grinning and laughing on the outside, but behind the flat masks I could feel a trembling giggle thread through me, stabbing me right in the heart. They thought I was funny.
I blushed bright red and rushed down the hall into another, where at least one familiar face sat in the far corner- Natasha, half of my duo of best- and only- friends. She stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd, with her platinum blond hair and all black clothes- which she always wore as a sort of never ending mourning for her black cat Loki, who died when she was eight- and her ever-present lace up boots. She turned her head away from the board and waved to me, the tiniest hint of a smile playing across her red lips. I walked slowly and silently towards the unoccupied seat next to her, hoping the teacher wouldn’t notice my tardiness. Unfortunately, Mr.Bines had eyes on the back of his head.
“Good morning, Atropine.” he said flatly, not bothering to turn around. “I hope you have a good reason as to why you’re late for my class.”
“I lost my way.” I said, equally emotionless. “Since I’ve been... away... for awhile.” I faltered. Hadn't I promised myself not over two minutes ago that I wouldn't bring it up?
Mr.Bines didn't respond, only making a 'hmm' sound and returning to his problem.
Natasha looked at me out of the corner of her eye throughout the entire lesson, asking silently a thousand questions, none of which I was prepared to answer. Instead, I kept my eyes carefully trained on the clock mounted above the board, watching the minute hand sweep languorously around the numbers, wishing for the day- the whole school year, even- to be over.
And somehow, using different useless diversions to pass the time, the droning, flat sound signalling the end of the period rang through the room and I quickly gathered my things and headed to my next class, which was English 9. I felt relieved after dragging myself through an hour of equations and measurements and things I didn’t understand- here was a thing I was good at. Very good, though I don’t mean to brag. My teacher practically idolized me, and said I had lots of talent, and even suggested I test out of English 10 and 11, and just skip all the way up to 12. Sadly, since I had been somewhat preoccupied for the past four months, that opportunity had no doubt been snatched away from me. Wayne and Helena wouldn’t want to take the trouble of signing so many forms, anyway.
I walked slowly down the hall with Natasha trailing behind me, hands clenched tightly around her Grateful Dead notebook. She jogged a few steps to catch up with me, barely having done so when the words left her mouth, “Where’ve you been?”
I stopped, turning back slightly to look at her. She stared back earnestly in return, not exactly probing, but wanting answers in her gentle way.
“You know, at old man Gerard’s house. The creepy priest man with weird sexual preferences.” I responded, sarcasm and bitterness spiking my tongue. I flinched internally when Natasha blinked slowly, hurt shining in her eyes. “I- sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. But yeah, most of the rumors are true.”
“Oh.” Natasha blinked again and returned to normal. “Okay. I kind of just wanted to hear the story from you, ‘cause, you know how people like blowing shit out of proportion around here.”
We continued walking towards our respective classes as Natasha chattered to me about the crazy yarns people had made up about me and my adventures with Gerard.
“One person said he was, like a Satanist and kidnapped you to sacrifice you to the Devil!” she exclaimed, waving her arms around to prove her point. “Freaky shit, you know? And- ooh, this one’s one of my favorites- another said Gerard was a vampire and sucked your blood in the bedroom every night!” she leaned over my shoulder, making cartoonish fangs with her index fingers.
“That sounds much more sexual than what actually happened.” I told her, heading towards the English classroom.
“Riiiiight,” she smirked. “Tell me and Ramya all about it during lunch, okay?” With that, she headed towards the science classroom, leaving me to face another boring hour, this time all by myself.
Ms. MacBeth sat in front of all the desks on her stool, legs crossed and arms draped lazily across her lap. Her voluminous black hair was piled up on top of her head with a patterned yellow and orange scarf wrapped around it, and her almond-brown skin was smooth and young, although she was already pushing forty. Her equally colorful robes brushed the drab linoleum floor, the numerous golden bangles stacked on her wrists jangling every so often with her movements. She still looked the same as she had back in January. That was good- it gave me something solid to latch onto, so I could more easily pretend that I hadn’t been gone at all.
Also, the more superstitious drama students still called her ‘Ms. Scottish Play’. That was good, too.
I sat down at my designated spot towards the center of the classroom and pulled out my notebook, and began writing in my journal.
