Crazy Girl

“Are you serious?” I ask Beau Ravi incredulously who is sitting at a computer playing games, he looks up at me quirking that single infuriating eyebrow,

“I’m serious about a lot of things – gun control, health care, women’s rights--” I cut him off before he can finish mostly out of anger and partly because I don’t care,

“No about this!” I say holding out the green post it note he left on my history textbook,

“You know people always tell me how messy my handwriting is but I’ve never really noticed,” I glare at him until he shuts up; he clears his throat, “What specifically about this upsets you Blake?” He asks that damn eyebrow still raised high pretending like he actually cares; he only cares so the school won’t replace him as head of the school newspaper, a position that for a while I had coveted.

“This crap that you think is actually news worthy,” I say referring to the note about the article he expects me to write,

“There are no small articles only small reporters” He reminds me turning back to his game as if that could possibly end our conversation, oh this is so not over.
“Then why don’t you cover this article and I’ll take something a little more important, like the study hall cheating scandal?”

“Because this is the piece you were assigned you don’t see Tricia Wu trying to change pieces” I glance behind me at the small Asian girl writing furiously in her notebook,

“Tricia Wu hasn’t spoken in like two years” I tell him with an annoyed look,

“Her silent protest to the lack of vegetarian options in the cafeteria has only been going on for a month and anyway she could write a note”

“Whatever, this isn’t about Tricia Wu! This is about you wielding your power like a tyrannical dictator and giving the good stories to the people you like the best and leaving the rest of us to fight over the scraps,”

“I gave you that story you didn’t have to fight for anything, and as editor in chief I can give whatever stories to whoever I please, if you have a problem lodge a complaint,” He says with a shrug that is almost as infuriating as the eyebrow, the complaint department of the school paper is a complete joke. Beau is in-charge of monitoring all complaints and finding solutions for the annoyed, I know very well my complaint would be thrown in the trash the second he realises who wrote it, I might be speaking from past experience.

“The school mascot getting drunk and peeing himself in the middle of the cheerleader’s routine at last week’s football game is hardly a story” I point out,

“Make it one, he wasn’t suspended for underage drinking hell he didn’t even have to foot the dry cleaning bill, isn’t that a little elitist?” I stare at him for a second because that does actually sound like a good article but that’s not the point, I have been getting stuck with all the fluff pieces since the start of the year and I am sick of it, I am taking a stand. At least that’s what I tell myself, I’m not so sure if I am arguing for better articles or arguing for the sake of arguing.

“That is not the point!” I say feeling the wind fall from my sails, “The point is that I am getting stuck with the same stupid five hundred word articles while others” I look at Tricia “Get to challenge themselves and the readers” I don’t mention that the only people reading the school paper are our parents and a few faculty members, “I should get that opportunity too”

“You did,” Beau reminds me shutting me up long enough to actually listen for a second, a rare talent few possess “All last year you were writing the important articles and maybe now it is someone else’s turn,” My mouth is dry because I hear the unsaid meaning in his words, after what happened last year no one trusts you with anything important. I look at my feet wondering if I am simply being paranoid, has my fall from top reporter really been caused by what happened or is it simply someone else’s turn to shine?

I can’t think about that because I am not sure which is the better option, instead I open my mouth and argue like I have always done when I am upset. “Three cheers for the dictator and his bullshit paper,”

“Blake” Beau warns looking to the back of the room where Ms Daniels, our crustacean of a designated teacher for this after school activity has been roused from her harlequin romance reading material describing younger men reawakening the sexual being in older women – I suppress a shudder - and is watching us intently waiting for an excuse to remove me from class,
“I don’t care,” I say looking dead into Ms Daniels’s eyes just challenging her to get off her negligent arse and actually do something for once, turning back to Beau I keep talking mostly because I am mad and also because I can’t remember how to shut up now that I have started,

“It has been seven weeks of other people having their chance to wow everyone, seven weeks that I have been pushed to the side and given fluff pieces, seven weeks of being ignored by this… this communist state!” Okay I will admit that might be stretching it a little, Beau frowns at me in disbelief I feel like I am leading a rally against the unfair only no one is supporting me, the other students – including Tricia Wu who has paused her scribbling for a second – stare at me. But for some reason I can’t stop, oh god someone please stop me.

“And you are the worst” I have turned back to Beau and am pointing at him now, god why can’t I shut up? “You pretend to part of the ignored but you are just as bad as the oppressors, giving handouts to those you deem important enough, you are the tyrant running this ludicrous excuse for a paper!” I am panting, I am actually panting, god kill me now.

There aren’t a lot of ways to get Beau mad but calling him a tyrannical dictator and insulting his beloved paper sure is one of them I realise as he stares at me slightly flushed both eyebrows drawn downwards. I know I should apologise, go sit down and write the stupid article but there is no backing down now, not after comparing my school’s student run newspaper to a communist state. I do however lower my hand that is still pointing at Beau, everyone is staring at me and I can just hear what they are thinking, oh great Blake has lost it again, what a psycho.

“Principal’s office Blake.” the crustacean speaks from behind her book,

“Gladly, maybe he will have something to say about this dictatorship of a paper where the popular get praise while the rest of us scrounge for a morsel of mediocrity” I probably could have left the classroom quietly but apparently my mouth and my brain are no longer connected and I can’t help but leave without parting words, cool.

