by Mae Doyle
I don’t want to run into the headmaster, but I have to get to a nurse. The pain in my wrist isn’t going to stop until it’s in a brace. Only then am I going to let myself think about the implications of breaking my dominant hand.
I have no idea how I’m going to paint.
The thought rises, unbidden, and I choke out a sob right as I reach the door to the building. Leaning against it for a moment, I take a shuddering breath, then I pull on the door, taking a deep breath as the smell of dinner hits me.
My stomach rumbles, and I realize that I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch. Turning down the hall, I walk away from the cafeteria and head for the nurse. I’ve never met her, but there has to be a nurse, right?
No school would be complete without a nurse.
Finally, I find the right room and I lean against the door, rapping on it with my good hand. When a voice calls to me, I gather all of my strength and push though the door, blinking in the bright light.
“My dear, are you hurt?” A heavyset woman I’ve never seen before rises from behind a desk and sweeps over to me. She has on a long skirt and her hair is piled up on the back of her head in a bun. Using my left hand as support, I hold out my hand for her to see.
“It’s broken,” I manage, trying to keep from crying. I’d managed to hold it together pretty well, but the look of compassion on her face is enough to make anyone break down. “Can you help me?”
She tsks and lightly touches my wrist, which makes me jerk back in pain. “Looks like a clean break, so that’s good, but I’m still going to do an x-ray and then we’ll get you in a splint. The swelling is severe, though. How long ago did you fall?”
How did she know that I fell? The thought sweeps through my mind, but I ignore it. It has to be obvious that I fell. I’m covered with dirt and have a broken wrist, so there aren’t too many other things that could have happened to me.
“It’s been, uh, a few hours,” I tell her, starting to feel guilty. “I came as quickly as I could, though.”
“I see.” Without another word, she grabs me by my good hand and pulls me along behind her to a back room. There she takes a fast x-ray and is looking at it by the time I meet her in the front.
“Is it going to be okay?” I can’t hide the worry in my voice and she catches it, looking up sharply at me before answering.
“It’s painful, but clean. I think that you’ll be just fine with a splint on, but you won’t have use of that hand for a while, so you need to prepare for that. What are you here studying?” She starts digging through a drawer while talking to me, and turns around holding a splint.
“Painting. This is my dominant hand,” I explain. “Do you think that I’m going to be able to continue to paint?”
She clucks her tongue and fits me with the splint, ignoring my gasps of pain. Once I’m strapped in and the splint is tight on my wrist, she steps back to look at me. “I think that you’re in a for a world of hurt, Abigail.”
Did I tell her my name? I must have, but I just don’t remember.
“What do you mean by that? How long will it take for my wrist to heal?” I need to heal as quickly as possible if I’m going to be able to finish a great painting that will really set me apart from the competition and put me in the running for the internship.
“It’ll heal, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” Her fingers, which before were gentle and barely resting on my skin, now dig into my arm. I gasp a little and try to pull back, but moving my wrist too much is painful. “I think that you need to reconsider your time here at Trinity Prep.”
“What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. There’s no way that the nurse is going to try to talk me into leaving the school too, is there?
“You heard me, Abigail. Things aren’t going to get better for you. In fact, I’d wager that as soon as you leave my room, things are going to get a whole hell of a lot worse, and you need to be prepared for that. Are you ready to handle whatever gets thrown at you?” She lets go of my arm and I immediately sway a little under the impact of her words.
“Spell it out for me. What are you talking about?”
“You want to make it out of here in one piece, Abigail? Then I suggest that you leave Trinity Prep as quickly as possible. Sticking around here is going to be bad for your health.”
I back away from her, reaching behind me for the door. She hasn’t done anything to hurt me, but there are some things that she knows about me that I don’t like.
Such as the fact that I broke my wrist by falling on it. And my name. I’m sure that I didn’t tell her my name.
It’s almost like she knew I was coming.
She watches me turn the handle on the door and then tosses me a bottle. Grabbing it out of the air with my left hand, I hear the pills rattle inside. “For your pain,” she explains when she catches a glance at my face. “I think that you’ll find that once the adrenaline really wears off that you’re going to need them.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, then I’m out the door, slamming it shut behind me and leaning against it to catch my breath. Once I’ve calmed down, I glance at the bottle in my hand. Abigail Williams.
It’s like she knew I was coming and had the medication ready for me when I got there.
Nothing makes sense. Shaking my head to try to clear it some, I start down the hall. Dinner smells better and better as I walk towards the dining hall, but I don’t have an appetite right now.
I just want to find Madeline and figure out what the hell is going on.
Chapter Eighteen
It takes me banging on her door for a solid two minutes before she swings it open. Her arms are crossed and she has a foul look on her face, but I’ve never been so happy to see my best friend.
“Madeline!” Relief floods through my body and I suddenly realize how exhausted I am. I grab her doorframe with my good hand and lean on it. “I’m just so glad to see you! I…I can’t even begin to tell you what’s been going on.” Pushing up off of the doorframe, I step towards her, meaning to walk past her into her room, but she blocks my way.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Her voice is cold and flat and it stops me in my tracks. “And why the hell do you think that I give a shit what’s been going on with you? Whatever it was, you probably deserve it.”