I’ve always hated journaling. In every classroom that I’ve ever done it in, the subject was always predetermined by the teacher, and it was more often than not dry and boring, and usually corresponded to what time of year it was- for example, during Thanksgiving the subject would always be ‘What are you thankful for?’ to which I’d respond snarkily with ‘oxygen, gravity, and similes.’ Of course, Ms. Macbeth lost her shit over the last one. She loved similes.
But even if I could have some fun with sarcasm when it came to journaling, it was nearly impossible to put any emotion into it. Even when we were supposed to write about what was troubling us. It’s just that you can’t write when someone tells you to, like you can with math. You just can’t. You wrote a few choppy sentences about how you were nervous about presenting your science project and then you were done. Even if your teacher didn’t dare peek at what you wrote, it still felt wrong and too exposed to write about your problems in a school-issued notebook.
Looking down at the page, I saw that I had subconsciously filled half the lines up with random scribbles, a sort of thing I do when I’m looking for inspiration. Seeing as I’d nearly obscured whatever bland phrase I’d written down a few minutes ago, I wouldn’t be finding any any time soon. Wherever my muses went, they took a long vacation to somewhere far, far away. Like Gerard’s house.
I bit down hard on my lip and tried to focus on Ms. Macbeth, who was now trying, once again, to get everyone excited about similes.
During world history, I decided that my gods of inspiration had packed it up and moved to southeastern China.
I felt around in the bottom of my school bag for the trio of plastic Ziploc bags that made up my lunch, pulling out a bag of almonds, dry crackers and a half cheese sandwich after about a minute of searching. I always had a pathetic lunch. Luckily for me, Ramya and Natasha were rather generous with their own, giving me an apple or a bag of fruit snacks to help sate my appetite. Like today, for example, Natasha had already tossed me a Cosmic Brownie on her way to the cafeteria. I put that in the cheap plastic bag along with the rest of my lunch and followed her and the other noisy students into the large, cavernous room filled with circular yellow tables, most of which were already filled. Natasha and I made our way to one over in the far corner, partially obscured by shadows, where our other friend, Ramya, sat.
Ramya was a junior, whom we’d met on the first day of school after a group of blond sophomore girls had- quite rudely- asked if we were cutters. Ramya intervened with a few choice words and after that, helped us find our classes. Since then, we’ve both sort of latched onto her and she took us under her wing, and, though we were to years to her junior, treated us like we were her actual friends. In honor of Loki, she also always wore something black like a bracelet or a jacket and I was supposed to do the same too but since I had hardly any clothes they said my hair would do. Before us, she always sat alone, because who wanted to sit with a five foot eleven Indian girl with blue and blonde streaks in her hair and facial piercings who always wore vandalised pop star t shirts and tartan skinny jeans? She was a definitive loner.
But now she waved us over to the table with enthusiasm, pulling out the yellow plastic chairs next to her. We sat down at our respective places and pulled out our lunches, my own looking measly and pathetic compared to Natasha’s plethora of junk food and Ramya’s extensive sushi tray. Ramya, looking at my small lunch, held out a few California rolls to me.
“Want some?” she asked through a full mouth.
I shook my head. I didn’t like fish.
A pang suddenly shot through me. Mikey does. I remembered his incessant begging at the dinner table, a tantrum that was thrown nearly every night- “Can we get sushi instead?”
Natasha decided to start a conversation at the most inopportune of times.
“So, A.” she said. “You promised you’d tell us about your stay at Father Way’s house.”
At this, Ramya spluttered and laughed. “F-F-Father Way!” she shrieked, sending a number of gazes our way. “Sorry. Uhm. Continue.”
“Well...” I trailed off, not knowing where to start. “I kind of actually ran away from home, and ended up at his house. And he just... took care of me, I guess.” I didn’t want to go into any more detail, but the pressing curiosity on Natasha and Ramya’s faces told me I was to do otherwise. “Mikey and Alicia, his younger brother and sister-in-law, stayed with us too. It was... it was cool.”
“Did he... you know?” Natasha made vague, odd motions with her hands, trying to make her point.
“Did he bonk you?” Ramya asked tactlessly.
“Um.” I hesitated. Should I lie? Whether it was with someone legal or not, losing your virginity at my age instantly pegged you as a slut. Also, word of Gerard’s activities with me could reach the police if I told anyone. “No. He didn’t. That was a lie.” I said through my teeth.
“Oh. Okay.” Natasha said. “‘Cause if he did, you could press charges, or-”
“I wouldn’t do that even if he did.” I interrupted. “It’s hard to explain, but he’s really been through a lot, and he’s actually a good person.”