I leave the classroom as quickly as my legs can carry me leaving my books and bag at the computer I was stationed at before my anit-marxist blow up; I can feel my face flushing red with embarrassment as I walk down the corridor. I had promised myself at the start of this year, after an infamous previous year, that I would fly under the radar and prove to everyone that I am not bat shit crazy, even I myself who listened to the doctors when being diagnosed is starting to doubt my own sanity.
Sigh.
The corridors are deserted, after the bell rings at 3.20, and the students disperse as quickly as possible leaving only the newspaper staff on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the detention kids to roam to emptiness that is our normally student packed school. The principal’s office is located in the main building at the entrance of the school and after a few minutes of quiet humiliation I find it, the lone receptionist is sitting behind her desk frowning down at paperwork.

I approach the glass covered booth clearing my throat when Mrs Robertson doesn’t answer, “Oh hello Blake, I’ll buzz him take a seat,” after my ‘incident’ last year I have found myself on a first name basis with all staff members, I mumble a thank you I don’t really mean and fall into a seat against the wall opposite the reception booth, and flick through the high school appropriate magazines, mostly college brochures that haven’t been updated since the nineties.

“Blake please come through” Mr Dale says surprising me and causing me to drop the brochure I was reading about options outside of college after high school. Mr Dale is a large man who in his heyday was quarterback for this very school but that was back before the receding hairline and beer gut from too many parties reliving the good times. He is dressed in a light blue shirt and black slacks, he has a large sweat stain down his back and poking out from underneath his armpits.

“To what do I owe this delightful pleasure?” He asks once we are seated, him behind his cherry oak wood desk and me opposite him in a chair that squeaks with every tiny movement adding exponentially to how uncomfortable I am feeling. Although not really displayed earlier I hate getting in trouble, especially when it involves Mr Dale mostly because he spits when he talks and because… well because he is my father. Did I not mention that?

I know his previous question has been asked for no reason other but to see how much I am willing to admit to, the crustacean would have called him the second I left the classroom and he is just gauging what I am willing to cop to. I smile and reach forward playing with a shooting star artefact that replaces the star with a football my mum got him for his birthday a few years ago.

“It’s not… I mean… Well, he just…” I scramble feeling the pressure of both my father and principal’s eyes on me; I swallow and try to think how to phrase this to put me in the best light. “Beau has been giving me stupid pieces for the paper and today I called him on it, yes things got out of control but I think the real problem here is the editor in chief using the paper as his own popularity contest,”
“Put the football down,”

“Yes dad,”

“Did you really,” He pauses and looks down at a scribbled note on his desk in front of him, “Call the paper a communist state?”

“I compared it to one but that was in the heat of the moment, I hardly think that counts,”
“Blake,”

“Yes?”

“Do I need to call Sophia?” Having your father as your principal is a double edged sword, because sometimes he is lenient with his punishments but he is always still your dad and whilst punishing you is also looking for the reason behind your behaviour, like now when he suggests calling my therapist.

“Dad this isn’t--” My doctors called them episodes, my therapist says they are unfortunate and my parents say they are unfair yet I still don’t know what to refer to them as, they are just moments in time when reality and fiction merge and I can no longer tell the difference, “This isn’t like that, I just… I just got carried away,” I say feeling deflated everything I do is questioned in relation to my stability and mental health, I wish I could go back to before I was diagnosed and my whatever you want to call them where not even thought of or seen as the driving force behind my every move.
“Have you been taking your medication?”

Yes Da--”

“Because you know what happens when you miss your medication,” I can practically see the movie screen in my dad’s head playing my ‘incident’ in high definition no less, I refrain from rolling my eyes and wait until my dad is finished doubting my sanity. I don’t really blame him, after last year it is reasonable to doubt me I would doubt me if I were anyone else but that doesn’t mean it isn’t annoying, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. As if I don’t feel crazy enough already without being reminding of my worst moment.

My dad sighs and clasps his hands on his desk looking at me with a soft look in his eyes, I want to avoid looking into his eyes, my therapist assures me this is normal for people with what I have but I still feel guilty and weird that looking even my dad in the eyes is difficult.

“Blake, honestly you are lucky to even have a spot on the paper after…” He doesn’t say the words but the intention hits me hard in the face, “I don’t think you are in any position to complain, I know it’s tough but if you keep your head down and do the stories you are given eventually people will see that you are not your illness and you can handle whatever they throw your way, you just… you just have to give people time sweetheart” I don’t want to hear this, I don’t want to hear that people need time to accept me, because if I were suffering from diabetes or some other physical illness, they wouldn’t need a second to accept me but because my head is sick and not my body people are hesitant, and honestly, well honestly it fucking sucks.

I know my dad is right though, if it weren’t for him being principal and my mother’s threat to sue the entire school board I wouldn’t be here – the paper or this school, and another outburst like the one before could get me kicked out of both. I can complain until I am blue in the face but that won’t change anything, I will always be the crazy girl. I hate crying but that realisation makes tears well in my eyes, I don’t want my dad to see because it will only further validate his idea that I am not okay.

“Is that all dad? I really need to pee” My dad clears his throat awkwardly opening his mouth to speak but I am already standing facing away from him and holding the doorknob in my hand wiping the tears that have filled my eyes.

“Sure, but Blake, you’d tell me if you were…” He pauses searching for the right words, “struggling right?”

“Of course” the lie slips from my lips before I have a chance to even consider his question, honestly I am so terrified of having to go back to that place with the doctors and numbing medication that even if I were struggling I wouldn’t even consider telling, I wish it were different… I wish I were different.

But I am not.

It’s a harsh reality to face.