Status: On hold , help me?
Smile for Me
fivee
High school was going to kill me.
Classes had only started again two weeks ago, and I was already bored of it. I hated sitting in the class rooms, listening to the teacher babble on and on about ions and ionization and a whole bunch of other crap that I couldn’t care less about. I wasn’t planning on doing anything with chemistry – or anything with math, actually, and only went to class so I could graduate. Graduating was something I looked forward to because, while it meant college for other kids, to me it only meant one thing: freedom.
Sighing, I put down my pencil and raised my hand to ask for a hall pass to go to the washroom. I really just wanted to get out of there; listening to the teacher talk about certain chemistry formulas was giving me a headache.
Standing from my desk, I walked up the aisle and took the pink sheet from him, putting it in my back pocket as I went to the door. I could feel Mr. Paulson’s frowning eyes on my back, but I ignored him.
The halls were empty and my shoes thudded softly on the floors, echoing slightly off the locker lined walls. I reached the girls’ washroom and pushed the door open, hesitantly looking inside to see if anyone was in there.
It was empty.
I walked to the row of sinks along the one wall and stared into the mirror, my reflection looking back at me. I studied myself, taking in the blue of my eyes and the shapes of my eyebrows. I pushed my side swept bangs out of the way to contemplate whether I should get an eyebrow piercing. I really wanted one, but I wasn’t sure if it would look good.
Sighing, I let my hair fall back in place and ran my fingers through it. I had dyed it a few days before school started and the once honey-blond hair with dark gold highlights was now black and where the length had been almost middle-back, it was now about three inches below my shoulders and layered, with long, wispy bangs that framed my face.
I stood back from the mirror and took a deep breath before looking at the reason why everyone had been staring at me funny all day.
My left cheek was swollen along the bone and a dark purple and red bruise showed through my make-up. I had tried to hide it as well as I could, but could only do so much without making it look an inch thick on my skin. I gently ran my finger along the puffy cheekbone, remembering all too clearly the way it had felt when my father had brought his fist down hard across my face, and the way the slap had seemed to resonate throughout the house as I had fallen to my knees, clutching my face burning face as I stared up at him.
Yes, my father hit me. It didn’t happen very often, but it happened nonetheless. It was still always a shock whenever he did it, and still broke my heart. He was a drunk; he had been ever since my mom had died, almost ten years ago, and had been drinking more and more heavily since my sister left four years ago and never came back. He just couldn’t deal with the pain of losing both his wife and oldest daughter and the alcohol ruled his life, damaging his mind. And, I supposed, I did provoke him. Most of the time he hit me or shoved me because of something I said; I had a bad habit of talking back and being lippy when it wasn’t needed, so I was to blame for his anger, as well.
I seemed to be to blame for everything lately.
Thinking I had been gone long enough, I turned and left the washroom just as the bell rang.
It was lunch time.
Classes had only started again two weeks ago, and I was already bored of it. I hated sitting in the class rooms, listening to the teacher babble on and on about ions and ionization and a whole bunch of other crap that I couldn’t care less about. I wasn’t planning on doing anything with chemistry – or anything with math, actually, and only went to class so I could graduate. Graduating was something I looked forward to because, while it meant college for other kids, to me it only meant one thing: freedom.
Sighing, I put down my pencil and raised my hand to ask for a hall pass to go to the washroom. I really just wanted to get out of there; listening to the teacher talk about certain chemistry formulas was giving me a headache.
Standing from my desk, I walked up the aisle and took the pink sheet from him, putting it in my back pocket as I went to the door. I could feel Mr. Paulson’s frowning eyes on my back, but I ignored him.
The halls were empty and my shoes thudded softly on the floors, echoing slightly off the locker lined walls. I reached the girls’ washroom and pushed the door open, hesitantly looking inside to see if anyone was in there.
It was empty.
I walked to the row of sinks along the one wall and stared into the mirror, my reflection looking back at me. I studied myself, taking in the blue of my eyes and the shapes of my eyebrows. I pushed my side swept bangs out of the way to contemplate whether I should get an eyebrow piercing. I really wanted one, but I wasn’t sure if it would look good.
Sighing, I let my hair fall back in place and ran my fingers through it. I had dyed it a few days before school started and the once honey-blond hair with dark gold highlights was now black and where the length had been almost middle-back, it was now about three inches below my shoulders and layered, with long, wispy bangs that framed my face.
I stood back from the mirror and took a deep breath before looking at the reason why everyone had been staring at me funny all day.
My left cheek was swollen along the bone and a dark purple and red bruise showed through my make-up. I had tried to hide it as well as I could, but could only do so much without making it look an inch thick on my skin. I gently ran my finger along the puffy cheekbone, remembering all too clearly the way it had felt when my father had brought his fist down hard across my face, and the way the slap had seemed to resonate throughout the house as I had fallen to my knees, clutching my face burning face as I stared up at him.
Yes, my father hit me. It didn’t happen very often, but it happened nonetheless. It was still always a shock whenever he did it, and still broke my heart. He was a drunk; he had been ever since my mom had died, almost ten years ago, and had been drinking more and more heavily since my sister left four years ago and never came back. He just couldn’t deal with the pain of losing both his wife and oldest daughter and the alcohol ruled his life, damaging his mind. And, I supposed, I did provoke him. Most of the time he hit me or shoved me because of something I said; I had a bad habit of talking back and being lippy when it wasn’t needed, so I was to blame for his anger, as well.
I seemed to be to blame for everything lately.
Thinking I had been gone long enough, I turned and left the washroom just as the bell rang.
It was lunch time.