My two friends looked at me blankly as I chewed on my brownie.
“Well.” Ramya said. “That wasn’t necessarily what I was expecting.”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say? I’m just full of surprises today.”
Evidently, so was the rest of the world. When I went back to my locker to get my supplies for science and history, the amount of stares and whispering has multiplied by what seems like one thousand and I get a horrible shock when I open my locker and the word ‘WHORE’ is scrawled in huge black letters across the inside of the door.
Face burning some shade of red, I cover the offensive word with my hand and gather up my things and go to class.
In science, it’s halfway through note taking that I feel something lodge itself in the back of my braid. I feel across my head until I encounter a wadded up piece of paper and pull it out and toss it onto the floor, not bothering to see what’s written on the inside. Another one is shot, this time landing squarely in the middle of my desk, and I risk a look, biting down on my lip hard to keep from crying as I read it. ‘Suck dick, emo cunt’.
In history, it’s a little better, because I have Natasha with me to poke fun at the overblown passages in the textbook and send death glares at those who seemed intent on tormenting me. My feet tapped incessantly on the floor, a single mantra floating through my head- One more class, A. Just one more and you’re done for the day. I smile at how it rhymes and turn it into a sort of song, silently singing it throughout the entire period. I’m so wrapped up in it that I nearly forget to pick up my homework and Natasha has to go back and get my supplies because I’ve left them behind, too. Creative writing comes as a relief, because I get Ms. Macbeth again and no one in the class is interested in making me miserable. But I’m still constantly glancing up at the clock, counting down the seconds until the day is over. I didn’t want to admit it, but the insults had shaken me greatly, and I knew that they would only get worse with time.
When the bell rings, I gather up my things and shoot out into the hall, rushing towards the street as I intend walking home on foot. But someone grabs my arms and pulls me back behind the school before I can, and I squeak and shield myself with my arms, thinking What the hell?! My assailant attempts to pry my hands away from my face, and when they do I instantly stop struggling.
“Frank?”
::
Lyrics from Blinding by Florence + the Machine. "Here":http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6bvi49d0X1qkej80o1_500.png is a picture of a suspicious flashlight. Watch out.
EDIT 7/21/12: here is a snippet of the next chapter, because I feel bad that I'm not updating fast enough.
The car sputtered to a stop by the curb and I climbed out, but before I had set foot on the tarmac Frank stopped me with his hand on my shoulder.
“Atropine,” he said quietly, uncharacteristically serious. “I know what your home life is like, and... I know it’s hard. But hold on. You’ll pull through.”
He bit his lip and cast his eyes downward, trying to find something else to say.
“Give ‘em hell, kid.” he said, giving my shoulder a final pat before slamming the door shut and driving off.
Also, summer school has really worn me down, which is why this damn thing wasn't up until now D: But I made it longer, so it's okay, right?
Also, as a tribute to my aforementioned pants: a "song":http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpWOvK-mz7U, brought to you by Mystery Science Theater 3000
::
The Poison
Chapter Eighteen
No more dreaming like a girl
So in love with the wrong world
Long before I stepped foot back inside the school, I knew there would be rumors. I expected them- I didn’t welcome them by any means- but I was prepared for them. I knew what I would say in response, “Shove off” or “Leave me alone, asshole”. Not exactly poetry, but they would discourage most of the idiots at school. I was ready for it. All of it.
Until the very moment where I had to actually deal with the problem.
I stood in front of the school, worn corduroy bookbag slung over my shoulder, positively nauseous. Other students brushed past me, each and every one of them and unfamiliar face. I picked through the crowds, trying to find someone I knew, but to no avail. Before the real crowd crush came, I walked faster through the twin doors into the hallway, outdated radiators blowing hot air onto my face, much like Gerard’s house would-
Stop.
You can’t think about that now. I told myself.
I pushed through the throng of chatting students towards my locker, where I awkwardly fiddled with the lock until I remembered my combination, and grabbed all my school supplies as quickly as I could before rushing to Math, what I recalled to be my first period of the day. Along the way, I felt thousands of stares scalding my back and whispers flitting by my ears, just beyond my hearing. I tried to keep my head down and ignore them, but that was easier said than done.
“I heard she was kidnapped by like, a rapist guy or something.” I heard one of them say. The statement was followed by sounds of agreement- that would be the official story for my adventures, then.
"Yeah, his name was Gerald or Gary or something."
