by Leddy Harper
I knew my face would look even worse the next day once the bruising settled in. And I didn’t know how I’d explain it without prompting any unwanted questions. It wasn’t my first rodeo showing up at school injured, and it probably wouldn’t be my last. But in the past, when something like this would happen, I’d have a teacher or two make small talk with me, asking politely what I’d done to myself. I’d give a reasonably plausible excuse, and then they’d carry on with their business. Normally, I wouldn’t worry, except now, it seemed as though I had a teacher that cared.
I’d have to face Mr. Taylor with a busted-up face, the day after he so sincerely asked me if I was all right. The first person in as long as I could remember who had showed me any attention, proved that at least someone noticed me, but he would see just how much things weren’t all right.
As if things couldn’t get any worse…
I wore my hair down, even though I hated it that way. I usually had my long, red hair pulled back into a bun, or at the very least a ponytail. Because if not, then I’d have to spend an hour straightening it. And with how thick it was, I tended to sweat a lot on the back of my neck, which always left me feeling gross. To top it off, it would frizz at the tiniest amount of humidity, leaving me with a giant, red puffball on my head. But I didn’t have a choice, because I had to hide the side of my face.
I had been right the night before, it was so much worse today.
Normally, I never wore much makeup. I didn’t think dark liner or eye shadow agreed with my coloring. Not to mention, my eyes were a light-green color, so the darker the makeup, the lighter they became. And to me, it made me think of a cheap streetwalker. But this morning, I had no choice but to go heavy on the eye shadow, hoping it would blend in with the bruising. Nothing made it go away, but at least I tried. In the end, I studied my reflection and laughed. I looked like a hooker that got the shit beat out of her by her pimp for not blowing him good enough.
I made sure to keep my head down as I walked, too. Being invisible came in handy for times like these—not that this sort of thing happened often for me, but it happened enough, and being unknown helped.
The classroom was nearly empty when I walked in, only a few people gathered around the first row of desks waiting for the bell to ring. I had no idea where Mr. Taylor was—I refused to lift my head and look. But I knew I couldn’t avoid him forever, considering my desk sat adjacent to his. At least the damaged side of my face wasn’t the one he could see from his seat.
“You awake today, Miss Aubrey Jacobs?”
I nodded and attempted to appear busy, pulling things out of my backpack. I’m sure I didn’t need everything I grabbed from all the pockets, but at least that kept me from peering over and finding him watching me.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I said, opening my notebook to a blank sheet of paper.
“Look at me, Bree.” His tone somehow soothed me even though it came out in a deep, hard timbre, very authoritative.
I tilted my chin, angling it in his direction, and then cut my eyes to him. That was the best he’d get from me. Sure, I had my hair covering half my face to hide the dark bruising and white butterfly strips, but I didn’t dare take the chance of him seeing past it.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
His eyebrows pulled together, making the creases between them deepen. He made it nearly impossible to hold eye contact with him with the intensity of his gaze. “Move your hair.”
“No. I like it like this.”
“You can put it back, I just like to see both eyes when I’m talking to someone. Can you please move the hair from your face until our conversation is over with?” He leaned forward on his elbows, getting closer to me.
I licked my lips as my gaze bounced around the wall behind him, hoping to come up with a fast excuse. I had thought of so many I could use on the bus ride to school, but at the moment, they all sounded so used up.
I ran into a wall.
I fell down the stairs.
All so overly played out and virtually see-through. Luckily, I didn’t have a chance to say anything, because he rolled his chair back and then stood up from his desk. I glanced back down at the blank paper in front of me and let out an uneasy exhale. But before I could fully relax, a large shadow hovered over the opposite side of me, and without thinking, I lifted my head. Doing that caused the veil of hair shielding the side of my face to fall away.
In a matter of seconds, everything around me faded away. I could no longer hear the other students at the front of the class. All my ears could register was the heavy gasp that erupted from Mr. Taylor’s throat. The lights above didn’t seem as bright once his piercing gaze became fixed on mine. He crouched down next to me, leveling his eyes with mine. And my lungs seemingly collapsed in my chest when he reached his hand out to move the hair away from my face, so slowly, so cautiously.
His wide, blazing eyes met mine and never left as he spoke low, growling words. “What happened? Who did this?” There was concern in his tone, yet it had a harsh, angry edge. Rage mixed with apprehension, laced with whispered sympathy. It was too much to take, and I lowered my sight to my twisted fingers on top of my desk.
I had fought with my inner self about staying home from school for a few days until it healed enough so I could conceal it better, but that would impact my grades. I couldn’t chance that, especially after just having two weeks off for winter break. Now, I suddenly regretted that decision. I could’ve found a way to make up those grades, yet I’d never be able to make this moment go away. I’d never be able to make Mr. Taylor forget the damage on my face.
“It was an accident. I ran into a door.”
“What door?”
“My bedroom door. My mom was in the hall talking to me and I opened it up into my face. It’s no big deal.” I spoke in a low volume, almost a whisper, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself. I’m sure it wouldn’t be long before the other students wondered why our teacher knelt so close to me.