“What?” Instinctively, I take a step back and lift my hand up to my chest to protect it. My wrist aches and throbs, but I can’t tear my eyes away from my friend’s face.
Well, I thought that she was my friend. But the way she’s looking at me right now makes me nervous. I want to push past her and stretch out on her bed while I tell her all about my day, but I’m scared to make a move.
“You heart me,” she says, brushing her hair back behind her ear as she talks. “You’re not welcome here, and I don’t give a flying fuck about what happened to you. Now, go. Get out of here, you little whore.”
Her words sting me and I step back into the hall. Turning from her, I’m surprised to see that girls are leaning out of their rooms, staring at us. They’ve all been listening to everything we’re saying. The thought makes my heart pound and my stomach twists.
My room is just a little way down the hall, but I feel like it takes forever for me to reach my door. Once there, I struggle to get the key in the lock, but I finally do, and I turn it, shoving open the door to step inside.
There, I collapse against it, reaching down to lock it with my good hand.
What the hell just happened?
Why would Madeline turn on me like that? It doesn’t make any sense, not when she’s been there for me since day one. Even when other people turned their back on me and didn’t want me around, Madeline always made me feel welcome.
Like she cared.
Then I remember what Quinn told me in the woods. That Madeline wasn’t going to come and that she wasn’t going to care about me anymore. I don’t know what he did, but it’s obvious that he’s the reason my best friend has turned on me.
I
have to go see him.
Instead of opening the door, however, I lean against it and sigh, letting the tears flow down my cheeks. I can’t go see him right now. Not after what happened today. I have to just…hide out for now.
It’s early but I need to go to bed. Tomorrow is going to bring a whole new set of challenges with my wrist, and I have to rest if I’m going to be able to face them. Without even stripping down to change, I throw myself onto my bed, careful not to land on my wrist.
I need rest, but it’s going to pound and ache all night. My eyes are exhausted, but I read the label on the medication the nurse gave me.
Two pills as needed for pain.
Alright, then.
Swallowing them dry, I lay back down. Every part of my body aches. Before I can think about what part of me hurts the most, I fall asleep.
Chapter Nineteen
The sun slants through my window and is so bright on my face that by the time I finally sit up, I can’t see.
At first, I really think that I’m blinded.
Quinn. He got to my somehow.
My heart starts beating faster and I feel bile rise in the back of my throat, but after my eyes clear and I blink then I can see again.
Not blind.
Just very, very late to class.
“Fuck!” I jump out of bed, completely forgetting about my wrist, which I bang on my bedpost. “Oh, dammit all,” I moan, grabbing it and sinking to the floor in pain. It throbs and aches so badly that I can barely see.
Leaning against the edge of my bed, I take slow deep breaths, trying to clear my head. I have no idea what time it is, so I look up at my clock. 1:00. After lunch.
I should be in art.
What the fuck happened?
Struggling to my feet, I lean on my bed and grab my pill bottle. It takes me a minute to get my eyes to focus. Oxycontin? Okay, that makes sense. She did say that it would help me if I had trouble sleeping. I turn the bottle to find how much I’m on. 90mg.
Even I know that that’s a lot.
Way too much.
Enough to knock me out for a while. More than enough to take away the pain. It’s an insane amount, but what doesn’t make sense is why the nurse would give me that much if I just needed to take an edge off of the pain.
Unless she was trying to make it so that I wouldn’t make it to class on time. The thought gives me a headache, and I know that I’m going to have to worry about that at some point, but right now I need to get to the art department. My stomach is growling and I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, but I’m going to do my best.
Grabbing my backpack, I lock my door behind me and hurry down the hall. It’s silent. Everyone is either walking to their classes from lunch or already there. I just…I can’t be late.
Nobody talks to me as I run across the quad. My legs don’t feel tired and heavy anymore, but my mouth is dry and I’m having trouble focusing. By the time I get to the art room and open the door, I’m panting and dragging myself.
My broken wrist aches and I feel like my head is spinning, but I made it.
Mr. Stanfield is in the front of the room, working on a huge canvas, probably showing off a new technique that Quinn already has mastered. As soon as my feet hit the floor in his room, he turns, and everyone turns with him.
Immediately I’m the center of attention.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” My tongue feels thick and heavy, and I force myself to walk into the room to stand by the rest of the class. The girl I stand next to shifts away from me, making everyone else giggle.
“Oh, Abigail. How lovely that you deigned to join us today. We were starting to wonder if maybe you thought that you knew all about what I was going to teach and decided just to skip out.” Mr. Stanfield’s eyes are dark and they bore into mine.
“Actually,” Quinn says, from across the room, “I was hoping that you had done the smart thing and withdrawn, but I guess you’re too damn stupid to do the one thing that can save you.”
I shoot a look at him but I don’t respond. It’s like I can’t seem to get my thoughts straight, and I can’t help but wonder if there was something else in the medicine that the nurse gave me.
That’s insane to think, right?
