Chapter Six: Can you not.
You've got to be kidding me.
I stare back at myself in the mirror completely disgusted.
My wet hair hangs loosely over my shoulders, and I have huge blue bags under my eyes from sleep deprivation, but that's not why I'm internally groaning.
I'm groaning because of the huge, swollen, bright red zit occupying the middle of my forehead.
I lean in closer to the mirror and wrinkle my forehead a little. I will the inflamed piece of skin to go away, but when pain only continues to erupt from the skin around it, I slump back down onto my heels. I share one last defeated look with myself in the mirror before continuing to get ready for school.
I know acquiring a zit isn't the end of the world. Some people have it worse, some people have severe acne, even on other body parts aside from their face, but when you have a big whopping pimple on the middle of your forehead, self-pity is inevitable when going out in public.
Once I'm done with my morning routine, I walk back down the hall to my room and shrug on a red and white plaid shirt. The shirt happens to be something Wren left behind, and I use the thought as a bode of confidence as I button it up.
After grabbing my messenger bag, I lightly tread downstairs because I don't want to wake my mom up with my obnoxious clopping, but as soon as I step into the kitchen I see the action was futile. My mom is already awake and typing away on her laptop with a steaming mug of coffee beside her.
"Good morning, munchkin," she murmurs as she reaches for her favorite yellow mug.
"Good morning," I chirp, sounding more awake than I feel, as I pick up the peanut butter sandwich she left for me on the table. I shove the sandwich in a brown paper bag along with a granola bar. "Dad left already?" I ask as I pop a frozen waffle into the toaster.
"Yeah, he had a..." She trails off and brings a hand up to stifle her yawn. "Sorry, um"—she shakes her head to shake away her glassy eyes— "early conference meeting." She rubs her eyes for a second before repositioning her hands on the keyboard.
I watch her for a few seconds longer before leaning my side against the countertop. "Let me guess, you had a dream?"
A smile breaks out across her lips as her fingers freeze in the middle of typing her sentence. "Something like that."
The toaster pops beside me, and my mom chuckles at the fact that I jump back. My eyes find the clock above the stove, and I immediately rip both hot waffles out of the toaster when I see I only have ten minutes before I have to catch the bus.
I stuff the hot waffles into my face, pant when my mouth can't handle the heat, and almost choke when I take too big of a bite, but luckily the world saves me from wasting my time on such a task. Instead, the world allows me to throw on my converse, brush my teeth, and put on deodorant in record time. I only stop short when I catch another glimpse of the big zit occupying the middle of my forehead.
I pick up my hair brush and quickly run it through my now almost dry hair, once again, trying to use the long strands to hide my imperfections. When the zit doesn't magically disappear like I want it to, I hastily spray myself with perfume before leaving the bathroom, refusing to let the ugly blemish ruin my day.
I run back into the kitchen, grab my phone out of the charger, swipe my bag off the kitchen chair, and kiss my mom on the cheek, before heading towards the door as she bids me goodbye, and wishes me to have a good day.
The brisk fall morning air wraps around me as I step outside. I greedily breathe it in, but the huff of a bus coming off its break snaps me out of the trance, and I'm back to speed walking towards the end of my street. Its times like these that I really miss last year when Wren was a senior and had the privilege of driving to school.
****
My shoes squeak against the linoleum floors of the school hallway as morning conversations flitter past my ears. My nose wrinkles a little when I catch a whiff of some bodily odor, but it quickly dissipates as I continue moving forward. I want to be relieved when I finally reach the hallway where my locker is located, but instead my flustered state is only promoted when I see that a group of guys in my grade happen to be congregated right in front my locker.
Although my steps faltered the second I realized my predicament, I still reach the confrontation faster than I wanted. I'm standing on the outskirts of a teenage boy circle, and my mouth opens just as one of them finally notices my presence.
"Sorry, I have to— " I croak out the words before clearing my throat, and just pointing towards my locker.
Since this has been a frequent occurrence these last few weeks, the group automatically shifts a few centimeters down. Their conversation never falters while I try to shake away the awkwardness burning in the pit of my stomach. I love how they are the one's technically in the wrong, and yet I'm the one that feels awkward.
When I open my locker, I'm reminded of my zit, but my zit reminds me of my near death by waffles experience, and suddenly I'm silently laughing at myself, and all the mild chaos I've experienced this morning flutters away.
As I pick up my lock once more, I hear the faint sound of something bouncing against the hallway. I glance down only to watch as a small silver bead rolls its way towards me and knocks into the side of my shoe. My eyebrows furrow in confusion, and I immediately throw my confusion towards the group of guys beside me. Some of them are now sitting lazily against the lockers while others remained standing, but what makes my stomach dip again is the fact that all of them seem to be returning my gaze. I quickly cast my gaze back down to the random bead on the floor, but since it hit my shoe, due to physics and all, it was sent back in the direction it came from.
I slam my locker door closed a little harder than I intended, so I play it off with a quick shrug directed at no one in particular before turning to head in the other direction.
