In the past when I’ve moved to a small town, things usually haven’t settled down for at least a month after my arrival, which is about how long it takes for some new story to pop up and divert everyone’s attention. I don’t want to walk through that door because the moment I do, I’ll be allowing this horrible experience to begin. And, the longer I stand outside, the longer I can shield myself from the unhappiness, embarrassment, and general attitude of displacement that goes hand-in-hand with the role “New Girl.”
Naturally, I shy away from being at the receiving end of the jealousy, rude stares, and snide remarks coming from insecure girls who are threatened by my presence; not because I’m some wonderful sight to behold but because they get this idea in their heads that their boyfriend will want to conquer something new. People shouldn’t have this idea of being threatened by me. I don’t typically stick around long enough to form any lasting relationships, I don’t trust anyone aside from my mother, and I don’t make it easy for others to get close to me.
Some things, however, are unavoidable so I may as well suck it up and get used to it. My eyes slam shut and I count to ten, then back down to one as I prepare my mind, hoping to become shrouded in tranquility. Once my anxiety has dissipated, I put on my mask of strength. It may be a façade, but I can’t be myself if I plan to make it through this.
There are two versions of myself. The one I portray in the presence of others, and the one who’s only allowed out behind closed doors.
Finally, with my false air of surety, I hurl myself at the door before I’m given the opportunity to change my mind. Unfortunately, using much more force in the process, than is necessary. The door flies with a loud metallic bang as the handle connects with the wall.
Every pair of eyes in the room turn on me.
So much for blending in and not creating a scene. Way to be graceful.
A mega-watt smile lights up my face and I walk as confidently as I can at this point, straight up to the teacher and hand her my manila folder of new-student legalities.
She harrumphs and squints as she peers down her long slender nose. With a gush of air, she huffs her frizzy salt and pepper hair from her face, revealing a pointy chin that’s currently housing the largest mole I’ve ever seen.
“This inconsiderate young lady who just interrupted my class by showing up late and causing a commotion, is Sloane,” she addresses the class.
Turning to me, she orders that I find any empty seat I can, and also to show better effort at refraining from such ostentatious tardies in the future.
And the shitty welcomes just keep rolling in.
“Oh, Miss Monroe… Be thinking about a few things you wouldn’t mind sharing about yourself before we leave today. We’d like to get to know you better,” Ms. Murphy, my teacher, declares.
Great. WONDERFUL.
“There’s nothing I’d rather do today than get up and give very vague facts about myself to a room full of people my age, all of whom could even give a rat’s ass at what I have to say,” I mumble under my breath.
Sighing, I weave my way through the rows of students to the back of the room where the only available desk is located, paying extra mind to the steps I take so that I don’t embarrass myself again. Placing my plain black bookbag on the ground beside the chair, I plop down into my seat.
Ms. Murphy’s stark voice never misses a beat.
“Well now, let’s just begin where we left off. I believe it was page 353, third paragraph.”
She loses me after a few sentences, her voice droning on like a robotic prompt used by companies in place of actual humans. It’s clear she’s read this material more than her fair share of times, but she really needs to work on a better way to engage her audience if she expects them to learn.
Trying to be stealthy, I steal a glance or two around the room at my new classmates to see what I’m up against. There is about an equal ratio of guys and girls in this class. I spy two preppy and seemingly snobby girls (from their “resting bitch face”) toward the front. There are also a few jocks, two camouflage-enthusiasts, an artistic extremist with black hair and multi-colored streaks, and more plain janes who blend into the crowd than anything else.
My neighbor to my right grabs my attention because of her insecure posture and withdrawn actions, even though from what I can see she’s quite lovely. At first all I can really get a glimpse of are the long, glossy waves that create a curtain around her face, her hair so deep in color that it borders on being Black. When she tucks the strands behind her ear, an elfin face with a dainty, slightly upturned nose is revealed.
Although her physique appears to be slightly more slender than my own generous curves, the effect is more of a gracefully elegant one rather than a sickly one. I’m having a difficult time categorizing her, when my eyes land on her textbook, angled in such a way that she can shield Ms. Murphy from seeing a novel she’s reading.
Not such a bad idea in this class.
Our teacher continues to read our text book word for word, and page by page, but her unenthusiastic approach to narrating isn’t the worst thing bothering me. Every few seconds one of my classmates turn in their seats, completely unashamed for me to catch them staring like I’m the new display at the zoo.
Pretty much the only person not partaking in this rude behavior is the withdrawn book-worm to my right. While every other student in class has garnered Ms. Murphy’s attention, my neighbor doesn’t appear to have even caught on to the fact that I’m now sitting right next to her.
“There’s no reason to even try going over this material if everyone is too distracted to listen to their lesson,” she says, marking her place and then snapping the textbook shut.
“I guess you better introduce yourself officially.” Her demanding stare leaves no wiggle room.
“Me?” is the only weak reply I can manage, caught off-guard despite her prior warning.
Now, all 23 sets of eyes in the class are turned to me, staring in expectation from Ms. Murphy’s declaration.
Ugh. Getting put on the spot is something I abhor more than anything.
“Um…” I try to buy myself some time to think up some very vague facts.
