At night I dream. There's a gray steeped stairs and I am climbing up, up, up and at every turn the steps become steeper and steeper. Where am I running to? I have no idea. But I still kep going, my heart pumping in my chest and there is a door and when I push it open there are words. And there's a scream. I am falling, falling ,falling the screaming increases. It's in my body. It's vibrating off me and below the stocks f demons stand in unmarked black mass to rip into me.
Mom drives me to school but I tell her to drop a block ahead in front of a candy store. "It's better if I walk from here."
Mom frowns at me but still kills the engine turning to me. "Your school's still five minutes away."
"I know," I say opening the car door on my side. "Walking is anonymous. At school everybody recognizes your car." Cars are your trademark. You are rich you will have nice little Porsche or whatever other fancy cars. You are mid to no-one you'll either have a beat up Honda or a pickup Truck or maybe your mom's girly car. (it's usually all red and yellow and pink)
I bought a new black hoodie yesterday, just for the purpose of blending in. I am drawing inspiration from ninja if only I could learn some of their ninja skills, like using a smoke bomb for distraction, but that will only end up with me getting suspended. And more attention.
"Maybe I could change my car too," mom says sarcastically. I wave at her, putting the hoodie over my head and begin to walk away, looking behind me to see if mom is trying to follow me. She switches the indicator but stays put watching me disappear around a corner.
It's a bit less foggy today. The sun gives a sleepy yawn and shines mellow and an occasional car passes by. They are all wearing winter chains. Mom has not put on the chains yet, she probably forgot again. The only thing she does not forget is me, my homework, my medical appointments. My mom lives, breathes me now. She has even stopped teaching dance to the students, the one thing she used to love. I heave out a sigh and then pull out my phone to send a text to mom.
Me: Pick up the winter chains from the garage on the way home. Tell them to put them on
Then on second thought I send her a smiley ( Sunny side up. It's easier to do without actually smiling. Smiling drains all your inner energy so I try not to smile very often.
My face is freezing by the time I get to school but thankfully my job is done. Nobody has noticed me. They are floating in their own world. And they seem to have forgotten about the video. Now the sophomore girls who pass me by are talking and giggling about the breakup of Brad Hampton and Trisha Beckley and how one of their friends, I don't catch her name but I think she' called Honeymoon, has a chance with Brad. Cute Brad, they say.
Awesome Novahk McAllister. Pretty Trisha Beckley.
Walking disaster. Kris Covalho.
I had taken all my book with me for the weekend, so I don't even have to stop at the locker to get my Calc book. Our school is divided into three section, the administrative where the lockers homerooms, and cafeteria are. On the left wing are where all the Science classes are held and the right wing where all the Arts class are.
As I walk out of the homeroom, I find myself instinctively looking for the curly mess of hair and tall boy with a wide smile. He's bound to be where the crowd is, they usually follow him but I can't see him anywhere. I feel almost disappointed and then chastise myself for feeling that way.
In Calc class Mr Hudgens teaches us to differentiate an integral. "You'll get this in physics. So pay attention to the class," he says but he might as well as be talking to bricks.
I take notes which is the only thing I am good at without being generally lousy
"All the laws of motions, equations in straight line, projectile we know them. But to derive them integral is really important." Everything is related, physics, mathematics, biology. And if the subjects are related, so are we, literally living the phenomenon in our everyday life as we read in the Science books. There's the dispersion right there as the ray of sun, hits the glass facing east and creates a rainbow on it. There's a thin string joining all of us, as the God plays the ultimate puppet show. He's a really creative reality show executive cum scriptwriter. If my life didn't suck so much I might even applaud him.
" And also if you are taking the AP exam Math level II." At this information some of the people sit up with their back straight and stat scribbling on their notebooks and I find myself wondering what will happen to me after one and a half years.
Will I be going off to college? I can't imagine myself there. My parents waving to me as I take small footsteps into the outside world, living in a dorm, living with stranger, sharing a room, the prospect is too much for me.
No college for me. Definitely no college for me. But when Mr Hudgens asks for the homework I turn it in
I am always late for Chemistry. I have to practically run all the way from the end of the right wing, where my World History class is to the very end of the Left wing where the chemistry classroom. It's widest room in the whole school with about three large glass windows floor to length in the north and the lab arranged neatly at the back of the class where we sit and study theory before moving on to practicals.
Mondays are practical days. I am out of breath when I do reach class, hitching my heavy backpack over my shoulder. On second thought I should have dumped half my books at the locker.
"Come in. Come in Covalho." Our chemistry teacher Miss Haines always calls us by our last name. She has always this far away expression on her face. I think she might be on drugs, she looks high, or atleast the mental picture I have created of high people.
She's not much older than us being a student in her final year at Wesley. I quickly shuffle into the room and try to walk to my regular seat, with as much dignity as I can gather. My seat is at the far corner and it seems miles away from me.
I always sit in the back of class irrespective of the subject. That way the other students can't stare at me they way they do when I am making my way between the rows. One girl whispers to another as I pass. 'She looks like a ghost.'
