Socio

P R E F A C E

     My annoyance only grew as another baby carrot hit my back. I didn't turn around; I knew what would happen. They would quickly face their table, hold in their giggles and act like nothing occurred. It was a daily lunch routine that for some reason, was still knee-slapping hilarious after two school years. I wonder if they still think I don't know who threw it. Of course i did, it was always the same girl:

Samantha Johnson.

We met when I started my first day of first grade at Patricia McAllister Academic Institute for Young Ladies. It wasn't a hatred that grew over time for her. I knew that I despised her the very moment she squeezed jet black acrylic on my white polo shirt in our shared art lessons. She wasn't punished, of course. Unless you call a slap on the wrist and a stern 'don't do it again' a punishment. For some reason, it still broke her little, barely-there, ice cold heart. You could tell by how hard she cried and how positively sincere her apology was, especially when the teacher was watching over her shoulder.

I apologise if my sarcasm isn't clear.

My silent loathing was interrupted when I was being suffocated by strawberry perfume. Not the soft kind that only tickles you're nose, but the kind that punches you in it and leaves it bleeding. She was right behind me.

"So, Chubby-Charlotte, what do you have for lunch today." She insists on over-pronouncing the 'ch' in my name so the nickname has a satisfying ring to it. In my opinion, it just makes her sound illiterate and stupid.

She snatches my lunchbox and starts digging through it.

"Oreos, a brownie, Gushers! Charlotte, you're going to get more fat!" The sweetness in her tone could give you diabetes. Like an adult talking to a naive, little child. I stared at her blankly. I know that I have a fast metabolism so its harder for me to gain weight. I didn't explain this to her, as if she'd care. I doubt she even knew what a metabolism was.

She takes a deep breath as if I'm the one annoying her. Like I'm wasting her time.

"Sweetie," she rests her hand on my shoulder and I was intoxicated from that rotten strawberry smell, "you need to watch you're weight! How about I help you? I'll take this," she gestures to my lunch box that she was already holding in her hands, "and let you enjoy the rest of your lunch." It wasn't much. Just a juice box, a bag of celery, and the tapioca pudding that was already in my hands. She walks away in the direction of the cafeteria door, throwing away my lunch on her way out.

Lunch time was over not long after she left. The teachers on lunch duty were releasing by table and soon, we were all dismissed to our classes. As I walked to Ms. Willard's classroom, I fondled my plastic, pudding spoon in my skirt pocket with a smile on my face that could only be described as diabolical.

•

"Class, what do you call the answer to a division problem?" I liked math. It was easy for me. So easy, that I'm already two lessons ahead of this stupid class, just starting multiplying and dividing decimals. Still, I never raised my hand.
No one likes a smart-Alec.
Sadly, Samantha hasn't gotten this concept yet.
"A quotient, Ms. Willard." God, I hate her so much.
"Very good, Samantha!" Even when she was receiving appraisal it itched my skin. "Class, we are going to do the even questions, one through thirty. You may work in partners but remember to actually work, okay?"
"Yes, Ms. Willard." My classmate's response were unamused but it was, apparently, enough for her. There was slight chatter as the class "worked" in pairs. Typically, I was by myself. I didn't mind, though. It was peaceful.
I had done about five questions when I noticed her hand shoot up from the corner of my eye.
"Ms. Willard," that sickly sweet voice made its appearence again," may I please go to the lady's room?"

Now I know what you're thinking, but I did not kill Samantha Johnson.