Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I have never wished so hard that I could disappear. If a hole opened up in the floor, I would step into it and let it consume me, and I would be happy to do it. Why me? Why does this have to happen? And why do they all have to be watching and snickering?
My eyes dart around, looking for a way out of this. But instead of finding salvation, all I find is the tower of attitude who stared me down in class yesterday.
And when our eyes lock, a ripple of hair-raising energy passes between us. It must be the intensity in his gaze. Like he sees through me. That would usually unnerve me, being studied by a stranger who obviously hates me, but all I feel is a deep warmth blooming in my core.
Until two and two finally add up and I recognize the satisfaction in his smirk. Almost like he expected this to happen but definitely like he’s at least glad it did. He doesn’t just think it’s funny. He’s happy about it.
The two guys sitting with him look uncomfortable, but not him. He props his elbows on the table, hands folded under his chin, and silently takes in every moment while wearing that pleased smirk. The only sympathetic person at his table is the girl sitting between the twins, who actually almost looks like she could cry.
Still, even she doesn’t try to help. Nobody does but the janitor, who comes over with one of those buckets on wheels. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs when I try to mumble my way through an apology. “These things happen. Why don’t you go clean yourself up?”
Finally, a little kindness. It’s enough to snap me out of the layers of shock that have built up around me and made me numb. It’s a survival mechanism, probably. My way of defending myself.
With the little bit of dignity I have left, I pick up my backpack—it’s pretty much clean, by some miracle—and cross the cafeteria to go to the closest bathroom. Thank God, nobody follows me in. As soon as the door is closed, I look down at myself, and tears fill my eyes. My body hurts all over, including patches of my chest and stomach where the hot oatmeal soaked through my t-shirt.
What do I do now? Gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, I force myself through a few deep breaths which I release slowly. I know every minute I spend in here is another minute I risk getting bullied again, but I can’t go back out there. Not yet.
Instead, I grab handfuls of paper towels from the dispenser and run them under the faucet before trying to clean myself up. It’s depressingly useless. I have two classes today—am I supposed to sit through them with dried-up goop all over me?
What’s the alternative? Going home? Tucking my tail between my legs and running like a coward? That’s the same as letting them win. I can’t do it.
That doesn’t mean I’m in any hurry to leave the bathroom. It’s only when I have absolutely no choice, with five minutes left before my next class, that I force myself through slinging the backpack over one shoulder and leveling a hard, unblinking look at myself in the mirror. I can do this. I have to do this.
I’m so tired of everything I have to do. I have to get out of bed in the morning. I have to go through the motions of being a normal person. I have to leave the house, look people in the eye, raise my voice above a whisper when I talk to them. I have to pretend the massive hole in my heart doesn’t exist. That I’m not broken.
And that every time a car rolls by just a little slower than it seems like they should, I’m not bracing myself for the sound of gunshots.
Drive-by shootings aren’t exactly an everyday thing around here, not even on the poorer side of town where I’ve lived all my life. But for the hundredth time in the past year, I can’t help wondering why the shooter chose my brother over everybody else on the sidewalk that night. Was it random?
If it was, who’s to say the same thing couldn’t happen to me?
Of course, there are other ways to be hurt while a person is only trying to go along with their normal life. It seems like today is my day for learning that firsthand. The stares and snickers I get when I walk into my Calculus class almost make me wish somebody would drive by and deliver a bullet with my name on it. It would have to be better than this. Fighting to hold my head up, knowing I’m hated or at least resented, all because I exist in a world I don’t belong in.