"Didn't he used to be a priest or something? And then they found out he was , like, a pedophile or something and, like, kicked him out?"
"I think so... Why don't you ask her? She's right there."
As soon as I heard this, I sped up my walking. I didn't care if they didn't mean to be malicious, I didn't care if they were just curious. I didn't want to talk about it. None of them could ever understand what truly happened at 0012 Cemetery Drive. None of them would ever know Gerard's true nature (or, based on the previous conversation, the correct spelling of his name), and none of them would ever know the true story. The verdict had already been returned- no jury needed. My family was far too poor to file a lawsuit against Gerard, and even if we had the money, I would bet everything that my father wouldn't even think about investing it in suing Gerard. In his eyes, I wasn't nearly as important as his precious booze.
It was just as well, though. I didn’t want to know how everything would have panned out for Gerard if my father had felt even the slightest inkling of care for me.
At the front of the room, a great vulture of a woman stood in front of the board, writing some foreign equation that made my head spin. She turned and squinted at me through her half-moon glasses, face twitching slightly in recognition- but not of my name, most likely. The fact that I’m the mentally damaged rape victim that’s just gotten back from her stay at Hell Hotel makes me much more recognisable among the students and staff at Belleville High.
“Welcome back, Atropine.” she says lightly, trying to keep things casual. She made a face that was probably supposed to be a smile and then goes on to tell me that I was in the wrong classroom and this was the Advanced Calculus room and I belonged in the Algebra 1 room, dear, so go on your way it’s down the hall.
The students in the classroom heard me suck in a breath, and many faces turned to stare me down, almost as if they were a pack of hyenas and I was an antelope. They certainly weren’t grinning and laughing on the outside, but behind the flat masks I could feel a trembling giggle thread through me, stabbing me right in the heart. They thought I was funny.
I blushed bright red and rushed down the hall into another, where at least one familiar face sat in the far corner- Natasha, half of my duo of best- and only- friends. She stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd, with her platinum blond hair and all black clothes- which she always wore as a sort of never ending mourning for her black cat Loki, who died when she was eight- and her ever-present lace up boots. She turned her head away from the board and waved to me, the tiniest hint of a smile playing across her red lips. I walked slowly and silently towards the unoccupied seat next to her, hoping the teacher wouldn’t notice my tardiness. Unfortunately, Mr.Bines had eyes on the back of his head.
“Good morning, Atropine.” he said flatly, not bothering to turn around. “I hope you have a good reason as to why you’re late for my class.”
“I lost my way.” I said, equally emotionless. “Since I’ve been... away... for awhile.” I faltered. Hadn't I promised myself not over two minutes ago that I wouldn't bring it up?
Mr.Bines didn't respond, only making a 'hmm' sound and returning to his problem.
Natasha looked at me out of the corner of her eye throughout the entire lesson, asking silently a thousand questions, none of which I was prepared to answer. Instead, I kept my eyes carefully trained on the clock mounted above the board, watching the minute hand sweep languorously around the numbers, wishing for the day- the whole school year, even- to be over.
And somehow, using different useless diversions to pass the time, the droning, flat sound signalling the end of the period rang through the room and I quickly gathered my things and headed to my next class, which was English 9. I felt relieved after dragging myself through an hour of equations and measurements and things I didn’t understand- here was a thing I was good at. Very good, though I don’t mean to brag. My teacher practically idolized me, and said I had lots of talent, and even suggested I test out of English 10 and 11, and just skip all the way up to 12. Sadly, since I had been somewhat preoccupied for the past four months, that opportunity had no doubt been snatched away from me. Wayne and Helena wouldn’t want to take the trouble of signing so many forms, anyway.
I walked slowly down the hall with Natasha trailing behind me, hands clenched tightly around her Grateful Dead notebook. She jogged a few steps to catch up with me, barely having done so when the words left her mouth, “Where’ve you been?”
I stopped, turning back slightly to look at her. She stared back earnestly in return, not exactly probing, but wanting answers in her gentle way.
“You know, at old man Gerard’s house. The creepy priest man with weird sexual preferences.” I responded, sarcasm and bitterness spiking my tongue. I flinched internally when Natasha blinked slowly, hurt shining in her eyes. “I- sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. But yeah, most of the rumors are true.”
“Oh.” Natasha blinked again and returned to normal. “Okay. I kind of just wanted to hear the story from you, ‘cause, you know how people like blowing shit out of proportion around here.”
