For some reason my eyes were particularly drawn to the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. I didn’t know why I stared at them so much, knowing that they would hurt my eyes. Sometimes I would stare at those bright white lights just to see how long I could stare at them before my eyes started to water. But lately, my head automatically turned upward, and I saw the beam of light shine right on my face, enveloping me.
I didn’t want to be here. I really didn’t, because where I was really sucked.
Perhaps I stared at those lights because I didn’t was to see where I really was. Sometimes, I even wished that they would blind me so I wouldn’t have to see all those people. But I could hear them. They were all taking at once, their voices just one big drone that seemed jumbled inside my head. Every now and then, a girl’s laugh would pierce through the incessant hum, but other than that I couldn’t understand anything. I tried to ignore it, but the more I tried to ignore it the louder it got.
I rubbed my eyes after staring at the light. Trying to blind myself wouldn’t accomplish anything anyway. I’d hear their shallow conversations and taste the insipid food and smell the pungent aroma of sweat covered up by Totally Raspberry and feel the pain of their words because I could hear them. I sighed, quietly observing the prison-like place that surrounded me.
It was only this class that I would stare up at the lights. In all my other classes I just focused on the teacher, who gabbed away and made me shudder with the clickity-clack and scraping sound of the chalkboard. Sometimes I focused on a certain part of the teacher, like the billowing wrinkles of Ms. Travis’s loose blouse. She was a thin lady and shirts always looked large on her. Other times I would concentrate this girl’s neck mole. She was tall and sat in front of me and it was hard not to concentrate. And then if possible I searched for a bug that whizzed around the room and followed it all class period with my eyes.
Yeah, school was boring but tolerable, except for one aspect. It was this damn gym class that we had to take. I could never, ever understand why they would put me through this. Just so I could graduate? Even though I was making A’s—very high A’s? It seemed completely ridiculous to me. Seriously. I could not stand this, and after band class—the class right before gym—I always felt this shudder all throughout my body and then my teeth would grit. Then when I would walk down the halls, all crowded with people rudely bumping me with their shoulders and giving me nasty looks—just because I took up space.
I asked the teacher if I could sit under the showers for the semester we were required to take gym and have them drip water on my head. She just laughed and shoved me into the gym, where they were running laps. I liked running somewhat, because it was independent and I didn’t have to deal with anyone. My mind would trail elsewhere, like when I would come to school with a studded leather jacket and a chainsaw and industrial metal pounding though my head, with an army of men that were all six-foot-four and two hundred and fifty pounds backing me up. And would the havoc begin! Yet it was not the maiming, the severing of arms, and the piercing screams that I replayed over and over again; it was the part where I entered, with the men with the guns slung over their shoulders, and watching all those assholes that were mean to me to cower—to see them frightened, cowering like baby rabbits without their mother. They were always getting the best of me, and I was fucking tired of it. It pissed me off so much that they could win every time, leaving me a weakling that stumbled and stuttered like a broken wind-up toy. Oh, that was just one of the fantasies I had; the running would pump my angry blood though me, and the only way I was able to finish the mile run was to think those happy thoughts, and then vomit afterwards.
And then there were the times that I was so entrenched in my daydreams that I wouldn’t see Tiffany Hopkins or one of her sheep extend her foot and try to trip me. That old prank had worked one too many times for me, leaving the whole gym laughing and me a pathetic fool.
Ah, Tiffany Hopkins. I hated that girl. I really hated her. She was the worst. It seemed as if her primary goal was to make my life as miserable as possible. All the time I would sit and wonder why she would. She was the captain of the Junior Varsity soccer team and a natural at anything that required athletic prowess, while I—to be as honest as possible—sucked at sports. And then she was pretty, containing a magnetic field so strong that every guy in the school was drawn to her. I always got a bitter taste in my mouth when I saw her flirt with guys like that, and it sickened me more that they were so blind to see that she was the biggest bitch on the planet. Everyone else seemed to think that she was the nicest person that ever existed; she was a member of FCA, appearing to live her life by Christian morals. Now I was no pious person—in fact, I never went to church—but I knew that Jesus wouldn’t approve of the way she treated me. Jesus was someone who helped the outcasts and embraced them.
