The Queerest [🗸]

concealer 'n bruises

Hobbling over to the counter, I lean against it, her dark eyes flickering over to mine with concern.

"The usual," I chirp. "Assholes tag-teamed me. After school." My lips form a tight grin. "So, no one could really see." A pause as I run my hands through brown waves. "S'alright. They got bored and shit, so."

"What the fuck?" she asks, eyebrows knitting together. "Are you not going to tell anyone?"

"Look, Gianna," shaking my head, I accept the peppermint she tosses my way, slip it into my lips and let myself shrug. "Principal hates me enough as is. Kind of want to stay under his radar. He'd find a way to blame me for it, anyway."

"Fuck that," Gianna says, shaking her head. Once, twice. "Hate this fucking town. What a fucking shithole."

"I'll be out of here in seven months, alright?" I finally say, a half-grin tugging at my lips. "They were offended by my shirt." My hands wave over the floral patterns. "And my makeup," my hands wave over my face. "It's cool. Won't stop wearing it."

Gianna's lips pull downwards. "You could send me their locations." A pause. "For research purposes—"

"Funny." I chirp. "But, seeing as I don't want you in jail—"

Gianna exhales a laugh. "I hear it's nice there this time of year." Her lips purse, and I exhale a semi-amused laugh.

"Sure," I say, my head shaking as my lips quirk upwards. "Anyway, I'm using the bathroom here, as per usual. Stay out of jail for me, would you?"

"Bet the food there's better than your cafeteria food!" Gianna calls after me as I roll my eyes, making my way down the shop and opening the door of the bathroom.

"Can't disagree with that!" I call out, sarcasm lacing my voice as the door shuts behind me. It clicks shut. 

My smile falls.

My arms, face, chest. Everything is fucking throbbing like hell.

The sink is white, glinting under the lighting. Letting one shoulder fall, I allow my backpack to fall to the marble tiles, hands slightly trembling as I let the water from the tap dampen my hands. I cup them, using the water to rinse my face.

My breathing gradually slows.

Breathe in, breathe out.

My lungs don't want to work, but gradually, they do. In and out, in and out.

I rinse my face, baby blue nails glinting underneath the lighting. My chest rises before it falls. Rises and falls, rises and falls.

Back to a semi-regular rhythm. There we go.

My dampened face meets its reflection. Jutting chin, waves of brown hair. Skin a shade of brown, the Italian and Caribbean at a tug of war. Short. Skinny as fuck. Nearly unhealthily so. Magro, my mom always says. 

My shirt is flowy, flowery, jeans pulled up to my waist. Pisses people off. Because it screams fuck gender roles and I wouldn't have it any other way. 

There's a broken expression in my reflection's face, and it almost doesn't want to go. But, I will fucking force it to. So, I rinse my face once more, wet napkins pressed against my skin. Then, I inhale, and do it all over again.

The concealer, strategically done to cover the bruises. The eyeliner that curves around the shape of my eyes. Art on my face. They hate me for it, but fuck do I love me for it.

My makeup's redone, hair tousled through my hands. And then, I'm done. Lifting my backpack up from the floor, I toss it over my shoulders. I put on a smile, because I deserve it, and then, I make my way out of the only bathroom that feels safe as I wave at Gianna whose at the counter.