We continued walking towards our respective classes as Natasha chattered to me about the crazy yarns people had made up about me and my adventures with Gerard.
“One person said he was, like a Satanist and kidnapped you to sacrifice you to the Devil!” she exclaimed, waving her arms around to prove her point. “Freaky shit, you know? And- ooh, this one’s one of my favorites- another said Gerard was a vampire and sucked your blood in the bedroom every night!” she leaned over my shoulder, making cartoonish fangs with her index fingers.
“That sounds much more sexual than what actually happened.” I told her, heading towards the English classroom.
“Riiiiight,” she smirked. “Tell me and Ramya all about it during lunch, okay?” With that, she headed towards the science classroom, leaving me to face another boring hour, this time all by myself.
Ms. MacBeth sat in front of all the desks on her stool, legs crossed and arms draped lazily across her lap. Her voluminous black hair was piled up on top of her head with a patterned yellow and orange scarf wrapped around it, and her almond-brown skin was smooth and young, although she was already pushing forty. Her equally colorful robes brushed the drab linoleum floor, the numerous golden bangles stacked on her wrists jangling every so often with her movements. She still looked the same as she had back in January. That was good- it gave me something solid to latch onto, so I could more easily pretend that I hadn’t been gone at all.
Also, the more superstitious drama students still called her ‘Ms. Scottish Play’. That was good, too.
I sat down at my designated spot towards the center of the classroom and pulled out my notebook, and began writing in my journal.
I’ve always hated journaling. In every classroom that I’ve ever done it in, the subject was always predetermined by the teacher, and it was more often than not dry and boring, and usually corresponded to what time of year it was- for example, during Thanksgiving the subject would always be ‘What are you thankful for?’ to which I’d respond snarkily with ‘oxygen, gravity, and similes.’ Of course, Ms. Macbeth lost her shit over the last one. She loved similes.
But even if I could have some fun with sarcasm when it came to journaling, it was nearly impossible to put any emotion into it. Even when we were supposed to write about what was troubling us. It’s just that you can’t write when someone tells you to, like you can with math. You just can’t. You wrote a few choppy sentences about how you were nervous about presenting your science project and then you were done. Even if your teacher didn’t dare peek at what you wrote, it still felt wrong and too exposed to write about your problems in a school-issued notebook.
Looking down at the page, I saw that I had subconsciously filled half the lines up with random scribbles, a sort of thing I do when I’m looking for inspiration. Seeing as I’d nearly obscured whatever bland phrase I’d written down a few minutes ago, I wouldn’t be finding any any time soon. Wherever my muses went, they took a long vacation to somewhere far, far away. Like Gerard’s house.
I bit down hard on my lip and tried to focus on Ms. Macbeth, who was now trying, once again, to get everyone excited about similes.
During world history, I decided that my gods of inspiration had packed it up and moved to southeastern China.
I felt around in the bottom of my school bag for the trio of plastic Ziploc bags that made up my lunch, pulling out a bag of almonds, dry crackers and a half cheese sandwich after about a minute of searching. I always had a pathetic lunch. Luckily for me, Ramya and Natasha were rather generous with their own, giving me an apple or a bag of fruit snacks to help sate my appetite. Like today, for example, Natasha had already tossed me a Cosmic Brownie on her way to the cafeteria. I put that in the cheap plastic bag along with the rest of my lunch and followed her and the other noisy students into the large, cavernous room filled with circular yellow tables, most of which were already filled. Natasha and I made our way to one over in the far corner, partially obscured by shadows, where our other friend, Ramya, sat.
Ramya was a junior, whom we’d met on the first day of school after a group of blond sophomore girls had- quite rudely- asked if we were cutters. Ramya intervened with a few choice words and after that, helped us find our classes. Since then, we’ve both sort of latched onto her and she took us under her wing, and, though we were to years to her junior, treated us like we were her actual friends. In honor of Loki, she also always wore something black like a bracelet or a jacket and I was supposed to do the same too but since I had hardly any clothes they said my hair would do. Before us, she always sat alone, because who wanted to sit with a five foot eleven Indian girl with blue and blonde streaks in her hair and facial piercings who always wore vandalised pop star t shirts and tartan skinny jeans? She was a definitive loner.
But now she waved us over to the table with enthusiasm, pulling out the yellow plastic chairs next to her. We sat down at our respective places and pulled out our lunches, my own looking measly and pathetic compared to Natasha’s plethora of junk food and Ramya’s extensive sushi tray. Ramya, looking at my small lunch, held out a few California rolls to me.