Many times I felt like there was something wrong with me, as if something was punishing me. To all other people of the human race, she was “the teen dream”. To me, she was the most despicable person on the planet. That seemed rather strange, didn’t it? That it was I who had done something to deserve it. But I couldn’t think of any reason. I was just being myself and she was ripping on me because I wasn’t good at sports or I dressed funny or I was too smart. Then she would always spread these rumors about me, like I worshiped Satan because I wore black. And then the whole school hated me just because black was my favorite color.
Sometimes she would sneer at me in the halls, or make some stupid comment about my appearance or call me a nerd or a geek. Sometimes she spread these rumors that I made out with some poor guy, ruining not only my reputation but the other person’s. Ironically, some guy that didn’t even know me hated my guts and blamed me for the rumors. It hurt my feelings a lot, and it made me so angry and I cried a lot at home. If I cried at school, then they would think I was the weak person they wanted to see. It was hard not to.
Fortunately, gym class was the only class I had with her, but in that fortune there was a hint of misfortune. Why gym class? Hell, in any other class it would be so easy to ignore her. Just to sit down, hear the teacher talk endlessly, and watch the flies buzz around the room. Or doodle or read something. Then, when the bell rang, I would get up and leave and try to avoid her the rest of the day. But gym class was different. In itself, without Tiffany, gym class would have been hell. They’d throw you in this austere locker room with those fluorescent lights and the cold, metal lockers (painted orange to appear more inviting), and then these concrete benches to sit on that made my ass freeze. The showers seemed dismal; they were off-white stalls with a slender metal spout and a measly yellow curtain. And in that room I would be stuck with a bunch of fourteen-year-olds, who were undressing, constantly comparing their bodies to their peers and then sometimes they would group together and snicker about Penelope the fat girl or Zekia the black girl with the big hips. That made me mad. I was as self-conscious as any of them, and I tried my best to avoid them seeing my flaws. I knew I was no beauty queen. My feet were disproportionately large, I had these burn scars on my back, and I wasn’t skinny. Everyday, as quickly as I could, I scrambled out of my normal clothes and into my gym clothes before they could see the scars. I didn’t like wearing those short trunks, and everyone could see my pale legs and fat thighs. But that was only the beginning. I was terribly uncoordinated and always tripped over my duck feet when we did soccer. I was too short to serve the volley ball over the net. I could never pull my chin over the bars or do a cartwheel. Whenever they made us learn folk dancing (why oh why I didn’t know why. . .), the promenades were clumsy and the switching partners and the do-si-does confused me and they all laughed because I would trip over myself. On top of that, the guys thought I was infested with some form of “cooties”, and grimaced at holding my hand. It hurt my feelings. It really did.
So that was why—of all the classes to share with Tiffany Hopkins—gym was the absolute worst. Not to mention that her last name was Hopkins and mine Hildebrandt, so I had to stand right next to her and then she would sneer at me. Sometimes I wished that when she was standing there and mocking the way I did my jumping jacks that she would explode.
When I wasn’t in gym class I would grit my teeth in rage, trying to suppress it and think of terrible, unthinkable things to do to her or else brainstorm clever comebacks to leave her stuttering. But then when she actually said something to me, and I tried to use those comebacks against her, they came out defunct and brittle, for then I would be at a loss for words. She would win again.
One day I just couldn’t take it anymore.
There I was, looking up at the cold, harsh, yet comforting fluorescent light.
“Hey Roxanne,” a voice sounded. It was high-pitched, mocking, the words elongated like the words of a whiny child.
I huffed breath of disgust from my lungs, yet at the same time I was preparing my brain for the hurtful things that they would say. Looking ahead of me, I saw her and three of her friends behind her. They were all wearing crisp, white tennis outfits—all white. That bitch always wore white, as if trying to act pure.
“Why aren’t you dressed out?” she asked, trying to make it like it was an innocent question.
For a moment I felt frozen by her words, and almost forgot the frantic few seconds of burrowing into my gym clothes.