I feel like a ghost and as if the stares and the whispers aren't enough, my seat is occupied. By Trisha Beckley of all people.
Personally I would do all I can to avoid Trisha or people like her. But I can't bear the thought of walking back to the front of the class, on the second row and sit down next to Brad Hampton. "That's my seat," I say, almost plead to her. She looks up at me and her perfect mascara is not perfect anymore.
For a second I feel a wave of sympathy for her but then I push it aside. The students at Northfield are faceless to me and should remain that way. If I can make myself believe that it is just a single person who torments me with the stares and whispers, it makes my life easier.
"You can take my seat," she says. Her voice is not harsh. It's usually high pitched like a trumpet letting out a wail but now it's almost as quiet as the ocean.
"No. That's my seat. And I am asking you to leave." She stares at me for a beat, her mouth opening and closing. I think she is getting ready to curse me but instead she says. "I can't sit with him." She points at Brad.
"That's not my problem," I say coldly.
"Is there any problem girls?" Miss Haines floats down the room to us. She is wearing this really weird coloured beads on her neck, like a voodoo necklace and her long sleeve dress shirt a bigger than her and hanging out above her hip like she has lost a lot of weight recently
I stiffen put my hands in front of my chest and try not to sway. "That's my seat."
"But I am sitting here now," Trisha says. She is up from the seat and is looking at Miss Haines like she has never seen something more interesting than her and her eyes wobble.
That's bullcrap. And I know Miss Haines is totally buying it when she pats Trisha in the arm and says, "It's okay Trisha." She says her first name which in itself is a very bad sign. "You can sit here. Covalho will take your place."
She takes my arm, like I am a lost child and leads me to the desk where Brad is sitting. "Sit here Covalho," she says firmly. Even teachers know a pariah when they see one and won't take their sides.
I want to cry. I cry so easily. I cry after I watch a particular sob movie (Hatchiko), or seeing homeless children on the road. But mostly I cry when I am angry. When I want to hit at something but instead my brain cells tell me to cry, cry, cry and let it flow out. I am a cynical crier. How ironic is that? Even my body hates me.
And now I want to cry because somebody has taken my seat. That is a new low even for more.
The class starts and Miss Haines is explaining how to identify a basic radical and an acid radical and everybody starts to write it down. I am only half listening. I think if I can only get my hands on that concentrated sulphuric acid, then I can end it right there.
But I have seen Miss Haines, even with air-brain, now keep the acids locked inside a cabinet and brings it out only when needed and hands it over after diluting it. Last year a senior girl Courtney Higgs had tried to commit suicide after she failed her SATs.
And this is just for a moment, one of the downs, in my life as a rollercoaster. I get over it everytime.
Brad Hampton keeps glancing at me and it's pretty annoying. He thinks I am probably plotting against killing him. He chews on his pen and suddenly people around us are getting up. at first I think the class is over.
But they start moving over at the back where the lab equipments are kept. For the practicals. I hate this part.
Usually Miss Haines will make a show about asking everybody if they want to be partners with me. But they have already paired up with each other and I am the last one left. It reminds me of first grade when picking teams I would always be the last one left. Back when I was kind of a nomad ,tagging along with different groups of girls on different days. Until Emily came along and became my first real friend.
"Hampton you are with Covalho." Brad jerks his head up as if not believing what he just heard.
He lets out a strangled sort of noise from his throat. "I can't..." Then he looks at me. He is twice the size of me, what is he so afraid of?
"We can't be partners." He says it like it should be obvious enough to Miss Haimes.
"Why not?" she asks him. By now everybody has stopped what they are doing and staring at me and Brad. His face becomes red and he rakes his hand through his hair like he's thoroughly frustraution.
I clench my knuckles so hard that m ail bites in to my skin. To Miss Hames's credit she does not raise the topic of video, which is why Brad is freaking out so much. Couple that with the fact how much his reputation will take a hit if he partners with me, even it is only for only once class.
Stupid brad Hampton and stupid Trisha Beckeley. Why the fuck did they have to breakup today and then drag me into the mess? If Emily were here she would totally kick their butts. If Emily were here we wouldn't be even having this conversation.
"We can do it alone." I say. I don't have the energy to stand up. There is a pressure in my stomach. It feels heavy and it is sucking all the air out of me.
"I don't need a partner." I do the class alone, everyday. It's not like it's a big deal for me. "Brad Hampton can do it with Trisha Beckeley." Brad looks like I have just slapped him.
"No," Miss Haimes says firmly and her face is coming alive with emotions. She is angry at me, brad or the class in general. I have never seen her look so animated. "You will work together."
Brad doesn't push it. He walks to the equipments, dragging his feet and like a child who has been denied backs back to our seat and stops. "You coming?" He doesn't look at me.
I don't push my luck so I follow him while the tension in the room which has reached a crescendo diffuses, and the others all get back to their work as if they have suddenly been released from a spell of hypnosis. I mentally tick another box. Another rumour to fight through.
Brad lights up the burner while I watch in silence but as he is about the reach for the sample, I say "Let's divide. You do your analysis. I'll do mine. That way we don't have submit our work together." Brad doesn't argue.