“I’m Sloane Monroe. I’m almost 18, and I’m new here,” I establish, quickly adding “obviously,” before some other smartass has the opportunity to do so.
“Would you like to tell us more about yourself, like where you’re originally from, or if you’ve lived other places? Hobbies? Likes? Crazy past experiences? Interests?” she urges me to continue, apparently wanting an autobiography.
This is getting into dangerous territory, a line of questioning I would generally try to shut down in its tracks. Oversharing is something my mother has taught me to avoid like the plague and my responses to these types of questions are always well-thought in order to protect my ever-changing identity. They can also make me come off as callous and having a mad-at-the-world attitude.
“Not really… I’m from all over. My mom travels a lot for work,” I conclude. Or, that statement was meant in conclusion but this woman is pushier than your average teacher.
“Name one place you’ve lived?”
“Southern Florida,” I answer without hesitation.
“Tell us one thing about yourself, like something you like. A favorite place you’ve visited? Favorite food?” She’s firing off questions like a lawyer who’s trying to cause a slip-up, trying to catch me in a lie.
“Is this an interrogation?” I attempt to distract and deflect. I grip the sides of my desk. I’m fuming now, mostly because I absolutely cannot stand someone who just can’t take a hint. Nosiness is a very undesirable characteristic. This whole ordeal is making me on edge and regrettably, Old Teach isn’t getting side-tracked like I’d hoped to accomplish. She’s still looking to me for an answer, one hand laid on her plump hip. I go with the easiest and less personal option.
“Eggplant Parmesan is my favorite food,” I reply.
“Oh, come on… you’re not giving
us a sense of who you are. Honey, we aren’t trying to pry. Give us something personal and uniquely you,” she goads, changing her voice so that she gives off a more friendly impression as she attempts to get her way.
Actually, you are trying to pry.
I’ve made introductions like this numerous times and no school has ever tried to extract so much nonsense, non-essential mumbo jumbo from me. I feel like telling her I’ve already told her all she needs to know, and to try to keep up as I rehash the key points. But that would be bad.
“I’m Sloane Monroe. Seventeen years old. I like to read and write. There’s a lot more to me than all that. The most prominent thing in my life is that I’m a nomad. I don’t stay in one place for too long. That’s my life synopsis so far, and that’s all I care to share at the moment.”
Typically, I’m not a standoffish person and I try to remain in a fairly respectful mode. However, pressing me for information that I want to remain guarded… that needs to remain unknown, can bring out a bitter undertone in my manners.
Damn.
I tried to give her a little more info. I don’t know what she was expecting from me, but truthfully, reading and writing really is all I do in my spare time. Now she’s gone from shooting questions at me to shooting daggers instead and her ears transform to an alarming shade of red.
Many of my fellow students have turned their backs to me, clearly catching on that I’ve rubbed Ms. Murphy the wrong way. It takes her a minute to let my words sink in before turning away, ignoring me altogether to address her students once more.
“Kelly, how about you take over in reading the passage.”
Thank God, hopefully Kelly doesn’t sound like a robot.
“Of course, Ms. Murphy,” one of the preppy girls at the front agrees, sitting up straighter and rolling her shoulders back, taking her role way too seriously. Kelly’s heavily lined eyes flit around the classroom her glossy pink lips spread into a grin, her smile so fake and plastic that it rivals Barbie’s.
My relief over having a new reader dies on her first sentence, her nasally and pathetic voice making me wish I could rip my ears off.
Way, way worse than the monotonous option of Ms. Murphy.
Instead, I stare out the window and observe the way the rain torrents the black asphalt, the clouds casting a hovering, constant shadow on the town.
This day is ominous. Hopeless.
At some point, I’m able to drown out all of the unbearable noises of the classroom, Kelly’s voice included, focusing only on the pelting drops of water.
I’m so intent on studying the weather, I don’t even realize when Kelly stops assaulting everyone’s ears with her words. It’s the movement of the classroom as a whole, putting away their textbooks and beginning to pack up that breaks the trance.
The last five minutes of English are reserved for writing down important reminders such as assignment due dates, school sporting events, etc. After that, everyone gathers up their belongings and we sit and chat quietly amongst ourselves.
Since I don’t know anyone, nor do I possess the desire for engaging in mindless chatter, and since five minutes is hardly enough time to read any of Gone with the Wind, I opt for skimming the walls of the room. Like most English and Writing classrooms, there are posters showcasing the rules of punctuation and grammar.
My wayward eyes are the reason I catch Ms. Murphy in the act of rounding up a rather ambitious stack of papers, straightening them, and looking directly at me. She stands, slithering amongst the rows of desks, right up beside my own. The thickness of the stack causes them to slap against the surface of my desk, as she drops them in front of me.
“Here is all the work you need to catch up on in order to be qualified to pass my class. I should remind you my class is required to be eligible for graduation,” she huffs. She’s thrown down the gauntlet, and I read into her meaning. The old hag will make my life unbearable, relish in doing so, and ultimately fail me if I disrespect her again.
I really should apologize because there could be many underlying factors that have molded her into the person she is today.
Upbringing. Circumstance. Level of intelligence. Self-esteem, especially.