“I am. . .” I retorted. Sure it sounded defiant in my head, but to them it probably sounded weak and mousy.
“Well, I am sorry—because I always thought that you were supposed to wear tennis shoes and a decent fitting shirt.”
I didn’t see what was wrong with what I was wearing. It was what I had always worn. At first I wanted to tell her that I didn’t really know what to wear for gym, but then she would think I was weak. Sighing, I tried to ignore her, as I always had. It was my only resort. At first I had tried to tell her to leave me the hell alone or to stop or ask her why she was doing this to me, but she would merely mock me and win. If I ignored her words, it would be as if I she was talking to no one.
So I shrugged, trying to avoid eye contact with her.
“Who wears hiking boots to run?” she sneered. “And that shirt has got to go because it is the ugliest thing I have ever seen—yet I guess you might as well wear it since nothing could possibly flatter you. . .”
I looked down at my shirt. It was an old black shirt, and it was wrinkled, but I liked it because it was very comfortable. It hid my breasts and my burn scars. For a moment I felt a lump in my throat, for I felt so ugly and drab, but the feeling passed. They started to laugh.
“I happen to like this shirt,” I stated, rather meekly.
They laughed some more. “Well, ugly is as ugly does,” Tiffany stated.
“I said I like this shirt you fucking whore!!”
I flinched when I heard the echoes from those words, and if I was seeing correctly, I thought Tiffany recoiled as well. Then I stared at her, straight in the eye, my eyes narrowing in anger. She stared back, her lips tightening and her already hard face suddenly seemed harder.
“Excuse me,” she replied, her voice trying to sound composed, “but you don’t talk to me that way. . .”
I shrugged, trying to ignore her and the laughing and the jeering. My head bowed down in humility, but I wasn’t sorry. I was far from sorry. I just didn’t know what to do at all. I felt so ignorant and so helpless at the same time and I wanted to get her back—to make her pay and feel abject for what she had done. And her sheep too, as their laughter seemed to bleat through the air, making my teeth grit.
I tried to ignore her. So I shrugged.
They laughed more and I tried to ignore it, but it seemed to get even louder, and I prayed that they would leave me alone or the gym teacher would clap her hands and tell us to hustle out of this horrible place or else—
All of a sudden I felt a hand grab my chestnut hair, rather hard, and before I knew it I felt the side of my face slam against the locker. My cheek and jaw were throbbing, and for a moment tears began to well in my eyes, for I was hurting and because of the cruelty and the helplessness.
And then the laughter seemed like it was so loud and was filling my head with taunts and derision. Tiffany’s voice pierced through the horrible sound.
“Hey look, the nerds gave her hickeys!”
I could not bear to look at her, her face wide and gaping with laughter. Suddenly it seemed as if the laughing was more than some tinkering chuckle to a roaring sound, like that of a freight train. My teeth were grinding against each other even more. I felt the side of my face that had hit the locker. There were indentations in my skin from the small pierced holes that were used to air out the lockers.
But something else began to consume me, and suddenly I didn’t feel so meager anymore. I could feel it in my chest, and it was expanding. It felt like hate—pure hate. I hated her. I hated them all, and I could not stand hearing them laugh and scoff at me and it was nearly driving me to the point that the feeling that was making my chest expand make my lungs feel as if they were squeezing in on one another. It hurt, but the more they laughed, the more it continued to swell. The laughter sounded like the cackling of a witch, high and piercing straight into my brain, and I wanted to destroy it. I couldn’t stand to hear it any longer—I couldn’t stand to suffer it any longer.
Slowly, I turned around and looked her in the eyes. She and a large crowd behind her were laughing, their heads thrown back. Images of their rotting flesh and broken noses and cuts that ceased to bleed and suffering. I wanted to do something terrible to them, and I could not wait any longer. I had waited so long for their words to bore into me and make me feel such disgust, and I felt so much disgust that overwhelmed me that I had to get rid of it. I had to defeat it—to never let it be the victor again.
Seeing her face I wanted to bash it in. I wanted to bash it in bad. She was laughing so hard and it wouldn’t cease. I had to end it. I had to. Right then.
