A Student/Teacher Relationship

My POV:

"Welcome back!" Rachel announced as she opened the door to my room. I hesitantly stepped inside and noticed everything was just how I left it. The lipstick I used before leaving to go to the fest was open on my dresser, and the yearbook I tossed was still lying open on a random page at the foot of my bed. "We made sure not to move anything. Well, some investigators wanted to go through your things for you know."

"Ok..." I laid down on my unmade bed and stared at the calendar still in the month of October. Glancing over at my clock, I expected it to read 6:20 something and time truly would have ceased to exist since my departure.

Rachel remained at the door almost afraid to come near me, but not fearful enough to stop watching my every move. What? Do you want me to jump through a flaming hoop and shave your ass?

"So are you cured like fixed?" She asked seemingly with the deepest sincerity. Um, there was nothing to fix. But since I'm here now and going to school tomorrow, others must think I'm operating at decent capacity... Did I say that aloud? Wait, no. Damn, I'm too lazy to repeat it.

"Yeah sure."

"Mom wanted me to tell you that Saturday you're suppose to go to some legal thing." She couldn't tell me because...? It's not like she's busy. She came, waited a few minutes for my goodbye to Cat and other unmentionables, and took me here. I can tell she doesn't want to even look at me. Once a disappointment, always a disappointment.

"Actually, my um therapist suggested it would be better if I separated myself from that subject of conversation." I lied. Little dialogue was exchanged during those time wasting sessions.

"Sorry." She took a step inside. Wrong way sis. "You're going back to school, right?"

"That's what I was told unfortunately."

"Just an idea, but I think going back would be easier if maybe you don't wear so much or no black."

"Come again?" Did I somehow misunderstand that?

She shifted her weight to her other foot. "I mean, people have been talking and I don't want you to get hurt-"

"And by me not wearing black saves me from persecution how?" Hold it- She doesn't have an answer she can say to my face. I'm not a complete moron. What, will I look gothic? Or better yet, the dreaded emo? Will stupid, ignorant mindless dribble subject me to the theory of mourning a relationship ended? "You know what? We're done here. Leave me alone."

Before this destructive chain of events, Rachel would normally stand her ground and scold me with every foul name that explodes out of the monstrous hole in her face. But instead she only slunk away without so much as an apology or farewell for now. Still as she closed the door, her eyes scanned for any movement for the desire and recovery of an extra, cleverly hidden cutting device.

Why all of the sudden I would like nothing more than sitting back on the recreation room couch talking to Jimmy and Gerard (even if it is defending me secrets), or lying awake struggling to ignore Cat's screaming and thrashing in her sheets? Scratch that- I can think of better, but he's only a memory now.

***

This is a bad idea. Upon walking to my unmissed first period class, oncomers gaped at my presence and down the hall behind me, laughing and yelling erupted. It's not me. Don't be so paranoid. You're giving yourself too much credit. No one knows me.

"Oooo Mr. Armstrong! Give it to me harder!" One wailed accompanied by faked orgasm sounds and giggling from everyone else. Whatever gave me the idea singling people out didn't exist outside of 80s teen cinema? Keeping my sights glued to the floor, I held onto myself tighter and raced to English.

Through the door, I took my assigned seat beside Nick who chatted with the guy sitting in front of him. He looked at me and whispered something into the guy's ear. In return, the guy looked also with a cheesey grin and tried to restrain his laughter. Bastards... Becky, just stare straight ahead and look at the blackboard. What the hell?!

Scribbled in yellow chalk was a stick figure with stringy hair frowning with a large gut. The figure was labeled, "Rebecca P." and the stomache read, "Armstrong Babe : The Final Exam." People slyly paused to see my reaction.

Before I could so much as sport the same frown in the crude drawing, Mrs. Miller strolled inside. She studied the artwork and smirked. "That's pretty good. Who did that?" Scanning the class for the artist, she finally noticed I'm here and nearly jumped. Clearing her throat, she dropped her voice to a serious tone. "Who did this? It's wrong, offensive, and completely inappropriate." Wow, it's going to be a long day.

For every period up to 5th, most of the same trend occurred. So I wasn't predicting much difference. Isn't it wonderful how students and teachers can find unity through other's mistakes? It gives me a warm, queasy feeling inside. I don't know why, but before entering Billie Joe's classroom, I was thinking of seeing him there at his desk. He isn't. In his place was a large woman with her graying hair pulled back into a tight bun and brown rimmed glasses propped onto her nose. She looked at me with a confused look as I walked past. I haven't been here for over a month.

Already having my focus on the carpeting, I had no trouble spotting the dark, faded stain at the front of the room. It's so hard to get to blood out of fabric. What a pity? It gave me a chill,and I couldn't take my attention off it. Please make this day end.