All those could factor in to her unsavory attitude. But, I won’t apologize. I refuse to waste my breath and I refuse to appear to my new classmates as a suck-up. So, I make no response to her statement.
It’s impossible for me to have accrued this much work, when school has only been in session for a week. Plus, everyone knows the first week is always the most laid-back. All this extra work goes back to the whole ‘gauntlet’ thing.
The assignments are so numerous, it should take me a few weeks to get caught up, but I’m determined to make this backfire. Peeking up through my lashes I give her a cold and calculating smile, the same smile I witnessed my father give my mother when he was about to do something cruel.
“I’ll have it back to you by Friday morning.” Flipping through the stack, I’m relieved to find most of these assignments are similar to ones I’ve done at other schools. This is the reason I always keep all my schoolwork.
Easy-peasy, and in her fucking face.
Peering up from the work, I say, “Yeah, this should be no problem at all. But if I do have any questions, I’ll ask one of my classmates for some help on how they handled the assignment I’m having trouble with.” There, now she knows I’m no fool, and I see straight through her bullshit.
Ms. Murphy visibly pales, and she takes a step back.
“If you have any questions, you let me know,” she attempts to assert, but it comes out meekly this time.
And the fire-breathing dragon transforms to a weak little mouse.
Finally, the Teacher from the Black Lagoon spins on her heel and scurries away, looking back over her shoulder every few steps as if I might come after her. It’ll do her some good to be fearful of me, then she won’t try a stunt like this again.
Squinting down at this monstrous heap of paper nonsense in front of me, I begin leafing through it again quickly. I hope to God that my other teachers have an improved reciprocation of my presence.
At last, the bell rings.
Chapter Four
Second period is a basic horticulture class, and I immediately spot many of the same faces from English. It would seem gardening and farming is a big part of the community in which I now live, prompting most students to take the class almost as if it were mandatory. Thankfully, my horticulture teacher Miss Laurent is less daunting than the prickly Ms. Murphy. I could even venture to say she’s welcoming.
Her bright and sunny personality is metaphorically befitting of the subject she teaches, and she’s also outwardly beautiful. Long dirty Blonde hair with natural highlights is pulled into a sleek-ponytail, despite wearing a smock, she’s dressed chic and stylish, and her large doe-eyes give her a sweet and innocent appearance. She looks more like an angel than a teacher, the type of woman that other women covet.
Miss Laurent is only a few years older than the students in her class and I quickly learn this is her first year teaching, apparently having replaced the previous teacher when he or she retired, but you’d never be able to tell with her charismatic ways.
My first thought once I settle into the flow of things in horticulture, is how appreciative I am that I get to follow up the glum Ms. Murphy with the positive Miss Laurent. Plus, I’ve always loved plants, flowers especially, so I’m unsurprised when the class comes and goes in the blink of an eye.
The next bell rings and I over eagerly spring from my seat, practically starving now that my breakfast has had time to wear off. The students are divided into three lunches, and I’m in the first lunch at 11:15 in the morning.
It’s not even lunchtime yet for heaven’s sake!
I’ll definitely need to pack some snacks every day.
Pulling out the folded-up map from my bag once again, I make my way to the cafeteria where a long line has already formed. Students are crowded in mass hysteria, like
desperate people outside a homeless shelter. A few try to cut off everyone else by sneaking up to where their friends are, attempting to act nonchalant as if they are just having a casual conversation. Multiple people do this, so it’s about ten minutes before I even receive a tray.
Walking through the packed kitchen lanes, I note the whiteboard behind the counter displaying the meals of the day. The choices are spaghetti, although it looks more like noodles and ground beef than the authentic Italian cuisine, or the salad bar. I opt for the latter, making a mental note to pack my lunch from now on.
Grabbing a bottle of water, I head to the cashier check-out area. I pay and begin scanning the room, disgruntled to find that every table is packed leaving no quiet corners, so I gravitate toward an outside courtyard that appears to be empty. Glancing out the windows, I’m relieved to find that the clouds overhead are beginning to break up, and the rain from this morning has terminated.
I have to throw all my weight into opening the heavy doors to the courtyard, but the trouble is worth it when I find a stone pathway surrounded by shrubbery and a few flowers. Multiple colors of Mums and Black-Eyed-Susans accent the surprisingly expansive haven. An old wooden picnic table with peeling paint and a few concrete benches occupy the area, although from the looks of it, not many people spend time out here.
The muted trickling of water draws me in its direction, where I happen upon a small pond with fish in vivid oranges and golds swimming oblivious to my intrusion. I suspect them to be Koi fish although I’m not positive having only seen drawings.
The small waterfall recirculating the water of the pond proves to be both soothing and calming, the perfect cocktail to fight off the angst I’m overrun with. Despite mastering the science of withholding outward reactions, I’ve always been susceptible to bouts of anxiety. I guess that’s expected when you’re constantly in fight or flight mode.
Settling myself on the stone lip of the pond, I begin squeezing the packet of balsamic vinaigrette onto my salad. I’m a couple of bites in, when I’m suddenly startled by a crinkling coming from behind me.
Love on the Run Page 3
