I had never been to the principal’s office, except for this one time in third grade that I stole some kid’s Twinkie because my mom was so busy with work that she forgot to pack me a lunch and I was starving. Naturally, I was nervous, for I didn’t know what he was going to do or say. He seemed like a friendly man; he smiled at me a couple of times in the halls, but that was before he knew that I was a troublemaker. I didn’t want to make trouble; I was just tired of having Tiffany make fun of me and get away with it. That’s what I would tell him—that she initiated it—that she had brought it on from day one and was getting what was coming to her. Yes, that was what I would tell him.
After sitting in a hard, yellow plastic chair, the secretary called me into his office. Her voice was rather soothing, and after calling me in, she returned to her constant typing.
I sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the principal’s desk. They were more comfortable. In the other chair sat my mother. They had called her in from work, and surprisingly she showed up. I groaned, knowing that she was going to kill me, but instead she looked upon me with this face of concern. She said nothing, but her large brown eyes looked rather sad and disappointed—as if there was something wrong with me. There was always something wrong with me. I sighed and let my body slouch in the chair and concentrated on the bright, brassy plaque that read G. WATSON.
Mr. Watson had everything on his desk nice and neatly. Not a paper was astray, and his name plate was placed exactly in the center of his desk. He had some odd paperweights, such as a glass orb with colored enamel on the inside that had been instantly hardened to form that still-water look. I couldn’t help but eye that ball; it was beautiful the way that the light hit the green orb, with the bubbles suspended inside.
“Hello Roxanne,” he smiled, as if nothing had ever happened. He was the kind of upbeat man who probably had vats of Prozac in his desk drawers and a cup of coffee in his hands. I saw the coffee, but not the Prozac. He was a short, stout fellow with thick glasses and always wore a cotton, striped shirt and khaki pants and loafers. Everyday.
“Hi,” I mumbled back, forcing a meager smile. I wondered if he was happy that he was going to bust me or if someone had spiked his coffee. Nevertheless, I was not happy to be there, in that room, with this perky addict and my brooding mother. Somehow it was not the best combination.
“Well, I understand that today is not the best day for you, is it?” he asked me, cocking his head a bit.
I shook my head. He continued.
“Well, I heard from your gym teacher, Ms. Tasselhoff, that you attacked another girl—Tiffany Hopkins. . .”
Attacked? He made it sound like I was some animal or something. Without thinking, my eyes narrowed and my face formed a frown.
“Would you mind telling me about it?” he asked, his voice still cheery.
I sighed, knowing that he would not believe me. After all, Tiffany was the beautiful athlete and devout Christian. Who was I? Well, I don’t think he would have remembered me after smiling at hundreds of kids everyday. I went ahead with what I was going to tell him.
“Well. . .” I began. My voice sounded a bit tentative and nervous, and I could feel myself shaking. I tried to stop, and I breathed in and tried to sound more composed. I had to defend myself. Even if I were to lose, at least I would have put up some kind of fight, “I was dressed out to begin with, and then Tiffany comes up to me and scoffs at what I was wearing. I don’t know why, but she has always been making fun of me. I usually try to ignore her, but—but this time she went to far. She slammed my face into the locker and I guess—I guess that I was so angry and I had to get her back—so I hit her. I didn’t mean to hit her that hard. I really didn’t. . .”
“Roxanne had not gotten along well with Tiffany Hopkins,” my mother interjected. I whirled around and glared at her. She was making it out to be my fault. Yep, I was in busted. She didn’t understand. She never did.
“Oh really?” Mr. Watson asked, cocking his head again. He chuckled, “Well, I have to say that Roxanne really gave it all she got. Poor Tiffany’s been rushed to the hospital with a broken nose.”
I saw the girl lying on a stretcher, wailing in pain, covered in blood. Helpless and vulnerable. A quick smile came and thin vanished. I hoped they didn’t see it.