“Want some?” she asked through a full mouth.
I shook my head. I didn’t like fish.
A pang suddenly shot through me. Mikey does. I remembered his incessant begging at the dinner table, a tantrum that was thrown nearly every night- “Can we get sushi instead?”
Natasha decided to start a conversation at the most inopportune of times.
“So, A.” she said. “You promised you’d tell us about your stay at Father Way’s house.”
At this, Ramya spluttered and laughed. “F-F-Father Way!” she shrieked, sending a number of gazes our way. “Sorry. Uhm. Continue.”
“Well...” I trailed off, not knowing where to start. “I kind of actually ran away from home, and ended up at his house. And he just... took care of me, I guess.” I didn’t want to go into any more detail, but the pressing curiosity on Natasha and Ramya’s faces told me I was to do otherwise. “Mikey and Alicia, his younger brother and sister-in-law, stayed with us too. It was... it was cool.”
“Did he... you know?” Natasha made vague, odd motions with her hands, trying to make her point.
“Did he bonk you?” Ramya asked tactlessly.
“Um.” I hesitated. Should I lie? Whether it was with someone legal or not, losing your virginity at my age instantly pegged you as a slut. Also, word of Gerard’s activities with me could reach the police if I told anyone. “No. He didn’t. That was a lie.” I said through my teeth.
“Oh. Okay.” Natasha said. “‘Cause if he did, you could press charges, or-”
“I wouldn’t do that even if he did.” I interrupted. “It’s hard to explain, but he’s really been through a lot, and he’s actually a good person.”
My two friends looked at me blankly as I chewed on my brownie.
“Well.” Ramya said. “That wasn’t necessarily what I was expecting.”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say? I’m just full of surprises today.”
Evidently, so was the rest of the world. When I went back to my locker to get my supplies for science and history, the amount of stares and whispering has multiplied by what seems like one thousand and I get a horrible shock when I open my locker and the word ‘WHORE’ is scrawled in huge black letters across the inside of the door.
Face burning some shade of red, I cover the offensive word with my hand and gather up my things and go to class.
In science, it’s halfway through note taking that I feel something lodge itself in the back of my braid. I feel across my head until I encounter a wadded up piece of paper and pull it out and toss it onto the floor, not bothering to see what’s written on the inside. Another one is shot, this time landing squarely in the middle of my desk, and I risk a look, biting down on my lip hard to keep from crying as I read it. ‘Suck dick, emo cunt’.
In history, it’s a little better, because I have Natasha with me to poke fun at the overblown passages in the textbook and send death glares at those who seemed intent on tormenting me. My feet tapped incessantly on the floor, a single mantra floating through my head- One more class, A. Just one more and you’re done for the day. I smile at how it rhymes and turn it into a sort of song, silently singing it throughout the entire period. I’m so wrapped up in it that I nearly forget to pick up my homework and Natasha has to go back and get my supplies because I’ve left them behind, too. Creative writing comes as a relief, because I get Ms. Macbeth again and no one in the class is interested in making me miserable. But I’m still constantly glancing up at the clock, counting down the seconds until the day is over. I didn’t want to admit it, but the insults had shaken me greatly, and I knew that they would only get worse with time.
When the bell rings, I gather up my things and shoot out into the hall, rushing towards the street as I intend walking home on foot. But someone grabs my arms and pulls me back behind the school before I can, and I squeak and shield myself with my arms, thinking What the hell?! My assailant attempts to pry my hands away from my face, and when they do I instantly stop struggling.
“Frank?”
::
Lyrics from Blinding by Florence + the Machine. "Here":http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6bvi49d0X1qkej80o1_500.png is a picture of a suspicious flashlight. Watch out.
EDIT 7/21/12: here is a snippet of the next chapter, because I feel bad that I'm not updating fast enough.
The car sputtered to a stop by the curb and I climbed out, but before I had set foot on the tarmac Frank stopped me with his hand on my shoulder.
“Atropine,” he said quietly, uncharacteristically serious. “I know what your home life is like, and... I know it’s hard. But hold on. You’ll pull through.”
He bit his lip and cast his eyes downward, trying to find something else to say.
“Give ‘em hell, kid.” he said, giving my shoulder a final pat before slamming the door shut and driving off.
Sign up to rate and review this story