Complete Unknown

I take my sweet time walking to school, and as I near the student parking lot and prepare to cross the street, I slow down even more. Class starts in ten minutes, so it’s not as if I’m pressed for time. I hate waiting around inside the building for the bell to ring, because it’s always done alone. Either hiding away in the computer lab or wandering the halls, it’s never fun.

As if my suburban, melodramatic life can’t get any cheesier, being faced with the fact that I have no credible friends isn’t something I enjoy.

Before I even get across the road a streak of powder blue enters my peripheral vision. It’s one hell of a streak, and its tires squeal as it stops just a couple of feet away from me, the car’s horn simultaneously deafening me. I jump to the side out of pure fright, stealing a glance at the car.

It’s Ms. Roberts.

Of course it’s Ms. Roberts. As if my day can’t get any worse—there she is, in her powder blue Prius, shock and horror etched into her features. What a wonderful way to bump into your guidance counsellor. As soon as I recognize her, I duck and nearly sprint my way across the street and onto the student parking lot in an effort for her not to recognize me. But when you narrowly miss getting popped off the front of someone’s bumper, you’re kind of hard to miss.

On the way into the school, I curse at my own luck. I already know what today’s topic will be for our lunchtime session: Why weren’t you watching where you were going, Hannah? Are you sure you didn’t mean to do that? Would you like to talk about it?

In a huff, I avoid the looks people might be giving me and make my way straight to the computer lab. Today I don’t feel like making a fool out of myself by waiting around in the corridors. I want to squirrel myself away for as long as possible.

A wave of relief passes through me when I see it empty through the door’s small window, but when I give a heated shove on the handle I quickly find out why. It’s locked. Today just can’t get any better.

Turning away from the door, I sigh in defeat. Yes, because in my world things like not paying attention to where I’m going, trying not to get picked off by my teacher’s Prius, and having no access to the school’s computer lab are the only causes for my concern.

As if my mom or Bill don't take up enough of that.

“Hannah, hey!” I stop at the squeaky, uneven voice calling out my name.

Only one person ever really talked to me freely in school (i.e. not because we were forced together for a project in class.) Thomas moved here last year, halfway into the last semester... not exactly the greatest time to start at a new school, and the results have shown. He is talking to me, after all. And while I’m grateful to have someone to hang out with whenever he sees me around, I know it’s simply because he’s like me. He has no one else, and he doesn’t want to spend him time alone.

My smile is genuine when I turn around, happy to see a friendly face. I’m met with piercing blue eyes behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a mop of coal black hair. At almost seventeen years old, he stood just a couple of inches taller than my 5’1” self.

“Hey, Thomas,” I greet, speaking for the first time since I entered the school. Whether or not he has a nickname is beyond me—we don’t share any classes, and speaking in the hallways is as far as our ‘friendship’ goes. “What do you have first?”

“English,” he made a face, one I had to fight a smile at.

His shortness wouldn’t normally mean anything to the girls in the school, but again, he is like me. Painfully shy, except he really cares about people’s opinions. He squeaks whenever a girl gives him a single look. He lacks confidence, and everybody pounced on him for it. It doesn’t matter how much of a looker he might be or how cute his boyish features are. The lionesses of the school’s figurative pride quickly singled him out.

“Biology,” I reply, wishing I would give more than just a one-worded response for once.

Thomas is the one everybody should be worried about. Because he does get bullied. He has a reason to be sad. Yet here he is, smiling at me. As if my appearance brightens his day.

He’s just as much of an alien in this school as I am. He knows it, too, and I guess we sort of banded together because of that. It never ventures outside of school, however. And that’s how I know he only hangs out with me because he has to.

When the bell rings for homeroom, he gives me a small smile. “You’re lucky. See you around,” He says, hitching his backpack further up on his shoulders before carrying on his way to one of his advanced placement classes, then only worried about his grades. Not about social statuses or how wandering the corridors alone might make him look.

Nobody else acknowledges me in the hallways, but it’s not as if I expected anyone to. I dug my own hole over the years, and this is where I ended up. The loner. The odd kid out… but I’m fine with that. I am.

Becka Hamilton sits next to me in homeroom, and even though we were friends in grade school she doesn’t acknowledge my existence. Once we were in middle school and she realized that hey, it’s not very cool to hang out with the perpetually quiet, weird kid, she moved on.

People take my quietness in different ways. It depends whether or not your glass is half empty of half full, I guess. Some don’t see me as being just shy, and in part I’m not. There are times when I feel as if I have nothing to say, and I don’t waste my breath rambling just to talk. Those people think I have my head stuck up my ass, basically. Everyone knows how I am, and the only time anybody ever tries with me is when they either need something or want to get a good laugh out of their friends by trying to make conversation with me.

I try to make sure that doesn’t happen anymore. I might have fallen for the traps a couple of times… gotten my hopes up, let down too many times. So now, when anyone of any ‘popular’ status approaches me, I all but ignore them.

And that is how I survive high school.

Going through the day is a bore. My favorite class is English, and of course that would be my very last period and my one and only reason for not being tempted to skip. I take notes I won’t study, give half-assed answers to the teachers that seem to demand my fucking attention, and worry how much farther I’m digging myself into the metaphoric societal hole.