“Roxanne had told me a number of times about this Tiffany girl,” my mother continued. I wanted to scream at her because she was trying to talk for me, but I just sighed and let her keep going. I was done in no matter what, “and I know that Roxanne is not the one to start a fight—at least not a physical fight.”
Perhaps I was wrong about my mother—perhaps she was trying to support me.
“No, no of course not,” Mr. Watson smiled at me, “so even before this incident there has been some friction between Roxanne and Tiffany?”
My mother nodded and sighed, “Yes, this girl harasses my daughter, she spreads awful rumors about her. And personally I think that my daughter gave that girl what she deserved.”
She started to get heated. She was always easily angered, and then with that thick, Brooklyn accent, she sounded like a mobster about to start a riot.
“This is rather strange, because Tiffany seems to be a pleasant girl. She is in the Fellowship for Christian Athletes, and she seems secure and happy.”
“Roxanne has told me that, and I think that she wants to know why she’s been targeted by this girl,” my mother flared.
I wished that she would let me speak for myself, as if I were immature or something. I wasn’t so dumb as to know Tiffany made fun of me because I was a clumsy athlete and that I wasn’t like her.
“Jeez, “ I huffed out loud. They both looked at me and I quickly covered my mouth.
“Now it is quite a shock,” Mr. Watson continued, “now, Roxanne, do you mind telling me what happened?”
I shrugged, trying not to sound afraid or even humble. I wanted to sound like someone who could tell the facts as clear as crystal and not get all tied up in touchy-feely shit.
“Well, I was already dressed out for gym, and then Tiffany came up to me and said, in a rather mocking tone, that my clothes were not appropriate for gym. So, she scoffs at my hiking boots and implies that I am ugly because she thought that the shirt I was wearing was ugly and that nothing could look good on me and so I might as well dress ugly. . .”
Their eyes were focused on me, and I heard my voice echo thought the plaster walls of the small office. I had raised my voice, and I could feel this inexplicable rage consume me, making me want to do something terrible—the same way I felt when I hit her.
“Well,” Mr. Watson huffed, “when Tiffany recovers I will speak with her about the situation.”
“Of course she will deny it!” I blurted. My mother glared at me, “Roxanne, control yourself.”
“It is only fair to hear both sides of the story,” he replied, rather calmly.
I felt like my insides were rotting. She would never get in trouble and call her mother into the principal’s office. . .
I saw that Mr. Watson began to frown, which was a bad sign since whatever could make this man frown had to have been pretty serious.
“Although you are not a regular troublemaker, Roxanne, I do believe that this a very serious offense. Fighting is not something that is tolerated here, and I am sure you understand that. What this sounds like is you just snapped and. . .”
“Did I mention that she slammed me against the locker?!” I was nearly shouting now and my breath was rasping and I was shaking. I felt as if something else was consuming me—something dangerous and powerful. “I have the marks right here! I was only trying to defend myself!”
“Roxanne don’t make things worse,” my mother reprimanded, yet there was not a look of accusation but a look of concern in her eyes.
“Normally out-of-school suspension is the punishment for a fighting offense, but in Roxanne’s case I think that she will need some counseling to help her control herself when people harass her. High-schoolers are cruel sometimes. . .”
“I don’t need fucking anger management I need to get the hell out of here,” I glowered. I didn’t care what I said or what the consequences were, for I felt that so invincible. What could they do? Suspend me? That would have been better because at least I could escape school and there would be less days of gym class.
“Now, Roxanne, we don’t tolerate that language. I understand what has happened today was hurtful but you mustn’t take it out, okay?”
His words were rather soothing, and my rage went away. “Okay. . .” I sighed, returning to my obedient, down-trodden self.
That night there was a football game, and it was freezing cold outside. I lived in the burbs of New York, about an hour from the city, and during the fall it would rain a lot and sometimes the sidewalks became slick. But tonight wasn’t nearly as bad as it could get, but there was a cold snap this fall and I was freezing my ass off. Luckily I was wearing my band uniform—white and yellow—since we had to march during half-time. The bottoms of my pants were soaked with this green dye that came from the wet grass of the fields.
