fire and frost | short stories

ii. Confrontations

C O N F R O N T A T I O N S

They always picked on her. And I could see why.

Her hair was frizzy, like an overgrown bush placed on her head. Her glasses were so thick that I was surprised when she avoided the volleyball from hitting her smack in the face with her glasses off. Her nails were always bitten and short, and the skin on the side was always bleeding.

Usually, when she came to class, she had the books wrapped against her chest and headphones in her ears. They'd call out to her from the back, but her lips formed a thin, firm line, and she faced the front, never once looking back.

But I was always sure that she could hear them.

Throughout class, she raised her hand, asked the right questions, got the right smiles from the teacher. The other girls giggled behind their hands, mocking her obsequious behavior. But she didn't care. She had enough credits to graduate early, so she was leaving.

While most people didn't bother with her, there was this boy she knew who was always watching her.

And she was pretty sure that he was the one responsible for the disappearance and reappearance of her private fictitious books in her locker. When she passed him in class or in the narrow hallways, he would catch her eye. They would widen, and he would be looking away before she could react. In class, she knew he was reading over her shoulders, tracing her doodles with his great, green eyes or else boring great, big holes into the back of her head.

She knew she didn't have to, but I saw her bring new books, ones she has already read at home, to her locker and leave it there to disappear.

But when they called out to her from the back, when they threw pencil sharpenings on her hair, when they stuck out their feet to make her trip, he didn't do anything. She knew he was small, he felt insecure, but also that he was just a part of the background.

And why would he help her anyway? Who was he to her?

Nobody of any importance.

Just like every other person here. Why she even bothered with keeping up with his expectations, she didn't know. It had been going on ever since freshman year, and she hadn't questioned it once. It was a habit by then.

When I used to see her roam the hallways, fiddle with her food alone in the cafeteria, or rush towards the bathroom in tears, I felt distant. I felt detached, like nothing I could do would really help her. I felt like reaching out a hand to help her, to hold her up, would be useless. I felt like while she was in high school, caged within its walls, I could not communicate with her.

At home, I had seen her. She turned into another person, one filled with energy and drive and color. Her speakers were always blasting her favorites: Lana Del Rey, Misty Miller, Dan Croll. Her bed would be unmade, her hair would be flying around her face, her books would be scattered across her desk, and her wardrobe would be turned over. She jumped around the room, her hands in the air, her eyes closed, and her lips mouthing the words of the song.

And this is what makes us girls,

We all look for heaven, and we put our love first.

Don't cry about it, don't cry about it.

She was the center of her parents' world. They adored her, loved her, gave her everything necessary, and were proud of her. She talked with them, laughed with them, and joked with them like they are her friends. Ones she couldn't make in school.

Then one day, things changed.

I wasn't aware of what was going to happen, and neither was she.