Chapter 4 - Meadow Brown

STILL STILL AUGUST 27.

First time I ever had a problem in school, it was because I spoke a bit of Spanish to one of the roaming custodians. All I did was ask him where the cafeteria was and then some inconsequential creature, a roaming student, made a remark about my current legal status. The year was 2012, I was in middle school and unwarranted immigration jokes were considered funny, among other things 2018 would rightfully body-slam you for. Back then, jabs at my ethnicity were a sure-fire way of bringing forth my inner Rey Mysterio. I was not a good person, and in lots of ways, I’m still not.

As soon as the words came tickling my ears, I'd flung myself on the guy. At least, that’s what the custodian said after I woke up at the nurses’ office. By virtue of being born to a tyrannical sister, I was skilled at taking smacks, but it was my first time giving one, and their retaliation ended being more than a 12-year-old could handle. My lip had been busted open, my head hurt bad, but Mr. Custodian said I didn’t go down without ripping tufts of his hair as a consolation prize.

You should consider me reformed now. (Last year with Reina was a relapse that wasn’t my fault. Mostly.) I loathe when I'm angry. Honest. Pride has a way of subduing the better portion of me that contains all of my sensibilities, and as a result, my brain becomes a useless decorative piece inside my head, one that cannot utilize its two remaining cells to walk away.

Fortunately, I've learned something valuable through observing people who shy away from me as a way to cope with the anger.

You can make anyone uncomfortable with your presence, with your eyes, and with the simple way you carry yourself. All you need is a lack of embarrassment, a willingness to do everything on your own, and a scarcely-used but always acidic tongue.

I smell so bad.

I’m not gonna lie. Although I technically gave him the go-ahead, the thought of hunting down wheelchair-drive by dude and showing him the toxicity I’ve harbored over the years did cross my mind, but with my backpack soaking the floor and the faint smell of milk wafting through the air, the better course of action would be to drop it. Let no one say I’m not getting better. If barely.

I hear the hallway monitor call “five minutes” and a couple of students shuffle past me, doing wide circles around the stench of milk. I’m freaking Moses parting the plastic red seas to get to the toilet.

The bathrooms smell like aerosol deodorant and burnt hair when I get there, a consequence of all the hair-straighteners from the mostly late teens that use them. Grimy shoeprints on white tiles decorate not only the path to the stalls but also the stalls themselves, and someone left a huge wad of wet paper on the floor. Gutter-chic, I would say. And I fit right in.

Because the sink isn't wide enough for my backpack, I dump out the smashed plastic bin with the remaining cornflakes and milk into the trash, and after flipping the pack inside out, water further darkens the coarse black cloth. Sound from the tap rushes in and out of my ear as I begin using my fist to rake at the milk stains harder and more violently than necessary. There is no soap in the nearby containers, so my hands and the water will have to do.

Shwah.

Drip.

Rake.

Shwah.

Drip.

Rake.

Repeat, in violent bursts, until I no longer smell milk and cornflakes and my knuckles swell red. You’re probably wondering why I just don’t put my backpack away in my locker. The answer is I don’t have one. They require registration and a padlock, neither of which I got before the deadline. 

Trinidad and I had a heated fight over my frequent road trips. Playing stupid to the reasons why I’m never home, she took my keys, and I didn’t find them until three days after senior year orientation.

Slam!

Someone opens the bathroom door and runs in, but I don’t lift my head to acknowledge them. Not that it matters. The person doesn’t stop to wonder why some goth girl is using paper towels to force-dry her backpack. They must have a bad case of somethin' because they slam a red stall door to a hard close. Jesus.

I pay no mind. It’s way past the transitional five minutes, and really, I’m only cleaning my backpack because I don’t like the scent of sugary milk. When I think I’ve done all I can, I shake it, unintentionally sprinkling more water onto the already grimy floor. Then, I place the backpack over my shoulder, ignoring the sounds of pissing from the only stall in use. 

The mirror catches my attention, and I look away immediately.

Unlike Trinidad in the early mornings, I don't spare myself a second glance. I know what I’ll see. Tanned skin, darker than Trinidad’s but lighter than my grandfather’s. Sunken cheeks. Dark eyes. Dry lips. Dead girl walking.

“Excuse me,” says someone. 

It’s the second excuse me I’ve gotten today, and like before, I’m shoved aside, my sink usurped by a person I faintly recognize. Brown-haired girl with the overly prepared backpack from homeroom. 

My steamroll temper rises, a rush of heat to my chest that slams against its walls like a confined prisoner with nothing to lose.

I say, “You fo’real?! There are other sinks around us. Hold your giant head up next time and maybe you’ll be able to see past your feet.” She doesn't have a big head, but with most people, the content of the insult doesn’t really matter.

Like clockwork, her head shoots up. There’s the consequence of my words on her face: the initial shock of hurt to the subsequent confusion to the plaguing regret in her dull green eyes. She looks worse than when I saw her minutes earlier.

“I wasn’t–” she begins, but I’ve already acknowledged the fact that she “wasn’t.”

Brown-haired girl is smaller than I am, and with her shoulders drawn in the way they are, she looks malnourished. Hell, make that two of us. On the other hand, her backpack compensates for all the space her body doesn’t take up. It’s big enough to block most of the view of the sink behind her, which nearly makes me forget I’ve left my phone beside the sink.

I reach over her and she retreats so quickly she slams her back against the counter. Something falls from her pockets, which are covered by the ill-fitting cardigan she wears. We both look down.

Well, ain’t that somethin’.

She doesn’t look the type, but as she bends down quickly and picks up the little white stick from the grimy floor and shakes it off, I admit I don’t know what type of girl doesn’t do stupid shit at some point in her life. I’m the type that does all the time. But my kind doesn’t bring pregnancy tests to the school’s bathroom.

It’s not your problem, Mariposa.

I grab my phone, readjust my backpack so that the front lies on my stomach, then shove it into the main pocket. I have every intention to leave her alone. But before I can put my bag over my shoulders, a hand lands onto my wrist. It’s cold and smooth and white, and it grips me for strength that I don’t have.

“The hell?!” I yell.

Brown-haired girl lifts her unoccupied hand to her face. “Don’t—” she starts, then she pauses.

“Don’t what?!” I yank my hand back. This is the first time in years someone else has put their hand against my skin with no intention to mar me.

“Don’t tell-”

Right when I think she’s about to release whatever the hell it is she wants to tell me, her head pitches forward.

The sound of her vomiting all over my backpack kills what little hope I had for peace today.