“I got tied up,” I say to Mr. Stanfield, ignoring everyone else in the class. “I had an accident last night and the nurse gave me medicine that was too strong, so I accidentally slept in.”
“More like you are an accident.” Quinn doesn’t even try to keep his voice low, but I ignore him.
“I’m disappointed in you, Abigail. More and more I’m beginning to think that you really aren’t any better than any other regular high school student. It’s a wonder that you made it through the admissions process, honestly.” He turns from me with a huff and continues his lecture to the class.
My knees are weak and I wish that I had somewhere to sit, but I know that showing any weakness right now will come back to bite me in the ass. Instead, I focus on Mr. Stanfield, even though the words he’s saying slip right through my mind.
By the time he’s done lecturing, there’s a fine sheen of sweat on my face and my wrist hurts so bad that each time my heart beats, I can feel my pulse throbbing.
The rest of the class breaks up to go to their canvasses, and I force myself up to Mr. Stanfield. “Sir,” I say, waiting on him to turn around. “I need a new canvas. Mine was…destroyed.”
“That’s a harsh thing to say about your art,” he says to me, his voice cool. “I would think that by painting over it you could start fresh, don’t you think?”
I shake my head, ignoring what he implies. “I mean that someone came in and destroyed it. They cut it into shreds and now I need a new one, please.”
Mr. Stanfield closes his eyes and takes a deep breath like I’m really ailing him. “That’s a shame, Abigail. I thought that you were ready to start working on your final piece now.”
“I had! That was my piece, but someone – ”
He interrupts me. “Don’t blame others for your own problems, Abigail. Besides, how in the hell are you going to write with that hand of yours?”
It was the one thing that I had been avoiding thinking about, and for Mr. Stanfield to bring it up so casually in conversation about killed me, but I take a deep breath and manage to keep my eyes averted from my wrist.
Honestly, I have no idea how I’m going to paint. If my left wrist had been the one that had gotten broken then it wouldn’t have been as big of a deal. I do everything with my right hand, which is why I’m in a bit of a bind.
Well, that’s putting it nicely. I’m fucked, and I can tell by the look on Mr. Stanfield’s face that he’s well aware of the trouble that I’m in. A painter who can’t grip a paintbrush isn’t going to be able to paint. That same painter isn’t going to be able to compete for an internship.
He might as well hand it to Quinn right now, with a huge bow on top.
I swallow hard. “I’m going to heal quickly,” I lie. In truth, I have no idea how long I’m going to be out of commission, but judging by the way my wrist aches almost all the time, I have a very good feeling that it’s going to be a while. “All I need are a few weeks and then I’m going to bust my ass to get the work done, I promise you. You’ll see. Just give me a chance.”
This is it. It would be so easy for Mr. Stanfield to deny my opportunity to stay with him and keep painting right now and simply vote to have me removed from the program altogether. I can’t imagine that any students would put up much of a fuss about me being removed. Madeline’s face enters my thoughts and I push it away.
Now is not the time to think about her or I’ll break down and cry.
“Well, now, that could be interesting, couldn’t it?” Mr. Stanfield grins, a thin smile that shows all of his teeth and I shiver involuntarily. “I love the idea of you trying even harder to win. There’s nothing like a good underdog story, although, Abigail, you should know that at Trinity Prep the underdog never wins. Ever.”
“Not y
et, but I will.” I lift my chin and stare my teacher in the face. The longer I’m on my feet, the weaker I’m getting. It’s been over 24 hours since I’ve had something to eat, and I’m really starting to feel the effects of being hungry. “Just give me a chance, Mr. Stanfield. I know I can do it.”
“How about a bet?” Quinn’s voice from behind me startles us both and I whip around to see him standing there, wearing a smock, a bit of paint on his right cheek. My hand twitches instinctively to reach up and brush it off, but I have to restrain myself.
If he notices the bit of movement, he doesn’t say anything. In fact, he doesn’t even look at me. He’s staring at Mr. Stanfield, as if daring him to disagree. How much power does Quinn have here at Trinity Prep? How much control can he exert over the teachers and other students without getting into trouble?
It’s obvious that I still have no real idea of what’s going on here.
“A bet? If I remember correctly from what I’m hearing in the halls, Quinn, you still haven’t collected on your last bet? What in the world makes you think that she’s good for it?” Mr. Stanfield does his best to sound bored, but even I can hear the hint of interest in his voice. Quinn has sparked something in him, that’s for sure, and he’s going to bite.
“Oh, she’s good, believe me. I just haven’t fully collected because I like to take my time,” Quinn replies, brushing past me to talk to Mr. Stanfield. He touches my wrist as he passes me and a flame shoots through it, making me suck in a breath and pull my wrist to my chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Mr. Stanfield raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Well, then, by all means. I love a good bet as much as the next man. Let’s hear what you have to say, Quinn. You and I both know that all it would take is one call to the headmaster about her inability to perform in class and she’d be back to the slums she came from.”
I can’t help but wonder why, if that’s the case, they don’t do just that. It seems like it would solve their problem of having me here and threatening Quinn’s internship, but I’m not going to bring it up. That’s not the type of attention I want to draw to myself.