Until half-time, we sat in the stands and occasionally played a short number if (at all) our team scored. The bleachers were concrete and absorbed every molecule of cold air possible. My ass felt numb, so I sat on my oboe case to insulate myself. A cold wind snapped at my face and I shivered. God, I was bored. The band had to sit and watch the first half of the game, which was only supposed to take thirty minutes, but in football time it was about one hour, and in my time it seemed like an eternity. Football bored me, unless there was a fight, and this game was exceedingly boring.
I sat rather high in the bleachers and got a good view of all the people that were walking by. The opposite side of the bleachers was packed, and our side had seats to spare. Most of the people that I saw were unfamiliar. I saw more preppy bitches like Tiffany than sinners in hell. They were brand name clothes with logos pasted all over them and probably paid a million dollars for pants. They were huddled under umbrellas as to not let their hair frizz and make-up run from the condensed air, and they all wore platform shoes and towered over all the boys. I heard one kid in a cowboy hat and boots sitting on a lower bleacher and playing a lone song on his acoustic and people stared at him with squinted eyes and ignored them. And then there were hippies in worn sandals and insolent skaters in oversized pants and pasty ghetto wannabes with plastic gold chains. I saw a few goths as well with white make-up and dreary black shrouds and thought they were probably at the game because there were no little children to scare or parents to shock at the mall.
“I can’t believe you did it, Roxanne!” a girl walked over and sat next to me. She was rather overweight and had very thin black hair and very thick glasses. I’d seen her in the halls, and even had a couple of classes with her. I never talked much with her, though. She was rather quiet. Her name was Ann and she was really smart and she played the oboe too.
For a moment I felt a pang of guilt. Poor Tiffany couldn’t cheer for the football team, unless someone televised it on public access so she could watch it in the hospital, but Hamilton had the worst football team in the county. I grinned slightly at the thought, but hoped that this girl wouldn’t yell at me. I had gotten a lot of shit for what I did, or else people just stared at me and didn’t say anything. I sighed. I didn’t think she would.
“You—you were totally amazing!” she exclaimed, rather nervously, and clapped her hands. She had this awkward smile on her face, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Well, thanks,” I said, and shrugged. I turned back to the crowd.
I didn’t think what I did was amazing. I put a girl in the hospital, and my mother is probably at work and pissed off at having to pay Tiffany’s medical bill. I huffed, knowing I would get shit at home. It actually made me enjoy this outing. And then the anger management shit. How embarrassing!
Ann laughed a bit, looking over at me, “I don’t think they are going to mess with you anymore. You got her good. . .”
The last sentence rang in my ear and sounded like a thousand gold coins. I had gotten her. I had won.
“That is just so cool!” She was laughing again, and then she snorted. I felt sorry for her. It would be next to impossible for her to escape her caste of geekiness. She rubbed her hands together and then her face began to twitch and then she burst out laughing again. I saw her face turn somewhat red and then there was this awkward smile on her face again, “You know, I—I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me for what?” It eyed her strangely. She smiled, flashing me with a mouth of metal.
“You see, I—I heard the popular people talking, and, um, well, I heard Heather tell Christina that she was scared to mess with the—you know—unpopular people because she was afraid you would—you would—kick her ass, and—well, you’ll protect me—right?”
I smiled rather weakly at her. If she was coming to me for protection, the poor girl was really abject. I was still just as unpopular as she, probably more unpopular after fucking up one of the most popular girls in the school. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, and try to be as nurturing as possible. Hell, this girl needed it. She needed it bad. But I couldn’t lie to her. That would be worse.
“Listen,” I began, “I don’t usually beat the shit out of popular people everyday. There are kids in this school who get away with crapping on me. It’s just, well, Tiffany drove me too far, that’s all.”
