Status: Currently on Hiatus
The Breakdown of Natalie Whitman
Dr. Jennifer Phillips
When I was in high school, I was that girl who was neither popular nor beautiful. I was like that for a while, the awkward stages of life. Sometimes I would get teased to the point I cried in the girls’ bathroom. Kids could be so cruel. Then in senior year, I hit puberty. My flat chest burst into C cups, my curves developed. My legs became the talk of the school and who can get between them the faster was the game. The other girls, the has-beens, were jealous. One day, while I washed my hands, they took me by surprise and beat me. They were relentless, kicking me in my stomach and stomping on my face and legs. The words they shrieked burned into my mind for the rest of life. I had to crawl out and go to the nurse.
“What happened to you?” Words of disbelief from the grey-haired nurse, if I looked as bad as I felt, I understood why she reacted the way she did. Terrified to tell the truth, I told her I had a nasty fall down the stairs. To this day, I don’t think she believed that. My mom took me home and I had to stay in bed for a week because I apparently broke a rib. If it was up to me, I would never go back. That day was when I began to build my mask, my beautiful relic that I would wear upon my face. It felt like initiation into a secret cult, only this time, it was the secret cult of society.
The girl I saw in the hall, I could tell: she was a chief in the cult of society. Later I would discover that she would be a surprise. At such a young age, her eyes showed me that something was the matter. Eyes are said to be windows to the soul, as corny as that may be, but has some validity. You can tell a lot about a person depending on their eyes. Eyes are one of the last parts to be covered by the mask of society. It was a shame that some at that age would have such a big mask. High school did that to you, it helped you build your mask and decorate it.
The first day was pretty lonely, so I decided to go for a walk. I saw no harm in leaving my office. After all, I didn’t think anyone would come today. It was the first day of school, no one wanted to talk right now. Quietly, I slipped into the halls, like a ghost. The school was a very quaint building, like the perfect high school. I wished my high school was like this. For awhile, my clicking heels were the only sound in the entire building, but then I heard another pair of shoes, perhaps they wanted to do a duo. I turned around and found myself almost face to face with a brunette woman. She seemed to be in her late thirties with dark thoughtful eyes and smooth locks of chestnut hair. A slight chuckle escaped from her throat and she flashed her pearly whites, which were beautiful.
“You’re new, right?” Questioned the woman, my guess was that she was a teacher. Nodding, I quickly snickered a bit, in case she was going to bring up my fall. Instead, she did something remarkable in this day and age; she gave me a warm welcome and introduced herself. Her name was Daphne Torres and she was a World Language teacher. She had a mysterious aura about her, like a femme fatale kind of presence even though she seemed really sweet. With another smile, an invitation to go to her room was extended. Like an outcast being invited to a party, I quickly accepted her polite request and walked to her room with her.
Bells rang and rang again, signaling the end of many periods and yet Daphne and I continued to talk. In the length of time, I learned that she was born in Germany to a Chilean and a German. It seemed strange, but fun. She was currently married to a teacher at a nearby high school, the sports rivals of the Lincolns. She taught Spanish class but was fluent in French, Italian and German as well as English. I was lucky if I could get by with my bit of German. With her husband, she had two small children. In that length of time, she found out that I was never married, I live with a Yorkshire terrier named Mr. Puddlesworth and that I moved from New York. However, I didn’t tell her what was behind the mask and I bet she didn’t tell me what is behind hers. Finally, one of the bells rang and students began to flood the room. In that swarm of students, I saw her: I saw Natalie Whitman.
“What happened to you?” Words of disbelief from the grey-haired nurse, if I looked as bad as I felt, I understood why she reacted the way she did. Terrified to tell the truth, I told her I had a nasty fall down the stairs. To this day, I don’t think she believed that. My mom took me home and I had to stay in bed for a week because I apparently broke a rib. If it was up to me, I would never go back. That day was when I began to build my mask, my beautiful relic that I would wear upon my face. It felt like initiation into a secret cult, only this time, it was the secret cult of society.
The girl I saw in the hall, I could tell: she was a chief in the cult of society. Later I would discover that she would be a surprise. At such a young age, her eyes showed me that something was the matter. Eyes are said to be windows to the soul, as corny as that may be, but has some validity. You can tell a lot about a person depending on their eyes. Eyes are one of the last parts to be covered by the mask of society. It was a shame that some at that age would have such a big mask. High school did that to you, it helped you build your mask and decorate it.
The first day was pretty lonely, so I decided to go for a walk. I saw no harm in leaving my office. After all, I didn’t think anyone would come today. It was the first day of school, no one wanted to talk right now. Quietly, I slipped into the halls, like a ghost. The school was a very quaint building, like the perfect high school. I wished my high school was like this. For awhile, my clicking heels were the only sound in the entire building, but then I heard another pair of shoes, perhaps they wanted to do a duo. I turned around and found myself almost face to face with a brunette woman. She seemed to be in her late thirties with dark thoughtful eyes and smooth locks of chestnut hair. A slight chuckle escaped from her throat and she flashed her pearly whites, which were beautiful.
“You’re new, right?” Questioned the woman, my guess was that she was a teacher. Nodding, I quickly snickered a bit, in case she was going to bring up my fall. Instead, she did something remarkable in this day and age; she gave me a warm welcome and introduced herself. Her name was Daphne Torres and she was a World Language teacher. She had a mysterious aura about her, like a femme fatale kind of presence even though she seemed really sweet. With another smile, an invitation to go to her room was extended. Like an outcast being invited to a party, I quickly accepted her polite request and walked to her room with her.
Bells rang and rang again, signaling the end of many periods and yet Daphne and I continued to talk. In the length of time, I learned that she was born in Germany to a Chilean and a German. It seemed strange, but fun. She was currently married to a teacher at a nearby high school, the sports rivals of the Lincolns. She taught Spanish class but was fluent in French, Italian and German as well as English. I was lucky if I could get by with my bit of German. With her husband, she had two small children. In that length of time, she found out that I was never married, I live with a Yorkshire terrier named Mr. Puddlesworth and that I moved from New York. However, I didn’t tell her what was behind the mask and I bet she didn’t tell me what is behind hers. Finally, one of the bells rang and students began to flood the room. In that swarm of students, I saw her: I saw Natalie Whitman.
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