“You must’ve hit it pretty hard to cause that kind of damage.”
Although I wasn’t looking at him, I knew he hadn’t taken his eyes off me by the way they burned holes through my head. Even his deep yet quiet tone told of how serious this situation was. All I could do was laugh it off, play it off as if it were nothing more than the accident I tried to portray.
“Yeah, it was pretty hard,” I said with a small, breathy snicker as I peered into his eyes to drive my point home. “She was opening the door the same time I was, and my face collided with the edge. It’s no big deal.” I tried to keep the smile steady and strong on my face, but my heart pounded so hard, I could feel it in my throat.
“So, which was it…you ran into the door, or you opened it up into your face? And if it was opened into your face, who did it? You or your mom? Or both?” He wasn’t asking out of curiosity. It was because he knew he’d caught me in a lie. I could tell by the accusatory tone he used.
“I said…it was an accident.” I made sure to keep my quiet voice strong enough to portray how I didn’t appreciate his interrogation and that the conversation was over without garnering any unwanted attention.
He must not have gotten the hint. Unspoken conversations could be tricky, especially when you didn’t really know the person you were trying to telepathically communicate with. “I’ll ask you one more time, Aubrey. Who did this to you?”
“And I’ll tell you one more time, Mr. Taylor…it was an accident at home.”
“So if I call your mom, she’ll tell me that same story? If I call her right now, she’ll back up what you just said?”
I couldn’t let him call my mom. It would only make things worse. But I couldn’t give him any more ammunition to use against me, so I had to remain calm and go along with it. Call his bluff. And hope he didn’t follow through with his threat. “Yup. She’ll tell you the same thing. Because that’s what happened.”
His eyes shifted between mine,
probably trying to find the truth in them. But I remained still and focused, hoping he couldn’t see the fear that ran through my veins, or hear my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.
Before anything else could be said or done, the music began to play in the hall, alerting the students that they had thirty seconds to get to class before the bell rang. Kids started filing in and taking their seats, and Mr. Taylor stood back up, moving to the front of the class as if we’d just had a casual conversation about the weather. My pulse pounded in my throat, choking me, and with every step he took away from me, my shoulders sagged a little more. I wanted to feel relieved that the subject had dropped, but I couldn’t help thinking that it was far from over.
I made sure to keep my head down for the rest of the class.
Panic filled me for the remainder of the day. I worried that Mr. Taylor would, in fact, call my mom. It wouldn’t matter to her that I denied it. She wouldn’t even care that it had all been her fault to begin with. Had she not busted through my door, there wouldn’t even be questions about what happened to my face. But she’d never see it like that. In her eyes, everything was my fault. It would be my fault that the TV kept her up, and therefore, all blame lies with me.
I managed to skirt by the rest of the day without anyone else commenting on my face. I did have one kid in science class ask what happened, but I just rolled my eyes and told him that he didn’t want to know. He found that funny and laughed before dropping the subject and moving on. Other than him, no one seemed to care. And really, I don’t even think he cared. I think he wanted to know more out of curiosity than anything.
The true test would come when my mom got home. I’d know within the first ten seconds of her walking through the door if anyone from the school had called her. It would be written all over her face; she wouldn’t even have to say anything. But after obsessing over it all day, I didn’t want to be anywhere near her when she came home. However, it would be impossible to avoid her since I had to be in the kitchen preparing dinner, and that’s where the garage door was.
I had just set the timer on the oven, thinking I was in the clear, when she breezed in. She took one look at me, froze in place, and then dropped her gaze. In slow, exhausted movements, she set her briefcase down on the floor and took her jacket off, hanging it on the rack in the laundry room she’d just passed through. I could see her throat working as she swallowed hard, her eyebrows pinched together in thought, but her jaw wasn’t tense, which meant she wasn’t mad. Maybe she couldn’t look my way because somewhere deep down inside, she felt bad for what she’d done. Guilty even. Maybe I wanted to believe that somewhere past the resentment and hatred she showed me, she actually cared. Then again, maybe that was simply wishful thinking on my part.
“I’m, uh… I’m not really hungry tonight, Bree. You can just wrap up the leftovers and we’ll have it tomorrow.” Her words were soft-spoken, which coming from anyone else would’ve sounded remorseful. “I’m tired and think I should go to bed early.” Not once did she meet my eyes, or even glance my way. She kept her head down, staring at her shoes, and then walked from the room.
Even her footfalls on the stairs were silent. And I waited and waited for the familiar sound of her door to close, only to hear the faint click of the latch, as if she didn’t even have the energy to shut it with her normal gusto.
I stood in the middle of the silent kitchen, baffled at what I’d just witnessed. My mom was mean, sure, and what happened the night before wasn’t the first time I’d been injured by her anger. But she wasn’t necessarily physically abusive, either. It was a rare occurrence for my pain to show on my body. I typically suffered from mental pain by her words that cut like razors to my soul, not physical pain inflicted by her hand. So maybe she truly did feel bad about it. Maybe, now that she was sober, she realized what she’d done and regretted it. However, she still had yet to apologize to me. I wouldn’t hold my breath for that one. Her obvious remorse would have to be enough.