“Oh. . .” she laughed, “well, that’s okay. I’m just glad that you gave Tiffany what she deserved.”
I smiled back and laughed a bit, “You mean you don’t believe that Tiffany is the all-holy, wonderful person? You don’t participate in idol worship?”
“No, no,” she shook her head, chuckling madly. “I pretend she is in front of the popular people, but I really hate her. I hate her guts. She is mean to me and called me—calls me fat and makes fun of me and sometimes—sometimes I wish something terrible would happen to her. And it has happened. Part of me wants to feel guilty, you know? But then there is an other part that makes me happy—happy because you taught her and the other popular girls a lesson.”
I smiled and nodded to her, trying hard not to beam with pride. This was what it was like to win. I had taught her a lesson, and she had learned the hard way.
The director blew his whistle, and we slid off the ice-cold bleachers down to the field. Half-time already.
“Tell me about your childhood,” the counselor, Ms. Green, asked. She had a soft, gentle tone to her voice, trying not to sound intimidating. Nothing about her seemed constrained and she had a natural look. She wore a flowing, green sweater jacket over a cotton shirt with a long khaki skirt and wore sandals with flat heels. I guessed that she was about in her mid-forties or so.
I tried not to roll my eyes. Why would asking about my childhood help the shrink know why I smashed up Tiffany anyway?
“Well, there’s not much to say. . .” I sighed, sinking into the couch and fumbling with a Rubik’s Cube.
She leaned forward and looked at me with this mischievous smile, “You are holding back, Roxanne.”
I sipped the free Coke she bought me because she felt sorry for me because I was unpopular. But it was free. Perhaps it was not that at all, but to help me open up or whatever. And what was cooler is that I got to skip gym to come and see her.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Well, what was your family life like, your school life, relationships with friends?”
When I began to tell her, I could feel some grief well up in me. My father died in a car accident when I was three, and my mother and I were in the car with him. I vaguely remembered what it was like, and all I remembered was the aftermath, and then there are times when I see fire and I began to shake. My mother told me that we were on the freeway and this guy was changing lanes and broad-sided our car on the left side, smashing right into my father and killing him upon impact. I sat behind my mother in the passenger seat and the crash flipped the car over to the right shoulder and then my mother broke various bones and cut her head and I was in my car-seat and my mom was stuck under the car and it caught on fire. Luckily the rescue crew came and got us to the hospital. I never told anyone about it and I was embarrassed to not have a father when all the other kids did and when they came over to my house for birthday parties, they wouldn’t see him and then they would ask me where he was and I said he was taking a trip. I never told anyone that either. Not even to Ms. Green.
“Well, my father died when I was three, so it’s just my me and my mother.”
“And do you get a long with your mother?”
“Yeah, we fight sometimes. I don’t see her much because she has to work all the time, but when she gets home she’s kinda edgy and yells at me if the house isn’t neat.”
“Hmm. . .” she replied, her mouth pouting with sympathy. “Well, I am sorry to hear that. So you come home to an empty house?”
“Nope. . .the dog is there.”
I reached into candy jar for some more Skittles, letting the pure sugar and food coloring melt in my mouth.
“But you love your mother, right?”
I nodded, “I respect what she does for me, even thought I wish I saw her more. Sometimes we find it hard to communicate since we never see each other.”
“May I ask you one question, Roxanne, before time is up?”
“Sure,” I replied passively.
“If you could make your life exactly how you wanted it to be, how would it be that way?”
“Well, I’d live in a mansion, make lots of money, live where it’s warm. . .” I replied, the vision as fleeting as her rapidly depleting candy jar.
“Ah!” she held her finger up at me, “You aren’t serious. I didn’t ask what, Roxanne, I asked how.”
The bell for the next class rang. It was a hard question for me to ask seriously. I had this habit of wanting to answer subjective questions with this sarcastic answer because for some reason they sounded so corny to me.
“Well, think about it for the next time.” She said.
I slung my too-heavy book-bag over my shoulder and left.