****
"Ladies and gentlemen your teacher said these labs are due tomorrow! And if you don't finish them then you must complete them for homework!"
I wince, and hunch further over the papers laying on the table in front of me. Our biology teacher is absent, and she left us two full lab packets to complete, but my wince isn't because of the work. The work is totally doable. I'm more worried about our substitute teacher who seems to have lost her inside voice.
"Excuse me, gentlemen"—her voice cracks around the word and harshly bounces off the walls—"Would you please keep your voices down?"
The boys she's addressing only childishly snicker in response.
"She's giving me an earache," Imogen complains as she rubs the front of her ears.
Since Imogen's assigned seat happens to be in the table in front of mine, the sight of a substitute prompted her to turn her chair around and work with me instead of the person she shares a table with.
"An earache?" I question because I know the substitute's voice is going straight past my ears and penetrating directly into my brain.
"Yes, an earache because it's a really loud sound." Imogen emphasizes the last few words just as our substitute seems to be doing, and I will myself not to smile at the thought. "I'm serious, Max." She catches onto my amused expression. "I think I might go home with some serious ear damage."
"More like missing brain cells," I mumble before looking back down at my paper. I scribble in an answer to the first question before I hear a pencil drop by my seat.
"Hey, Max!"
I lock eyes with the golden brown skinned girl in front of me.
"Can you get my pencil?!"
I feel a few gazes slide over to us, but another smile tugs at my lips.
"It's right under your desk! I just can't reach it!" Imogen stretches her arm out for emphasis before her bracelets clatter as she lays her arms back onto the table.
I bend over and grab the mechanical pencil she purposely dropped under my seat.
"Thank you so much!" Imogen feigns enthusiasm as I place the pencil into her hand.
I only shake my head at her antics while a few kids chuckle around us. I look down at my paper and attempt to read the next question, but my lips continue to drift upwards.
"Max!"
A full-blown smile graces my lips as I glance up again.
"Yes?" I decide to play along.
Now her purple lined braces are showing. "Do you have the answer to number four!"
"No." I emphasize the word, but quickly clamp my lips shut when I catch sight of a plum colored skirt.
I slowly move my eyes up only to find the substitute standing beside our table with a frown etched across her face. I quickly avert my eyes before she can catch my gaze.
"Excuse me girls!"
I quickly pull my lips in, in attempt to hide my smile, as Imogen sits back and hides hers behind her hand.
"Can you please lower your voices and focus on your work!" The substitute makes sure she accurately pronounces the K, and she waits for Imogen and I to nod before moving away.
Imogen continues to stare back at me. Her brown eyes as wide as the black frames of her glasses. I mimic the expression.
"Yo! Help a brother out!"
Imogen and I slowly turn our heads to the right and see two boys sporting their red football jerseys sitting at the other end of the table beside ours. I not only know that the one who shouted is named Graham, but also that he's been growing out his dread locks since freshman year.
"Let's go!" Graham slams his hazelnut colored fist against the table when Ryan Cassidy reluctantly slides his paper towards him.
"Boys!" the substitute yells.
As if on cue both boys turn to look at Imogen and I. Now all four of us are sharing wide eyes. I, specifically, am now sharing wide eyes with the bright blue-eyed boy before a sputtering breath escapes my lips. That's all it takes for all four of us to burst into laughter.
We receive a few accusing looks from our classmates, but that doesn't take the smile from my face, and it doesn't stop me from throwing my head back again at the sight of Imogen wiping away happy tears.
I drop my head down into the crook of my arm a few seconds later and allow it to capture the rest of my giggles. I lean my chin on my arm when I finally regain my breath and glance back at the substitute who now happens to be focused on the fat textbook in her hands.
Don't get me wrong. As much fun as it is to make fun of crazy substitute teachers, or any teacher for that matter, I do also feel bad because, at the end of the day, they are people. Teaching is only their job, and we tend to forget they do have a life outside of it. They deserve some credit considering the amount of crap we put them through. Dealing with whiny teenagers requires a lot of patience, patience I'll probably never have.
I blink a few times, returning to reality, and sit back up in my seat. I reach a hand up towards my face, but immediately clench my fingers into a fist and drop my hand back into my lap.
It seems not only is having a zit very irritating, but it requires an all day internal battle. The zit's battle cry being itch me, pick me, make me a permanent scar! And it's so tempting to do just that, but you must resist.
I furrow my brows having a feeling that the red zit has now become a white head, and it'd be so easy to throw up the white flag and surrender. Pick the gross piece of skin off and be done with the whole thing. But a white head is no peace offering. It's a hand grenade because if the zit is dry enough then behind that small white piece of skin could be nothing, but if it's not, then there's a possibility of bloodshed. Then it's game over, and all you were fighting for would be worthless in the end.
I shake my head and readjust my grip on my pencil. I can't believe I'm personifying the zit on my forehead. Ew, that's not weird at all.