Today's the last day of my in-school suspension, and for some reason, I'm dreading going back to my regular schedule.
I've grown oddly attached to Ms. White's classroom. She's too nice of a teacher to make this little room feel like a punishment, so if I'm being honest, this room feels more like a reward.
Ms. White is now my favorite teacher though she's not even one of my actual teachers, which I find a little bit concerning.
Maybe I'd enjoy school more if all my teachers didn't suck. No offense to my teachers.
"Hey, Ms. White?"
"Yes?" She looks up at me, a soft smile on her face.
"Do you think they'd let me be on the boy's team? You know, for basketball?"
"Hm," she hums. "Well, maybe you could ask the coach? It sounds like maybe you could make the team if you can't get back on the girl's team."
I write a ninety and a present symbol on one of the papers Ms. White has me grading, putting it in a pile beside my textbook.
Never had I ever thought about how difficult it must be to grade a high schooler's test.
If there aren't dicks drawn all over the page, there are rips and holes in the paper or impossibly illegible handwriting. To say respect for teachers has skyrocketed would be an understatement.
"I don't understand how they could kick me off of the team for aggression," I declare, grabbing another test to grade. "It's basketball, you know? And a sport, in general. There's bound to be aggression in some form, especially when so many players use the sport as an outlet or whatever."
"Did you ever hurt anybody?" she asks, frowning at me. I promptly shake my head at her, flailing my hands before myself at the accusation.
"No, of course not." I deny rather quickly. "But there have been incidents, which is rather inevitable if you ask me."
"Well, yeah," she shrugs in agreement.
I sigh, scratching the back of my neck as I continue through the stack of papers.
There's no way they'd let me on the boy's team. What if being too aggressive for the girls doesn't mean being aggressive enough for the boys? Those guys are absolute giants, they could stomp on me if they really wanted to.
Plus, with those many guys around... and if the coach starts to perve over me... no way. I don't even want to think about it. All the things that could happen while spending so much time with all those guys.
Just sexual comments would be too much for me; I'd go ballistic if granted the chance.
But then again, Michael's friends used to be terribly inappropriate toward me, and I managed to handle it. Though, I'm not so sure if I'm willing to go through all that again.
Either way, it wouldn't matter, would it? There's no way they'd let me on the boy's team. First off, I'm far too short for all those fucking titans, and second, the last encounter with the boy's coach I had, had me contemplating my place in this world as a female.
I'm in no mood to be degraded just because I have a vagina for a freaking sport.
Maybe I could go for volleyball.
Actually, the shorts always get at least half of the girls catcalled. I'm not sure I want to be one of those girls.
"Ms. White? Do boys ever stop being... boys?"
She chuckles. "What do ya' mean?"
"Like, do they ever stop acting with their... weenie? And like, use the brain they've been given."
The sweet woman laughs again, settling her glasses on the top of her head.
"Well," she starts. "It depends, darlin'. Sometimes, those boys, if their mama's raised them right, they get out of their-- excuse my language-- asshole phase." I laugh at her choice of words. "But," she continues. "Other times, they just... they stay actin' like little boys. And that ain't your fault, got it?"
I nod, tucking a braid behind my ear.
"Havin' boy troubles?"
"Not really. I think that I just get scared."
"Of?"
"The boy's acting with their weenies," I laugh. "I don't know. It's just that, sometimes I worry that one of these days, they won't get what 'stop' or 'no' means."
"Darlin', has somebody ever hurt you like tha-" she begins, a worried look on her face.
"No," I lie. "I'm talking about things like when they say gross stuff or make weird noises. And do things that make you uncomfy just in general."
"Oh, all right," she clears her throat.
I smile, "But thank you for checking up about that. A lot of people would've thought about it but not said anything, so thanks. I'm glad to know that if that ever happened--" again. "--you'd be there for me."
She smiles back at me, nodding and looking back down to the pile of papers in front of her. She looks embarrassed for asking. But I don't think she realizes how much that actually means to me.
|𝔖|
Mom's still refusing to talk to me.
I've "upgraded" from death glares to no kind of looking at me at all. It sucks, to say the least.
Lately, when I feel anxious, I just blast music and lock myself in my room. Mom used to help a lot with my moments but now I'm stuck doing things on my own.
