Chapter 3 - Scotch Argus

STILL AUGUST 27

Cardinal’s High School is the ugliest building you’ll ever have the displeasure of seeing. When you enter through the white double doors, you immediately know they took the red-bird theme and ran to hell and back with it. All the lockers are bright red. All the classroom doors are bright red. Even the floor is checkered with tiles of plastic, Christmas on a budget, bright red. I’m one-hundred percent sure the men that built this place ignored the interior designer that recommended a more subdued and student-friendly shade.

I mostly hate the color because I stand out too much against it. Contrary to popular belief, most goths don’t want to be decoratively different. Back in freshman year, when I wore my first deathhawk, I stuck out more than a virgin’s first boner.

Even now, as I walk through the rows of red lockers, my piercings and dark clothing make it harder to go unnoticed. It doesn’t help that I’m the only person in the hallway. 

So much for being as unnoticeable as my Grandpa.

“Flores, you’re late. I'm not writing you up, but get to class and stay out of trouble, muchacha." Officer Francis Castillo is the first person to greet me at the door.

We met last year. He broke up the fight between me and Reina Something or Another, and ever since then, for reasons unknown to me, has spoken in my favor during instances I didn't care for anyone to do so. He has no gray in his black hair like the other security cops that hang around the school, but I wouldn't call him a young man. 

Note, I also wouldn’t call him a friend. Officer Castillo is more like my parole officer who I happen to get along with.

I ignore him, and he laughs. I’m sure he never takes it personally. He deals with people like me all the time as our school has its fair share of troublemakers. Sometimes even our very own teachers get into heated altercations with knuckle-ready students. I like to think its because the bright red is getting to their heads.

As I'm walking away and entering a hallway where all the first-floor classrooms are, I look down onto my schedule, now crumpled thanks to my penny-thin pockets. Class one forty-five, one forty-seven, one forty-nine

There it is. Homeroom.

“Excuse me!”

A student with puffy eyes and messy brown hair bumps into me, grasping for the handle of the classroom door. It looks like I’m not the only one who had a rough night. She practically leaps to get inside, and I have to catch the door before it can close on me. I exhale roughly and linger at the door before going forward.

"Sign and take a packet," says the homeroom warden.

As far as teachers go, the man that sits at the head of the classroom isn’t too pissy. He gestures at the attendance roll, caring little that it took me ten minutes to drive here and ten more minutes to find parking. 

The other girl who came late has placed her stuff down, a whole survival bag filled with school supplies. She lines up behind me, too close.

I take my sweet time writing my name, then grab a Manila packet and walk to the desks. We have a couple of freshmen in the class, I can tell by the way they stare at me like I’m proof that they should’ve cut their public education at middle school. I end up sitting behind a guy in a wheelchair.

It’s not like they won’t see other goths. There’s a whole group of them that don’t get along with me, probably because I’m older. Also because I rammed a boot into their attention-seeking dipshit of a leader after he asked me for a blowjob in exchange for a spot in his vampire squad. (Afterward, Principle Romo calmly advised me that I had to be gentle with people's feelings if I wanted to make friends. I chose not to comment.) This was days before I promised myself that I'd control my anger. 

“Will we be going to homeroom tomorrow?” Asks someone. They're loud enough to hear without paying much attention. 

“Ye-up." Our homeroom teacher says, uninterested. He fiddles with a stack of discarded staples. "This whole week. Get those packets signed and bring them back.”

“What about these club advertisements? Do we keep them?” Asks someone else. My interest spikes.

At my desk, I open my packet and let the contents slip into my hand. But unfortunately, nothing useful comes out of it. There are some club advertisements, but they’re the same major ones we see every year. Dance. Photography. Debate. Anime. They require dues and heavy participation, and I’m no position to provide either.

“I’m pretty sure you keep them,” the homeroom teacher says.

I crumple the advertisements up and toss them back into the packet.

There’s got to be something for me. Something I don't have to pay for. I just want to close my eyes and not get bothered for it. 

Here's something I've learned: A desk is nicer against my head than the floor of my van.

The bell rings.

Students begin to file out. I’m typically the last person to leave class, so I don’t move for a bit, letting the desk cool my cheek and my hood fall over my head in much anticipated quiet.

“Hey. Goth chick.”

I open my eyes and glower.

“Sorry, can you scoot back a bit. I need to roll out, and your backpack is in the way,” says the guy in the wheelchair.

I stare at him in silence for two seconds too long. Then I answer. “Run over it for all I care.”

He’s taken aback for a moment, but only a moment. After some visible mental deliberation, he shrugs. The next thing I know, he’s crushing my belongings under the weight of his wheels.

Then the asshole leaves.

And I forgot I had cornflakes and milk in my bag.