I grabbed whatever I could hurt her with because I really wanted to hurt her, and my groping hands felt a wooden paddle brush and my hand went straight from where the brush lay to the front of her face, and the sound that it made was so loud that the whole room fell silent. A clean, snapping sound that easily echoed off the prison-like walls of the locker room.
I heard a scream that was succeeded by wailing, so loud it nearly hurt my ears. Tiffany stood in front of me, red splattered all over her white tee-shirt. She covered her face with her hands, and her hands were red from the blood that was seeping though.
“Look what you did, Roxanne!” one of Tiffany’s friends scorned me.
I looked around me and I couldn’t believe what I had done. My mouth was open in awe at the sight of my sworn enemy lying before me, suffering, crying, cowering. I dropped the brush to the ground and looked up at the light again.
I had done it; she had gotten what she deserved. I had finally won.
Through the noisy crowd, I heard the rich voice of the (rather butch) gym teacher force her way through the congregation of girls.
“Okay! Okay! What’s going on here? What the hell??”
She froze for a moment as she saw Tiffany Hopkins lying on the floor, blood seeping through her fingers. She was wailing and pain, and Erica Jones, one of her prized sheep, was standing over her, trying to comfort her.
“What the hell happened here?” the woman demanded.
“It—it was Roxanne. . .” I heard her moan, her once-sharp voice muffled by the blood. “She—she hit me. . .”
The teacher whirled around, and then a feeling of great fear pulsed through me, making me feel cold and helpless. Once again. It hit me like a cold brick in the face. I was busted. Holy shit, was I busted. The woman towered over me; she had to have been at least six feet tall and two hundred pounds and two percent body fat.
I had never been in trouble before. Usually I avoided it, for I was already an outcast already, and if I were to get in trouble—and not only that—my mother would never let my ears rest again. I breathed out heavily, awaiting whatever sentence they would give me. Hopefully it would be detention, since most everyone had been in detention at least once, and it was no big punishment anyway. But I had a bad feeling that detention would not be my punishment, because this bull of a woman was angry as hell, and I could see her eyes blazing and her nose flaring like that of a steer.
And she stood two feet away from me, her eyes boring into mine, her arms folded across her chest like two hams.
“Care to explain what happened here?” she questioned, with a hint of a sneer.
I froze in her shadow. How could I explain? It seemed like there was no reason for what happened but it happened, and once again I could not find the words. Oh, but I was busted anyway, so no matter what I said, it would not be very helpful
“I. . .”
“Roxanne hit her in the face because she told her to dress out for gym and she wouldn’t!” Erica exploded.
“I asked Roxanne!” she bellowed back. Erica froze. The teacher turned to all the girls and blew her whistle, “All right ladies! Hustle! Move along! Nothing to see!”
In a rush, the girls filed out of the locker room, in hushed whispers, glaring at me. I wanted to spit in their faces but I was busted already. A feeling of shame welled up in me and I felt like crying, but then there was another feeling—something that was buried deep inside me—that not only overtook the shame but completely erased it. It was a feeling of victory—as if I had won a gold medal. I had won, and no matter what punishment they would dare give me, I had still won.
So there I was, alone in the room with the teacher. For a moment, I feared that she was going to shake me or slam me against the wall and beat the living crap out of me, but luckily she just bent down to meet my eye level, her voice low and ominous.
“I’ve been watching you, Roxanne.”
Her words made me gulp, and I could feel myself starting to back against the wall.
“You’ve never really liked this class. I know, and not to mention your performance is rather—well, below average, but well enough for me to pass you. You dress out everyday, attempt the daily exercises, and not say a word about it. But there is something about you, Roxanne—something that is rather disturbing—that I cannot quite understand, but I will stop it. I’ll make sure of that,” she sneered. I tried to avoid her putrid breath and sweaty odor, “and I know that when Tiffany asked you to hurry up and dress out, you just didn’t want to. You sat there—like you always do—and then something snapped. Well, dear, I won’t tolerate that.”
She grabbed my arm, rather hard. “We’re going to have a little talk with the principal about you, and we are going to straighten out this problem. . .”
