Hidden

Once I got to school I waved goodbye to my brother and watched as he drove away from the school, the score to The Painted Veil booming through the thin material of his tiny blue car. I walked through the front of the school and I was welcomed by the sound of chatter from the various groups that clustered towards the entrance of Bonanza Valley. I rarely pay much attention to those in the front. I looked towards my feet and swerved through the crowd, turning left at the end of the hall and down the stairs into the cafeteria. I see my friends gathered around a table by the window walls and I move towards them. The middle of the cafeteria is occupied by the random groups of friends while the right—facing the windows and by the stairs that lead to the quad—is occupied by the enormous Mormon population. The left, by the vending machines, is run over with ravers and theater people.

I took a detour to hug my friend Ann in the raver section—she’s short with a bald head, spider bites, a nose ring, and a tongue piercing—then practically tackled my friend Rina. Rina is Spanish and Hawaiian with a curly mess of long black hair, and she has intelligence and creativity that would make anyone jealous. We had honors classes the year before and hopefully we’ll have more this year. She makes me laugh and smile—even when I don’t have the energy—and her cello abilities could make even music haters melt into whatever she plays. She is also a terrific writer.

“Melody!” she exclaimed as she tried to regain her stance. I heard a noise that is easily recognizable as Rina’s best friend Zaney and I was soon hit with the sleeve of her jacket.

“Zaney,”’ I said, dragging out the “y”.

Before the bell rang, Rina, Zaney, and I decided to walk around. I was intent on finding the cute guy Rina and I admired in Geometry the year before. I would never act on anything—especially now that I have a boyfriend—but it’s always nice to have someone nice to look at. Rina and I called him DD—short for doughnut dude, what people call a guy in my English class who has the same first name—so that we can talk about him without him knowing. His real first name is Andrew.

The bell rang sooner than expected and we all parted ways and went to our designated homerooms. The classroom where I was to go was extremely familiar to me. I had made the walk through the building many times; I could walk it in my sleep. As soon as I walked through the doors I was met with the all too familiar teal color walls and sat in a seat in the back. My mother and I acknowledged each other with a slight nod, but she respected the fact that I didn’t exactly want strangers to know she’s my mom. She made the first day crap short and sweet and soon enough we were on our way to our first classes.

During passing period—which is made to be 10 minutes on the first day of school and finals— Rina, Zaney, and I exchanged schedules and compared.

1) Chemistry H – Mr. Thistlewaite - Room 137
2) English II H – Mr. Powers - Room 220
3) Spanish I – Ms. Bennis - Room 670-A
4) Dance II – Mrs. Tegollins – Room 407
5) World History H – Mr. Baker Room 525
6) Algebra II H - Mr. Palmchat - Room 324

Rina and I shared three classes this year: Chemistry H, Dance II, and Algebra II H. Zaney and I had Spanish together. I’m excited to have my first and last class with Rina yet again this year. I’m closer to her than Zaney. Luckily, we also have first lunch together—after 3rd and before 4th.

By the time I made it to my last class, I was super ready to go home. The only class I had liked so far was Dance—which counted for a gym credit for me this year and would be an elective next year. I was nervous for this class mostly because Mr. Palmchat is one of my mom’s closest friends and I’m afraid that he’s going to call me out in class. I’d rather just sit by Rina and hide behind our protective bubble. The class is filled with mostly Mormons, ROTC guys, and the few quiet people who keep to themselves. My eyes were drawn to a guy whose assigned seat was one row to the side and one desk forward. His eyes were focused on the teacher, but I could tell that he wasn’t really paying attention. He was wearing a black shirt and ripped blue jeans.

I took out a piece of loose-leaf paper and wrote a note to Rina, who luckily sat right in front of me.

I think I found a new DD. He’s the one with longish brown hair and a black shirt in the next row. The back of his head is cute :3 I wish I could see his face though

I passed it up to her and watched as she scribbled away a reply.

YUS! We shall try to see more of him all sneaky like >.<

I smiled, knowing that she would make up some crazy scenario where we could see his face. To my advantage, though, while I began writing a reply he stood and walked my way. I used my arm to cover up the words on the note and tried to sneak a look at him. I was both surprised and delighted to see that he has the most beautiful eyes. One is blue and one is green. I wrote this to Rina and it began another thread. I’m a sucker for beautiful eyes.

Other than getting up once and sending a text message, he seemed to be in his own head. I spent my time in my own head as well, in addition to staring at him and trying to pay attention to Mr. Palmchat. I looked down at my arm and ran my finger across the scar that has existed since 6th grade. My first cut, my first self-inflicted scar. I have many more now, just like that one, but most of the cuts don’t scar and if they do they always fade. This one has yet to fade yet, and I kind of wish that it wouldn’t. Most of the cuts are made on my knees and are small. I very rarely do more than two or three at a time in random places so no one would get suspicious.

I’m not depressed, I just get sad sometimes. I get urges and voices ring in my ears. I think of the blood—the way if wells out of the cuts and drips down my skin; I think of the scabs—the twitchy habit I have to pick at them until they bleed again; I think of the way it looks and feels to slice my skin open. My face is always serene and intently focused on the area that where my small pocketknife is.

Sometimes I just can’t help myself but to cut. What would you do if whenever the thought crossed your mind or someone said the words “cut” or “suicide” or “harm” or “slice” or anything that could spark your thoughts up once again you would become restless and have an uncontrollable itch. Only, you don’t scratch because you’re itchy, you scratch because you need to do something with your hands so you don’t get up and start pacing in the middle of class. You need a release of energy, but you don’t want to give into the urge. You try other things, dancing, working out, writing, but they only distract your mind for a moment. Sometimes you end up scratching over and over until you can feel the bur of friction on your arm or leg and your nails start to break the skin. That, though, is extremely noticeable and it’s easier to hide and make up excuses if you just give in and cut. What a process.

It’s no matter though, It doesn’t happen severely very often anymore and it gets easier to put on a brave face for smile with my friends and family as time goes on.