I had never, in all my years, received an apology from my mother for anything. I wouldn’t expect one now.
The rest of the night stayed quiet. I ate alone in blissful silence and then cleaned up the kitchen. I took a long, hot bath, hoping it would relax me, and then started on my homework—without my TV on this time. Then I went to sleep, replaying the way a certain pair of crystal-clear blue eyes held me with such concern. Concern I never remembered experiencing before.
But the next night, just as I began to fully allow myself to relax, everything changed.
On Thursday, I walked into first period like I had the previous three mornings, except this time, anger fueled my every step. The wound on my eye had begun to close, but the betrayal I felt on the inside gaped open and remained raw. I stormed to my seat, ignoring Mr. Taylor’s cheerful greeting. After trying a few times to get me to talk, he gave up and moved to the podium at the front of the class, waiting for the bell to ring. I’m sure he knew I was mad. And he’d be an idiot not to know why. But the classroom was no place to discuss it.
“All right, class,” he said from the chalkboard after everyone found their seats and settled down. “We’re going to do things a little differently today. We’re going to have an open discussion about the topics coming up in the next chapter. There are no right or wrong opinions, but I think we should talk about this before getting into what the textbook will be teaching us. I’m sure most of you don’t pay attention to what goes on in the world around you, and I can bet that none of you watch the news. So if you don’t know what we’re talking about today, or don’t have an opinion, it’s fine. As long as you’re listening and observing.”
The entire room went silent as everyone sat at the edge of their seats, sucked into every word he spoke. It irritated me how he could captivate so many kids. But I also felt envious that while everyone seemed to be so eager to learn, all I wanted to do was yell at him. Then cry. But mostly yell.
“Today we are going to discuss our government and the role it plays in helping other countries. If you aren’t aware, we give and offer aid both financially and through our armed forces. We train and assist overseas militaries, we help with funding, and give assistance during natural disasters. So, what I want to know is, how do you feel about that? This is largely funded by your parents’ tax dollars, and once you get a job—if you don’t already have one—your tax dollars will contribute as well. And since this will be something you’ll have to deal with in the very near future, I want to know what your opinion is on the place America has in the world.”
“I think it’s none of our business what goes on in other countries,” I said before anyone else had a chance to raise their hand. I didn’t even bother waiting to be called on. I just shouted my answer out, lacing my words with the anger that erupted inside me.
Everyone turned to stare at me—most of them in shock since I rarely played an active role in class participation—and then looked back to our teacher for his response. Mr. Taylor tilted his head and blinked at me a few times, probably trying to figure out how to handle my outburst, and then said, “So you don’t think we should help others in need? You don’t think it’s our responsibility as the world’s leader to aid another country in the middle of a crisis?”
“You said there were no wrong opinions,” I argued back, not wavering from my answer.
“You are correct, Bree. Your opinion is not wrong, I’m just asking for clarification to make sure I understand you and to ensure that you have all the facts before making up your mind. Why do you feel this way?”
I cleared my throat and sat a little straighter in my seat, ignoring the fact that everyone in the room had their eyes glued to me. I guess I wasn’t invisible anymore, but I couldn’t digest that. I had to come up with something to say. “I just don’t think that it does any good for us to go in and dictate what’s best for other countries. It’s their land, their people, their religions…their government. They should be able to make those decisions without the big, badass United St
ates government coming in and making it for them. The end result is that it just causes more problems for everyone involved.” I took a deep breath, but it didn’t stop my angry tirade. Without thought, I continued. “Look at what happened on September eleventh. That wouldn’t have happened if we’d stayed out of other people’s business. We stepped in to help the Middle East, and it backfired.”
“So you’re saying nine-eleven was our fault?” someone from the other side of the room shouted. It seemed as though I’d pissed him off, or offended him. Which may very well be the case. It was a rather risky opinion to share.
Turning to that side of the classroom, to address whoever it was that spoke up, I started to explain myself before Mr. Taylor could interject. “I’m not saying we asked for it, or that we deserved it, or that it was right. All I’m saying is, these extremists hate us for meddling in their business, and they’re crazy enough to do what they did. And it’s not going to stop, because what did we do after that? We went back, and meddled some more. Where does it end?”
“Hold on.” Mr. Taylor stepped forward and held up his hand, halting anyone else from joining the discussion. “These extremists…they’re going into these countries and trying to take them over. We go in to keep that from happening, and that’s why they hate us. Because we’re stopping them from conquering these places and keeping them from growing their mercenaries.” He took a deep breath and ran his hand down the back of his neck, as if relieving tension. “Let’s look at this from a different point of view. Pretend each one of you is a country, okay? Your families are your citizens. Your house is your land. This might bring everything into a better perspective. So, Aubrey, say your sadistic brother is trying to take over your land, taking control of your country, and he’s slaughtering your citizens in order to gain that control. You’re helpless, right? You don’t think that it’s”—he pointed to a kid in the front row—“Steven’s right, as the leading country in the world, to come in and help you out? To save your people and keep your brother from causing more destruction to your family?”