It's really got me thinking about how things'll go when I leave for college. If I leave for college.
How am I going to get through all my classes and just my life in general when I can barely handle a bad day? In con-fucking-clusion, I'm terrified.
I search through the cabinets for a cup after putting away the clean dishes. If there's something I'm going to miss when we get a new place, it's the dishwasher the McKenna's have. I never grew up with a dishwasher, and I'm kind of glad I didn't. If I had, I wouldn't enjoy this as much.
Doing dishes might not be all that bad if all I have to do is load them into the dishwasher.
After pouring water into a clean glass, I place it on the table next to my plate. May made me a quesadilla. She said that she felt bad that I hadn't had one before and that the fact I hadn't had one before was just proof of my mom's lack of skill in the cooking department. Inside joke, I guess.
I finish the quesadilla and my water faster than I'd anticipated.
Moving my cup and plate over to lean against the table, I scroll through Instagram. Pictures of Sky and Kamden have been becoming the only thing I've been able to focus on whenever I look through my home page.
I huff, pressing the three dots to the right of her username on the post to unfollow her.
It frustrates me how much she's shoving it in everybody's face. Like, we get it, Skylar, you got a hot guy, now move on.
Cracking my knuckles, I roll my shoulders backward and adjust my elbows against the table. My sudden movements cause the glass plate and cup to fall off of the table, shattering to the left of my chair.
I draw in a breath, screwing my eyes shut as the sound of slow, sarcastic clapping finds its way to my suddenly sound-sensitive ears. Why's the clock suddenly so loud?
My breathing comes faster and faster as I try to calm myself down. I clear my throat and swallow just to realize that I can't breathe. My breaths continue to fail me as I place my hand over my heart.
Calm down. It's just a plate and cup, they're replaceable. It's not a big deal.
Involuntary tears roll down my cheeks as I continue to try to inhale.
I've unintentionally backed myself up against the cabinets I'd just looked through a few minutes ago.
Arms wrap around me cautiously and my head is pushed into the crook of their neck. For a moment, I think it's my mom but when the somewhat familiar scented cologne fills my nose, and their ridiculous height register in my mind, I know I'm wrong.
My arms wrap around his waist tightly as I hold onto him like my life is in his hands. He rubs his thumb over the small of my back, drawing patterns and moving to sit us down on the chair I'd just been sat in.
He pulls me into his lap, still holding my head against his shoulder with one of his large hands. His scent and embrace seem to calm me because sooner than I anticipated, my breathing begins to slow.
I look up at him as I slide off of his lap.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gentle and cautious. I nod, sniffling and running my thumbs under my eyes to rid of the wetness. "What made you... you know."
The shattering, the ruining of the expensive glass dishes, the whole thing. And the clapping. The clapping is really what did it, I think.
But maybe it's also that I didn't grow up with glass plates or cups. I grew up with flimsy plastic plates and small foam cups because we couldn't afford decent dishes. There was never a time that I had to worry about being careful with those cheap, bendable plates. I wasn't thinking clearly.
"I don't know," I concede after a long silence. The clapping from moments ago registers in my mind and I look up to find my mom and Frank watching Kamden and me.
She's right there and she didn't do anything?
The thought just brings more tears to my eyes. All I did was say one thing to her fucking douchebag husband, and all of a sudden she's not looking at me or helping me calm down after...
"Really?" I croak, crossing my arms over my chest. "Are you so entirely stubborn that you can't even help me when I need you?"
Mom blinks at me, raising an eyebrow at me like she's daring me to continue. I know better than to disrespect her further. So instead, her dirtbag husband will be my target.
I shove Frank in the chest, tears pooling in my eyes all over again from just the brief contact.
"You've got her wrapped around your little finger now, but just you wait. She's going to have your fucking head when she finds out what you did to me," I seethe, shoving him again, harder this time.
I can feel everybody's eyes on me but ignore the holes being burnt through me, running up the stairs like there's a miracle waiting for me.
Maybe there is. Maybe the miracle of courage or confidence is waiting for me in my bedroom.
Only God truly knows how much I crave that courage to rub myself clean of that monster and to be free from the fear he's held to my throat since I was twelve.