In my fourth period History class Mr. Savage isn’t particularly enthralled with the sophomore’s studies, at least not as much as he usually is. He reads from a textbook in monotone, and I have to fight to stay awake.

I can’t help but let my mind wander—it’s the only thing I can do to even try to stay awake. I wonder about some of the most mundane, things. Mom is probably at home cleaning up for when Bill gets home and worrying about the bills. Bill’s out beating the streets and probably not taking part in the most legal happenings within the police system. I happen to know for a fact he’s not beneath taking bribes—and hey, that’s just more money to gamble away, right?

With a soft sigh, I lean my head down on my desk and wait for the lunch bell to ring. Savage doesn’t care whether or not I listen. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even notice if I just got up out of my seat and walked out of here.

In a sudden rush of sadness I wonder if my life would have been different had I grown up living with my father rather than my mother. I would obviously be in a different school, a whole different city. A whole different life. The thought of it scared me. Would it be worse? Would my guidance counsellor actually have good reason to worry… would the kids have a reason to stay away from me?

Maybe it would be better. That one thought alone sparks a great amount of hope—which is completely useless. I try to squish those feelings, but it’s never that easy. I wonder if I would take more interest in school instead of just scraping by and doing what I have to in order to keep everybody off my back. Perhaps I’d join a club; maybe I’d actually have some friends. Maybe I would have a decent relationship with my father, and maybe I wouldn’t resent my mother so much.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. And this is how I torture myself. I have to stop thinking about the what-ifs, and live with the hand I’ve been dealt.

Lunchtime doesn’t do much to lift my spirits. Ms. Roberts is in her office, busying herself at her computer. I let the door shut softly behind me before trudging across the room to one of the comfortable lounge chairs meant for the students. I sit awkwardly on the lip of the chair, clutching my backpack as if it would shield me from her and her prying questions. If there’s one thing I hate most about these sessions, it’s sitting here waiting for her to grill me.

Nervously, I run a hand through my ponytail, only now realizing how much of a mess it really is. If Mom had given me a ride, I would’ve had more time to get ready.
I flinch when Ms. Roberts begins, and I can tell she probably rehearsed what she had to say a few times by now. “You gave me quite a scare today, Hannah.”

Of course she would bring that up. As if her Prius could’ve killed me, anyway. I bite my lip, having to resist letting a snide remark slip. “I’m sorry.”

Apologizing is always the safest route to take, even if you don’t really mean it.

“Don’t worry about it,” She says through a smile, pushing her blonde hair back and adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. At twenty-four she’s the school’s youngest counsellor, and most kids prefer her over the others because they can ‘relate’ to her.

I can’t. She’s getting paid to talk to me—she’s getting paid to care. How can I sit here and spill my heart out to someone who doesn’t really give a shit about me? Even if it’s just giving her a rundown of my day, I can’t fucking do it.

No. If I’m ever going to, it will be with someone I know. Someone I can trust.

When I don’t say anything, she leans back in her chair and gives me another smile. Almost sympathetic, though I have no reason to need it. She pulled out her notebook, and I gulp back a groan. This is where it gets sticky. “So, how was your morning? I saw you walk into the parking lot.”

That’s fairly obvious. How else does she think I ended up peeling off her bumper? But I’m not a liar, so I begrudgingly let a small detail slip. “Yeah, I walked to school.”
She writes that down, and I want to slap myself.

“Why’d you do that?” She still smiles through what she says, as if whatever I tell her interests her for some godforsaken reason.

Cornered, I shrug helplessly and look toward my shoes. “I was late for the bus. Mom was too busy to drive me to school.”

Alright, so maybe I am a liar. Mom could’ve easily driven me if she wanted to, it’s not as if she had a whole lot of things to do—but in her mind she might have. And I hadn’t even bothered to ask so really, it’s my fault. I don’t need Ms. Roberts reading into this more than she already is.

I can tell she wants to ask more about it, but from past experience she knows not to push me too hard. So instead she just gives me another one of those smiles and makes a sound similar to an ‘mm’hmm,’ before she goes back to scribbling furiously in her notebook.

It seems as if she’s writing an entire book—all from the two sentences I’d uttered. The thought intimidates me. I don’t want to know how she thinks of me. If I’m just some spoiled brat looking for attention. Because I can’t handle that. I need to know that at least someone out there understands. Even if I don't want them to.

I do sort of like Ms. Roberts—most of the students call her by her first name, which is Anne. She’s good at what she does. She makes you feel comfortable, as if you can tell her anything.

But that’s what her job is.

And that’s what always gets me. Pushes me back to reality. To where I’m just a high school kid and she’s just playing therapist and none of this is really going to make an impact in either her life or mine.

The rest of the session goes as it usually does. Small talk, and neither of us accomplishing anything other than feeling awkward. When our twenty minutes is up and I’m scrambling up from my seat, struggling with my backpack to get out of there as quickly as I can, I catch a look of disappointment cross over Anne’s features. Only for a second, however, and then it’s quickly replaced with the smile I knew so well.

“See you tomorrow, Hannah. And please try to make the bus. I don’t want to worry about you.”

What she says makes me pause in the doorway, my hand resting on the handle as I dip my head down, once again staring at my feet. She actually sounds as if she cares, and I can’t let myself think that. I can’t.

So I do what I always do, I keep quiet and shut the door softly behind me, readying myself to face the rest of my lunch period.