"ELORA DREAD!"
My mother screeched for me from the kitchen, tapping her foot impatiently. I must have been taking too long to get ready. My heart palpitated as I finished swiping on my mascara, trying not to smear it all over my eyelid. I couldn't afford that type of setback when my mom was already ready to burst. I never understood my mother's insistence on taking first day of school pictures, but for some reason I always indulged her. I would stand at the door with my backpack and smile like a doll; plastic and fake. At least this would be the last year I would have to do this. Our relationship was complicated, to say the least. We both love each other deeply, but her hectic work schedule has driven us apart over the past few years. That coupled with the fact that I'm pretty sure my dad left us because she killed my uncle Anthony, but we pretend that I don't know that. It's simpler that way.
I used a purple composition book as a prop, posing for a shot and then walking straight out the door.
I'm determined to find proof of her crime, but she hasn't made it easy. We move almost every one to two years, and most of her personal belongings are a bunch of books on historical myths. I've spent hours reading and re-reading them, hoping to find a clue, but it's pointless. They're just myths; they can't tell me what happened that night.
I walk to the end of the driveway, not looking back. I feel no need to ensure that she got a good shot. I wait impatiently for the rolling yellow tube to come pick me up. The summer hasn't quite ended so the air is still humid.
As the warm air starts to fill my lungs, warming me, I think about the last time I saw my uncle. He was braiding my hair before school as I ate a bowl of fresh oatmeal that he made me. The heat of the summer air going down throat almost reminded me of the heat of the oats I ate that day.
My uncle lived with us since I was born and took care of me full time while my mother ran a healthcare clinic for the poor, and my father worked some random corporate job he hated.
But enough about my uncle and my potentially murderous mother, I was bumping around on the back of the bus about to start my second year at Gray High. I scrolled through my phone, trying to distract myself from the rowdy freshman that anxiously awaited their opportunity to become "high schoolers."
As their journey was beginning, mine was coming to an end, and then I would have to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I don't have a plan for when I graduate. My dream is to have a stable job I don't hate, read as many books as I could possibly think of, and live in the country as far away from civilization as possible while still having a stable WI-FI connection. I'm sure within the next year I will figure out how to do that. If not I have the rest of my life, right?
Despite being named Gray High, the school itself was a stone building painted an ugly cream color, almost like a faded dirty khaki. Just as my school's name didn't match its appearance, my senior year wasn't shaping up to be my most important year, as many think it should be. I finished all of my required core classes, meaning that most of my schedule was composed of electives aside from English and Ancient Civilizations, which was a core class I decided to take as an elective. The past has always fascinated me, despite the fact that most of my random history facts are completely useless in my day-to-day life.
I finally got off the bus and made my way inside the most likely asbestos infested disaster. The chatter of the old hallways became blurred in my head, much like the background music I would play to complete my homework. I walked intentionally toward my locker with my head held high and focused in one direction. The closer I got to my locker, the more I felt an itch in the back of my head. I reached back to scratch it but felt no relief.
No. This wasn't an itch. It was someone in my peripheral. Something I hadn't fully perceived in my distracted state. When I finally decided to turn my head, I saw it.
Remy Smith and his friends were staring at me. I looked to my left and right, and finally behind me, but it was clear. Remy's eyes were trained on me like a helicopter mom.
Remy was the captain of the basketball team, track hurdler, and friend of nearly every athlete at school. His soft, high cheekbones were a sharp contrast to his large round eyes. His head was adorned with slightly wavy auburn hair. Not the type of auburn women go to the salon to get, but the natural kind that looks almost brown. Fit, charming, and easygoing, he is easily the heartthrob of every girl at school. At first, his friends were confused by his almost hypnotic stare, but after a few moments, his right-hand man and fellow basketball player, Justin, said, "OOHH!" Then, his whole group started to stare at me as well.
I examined my outfit but nothing about my simple jeans and a sweatshirt ensemble screamed taboo. If anything I blended in with the crowd too well. Even my only real unique distinguishing feature—my blonde curly hair—was tied up in a messy bun as to not draw attention.
I turned on the balls of my feet, planning to make my way to class and away from the unnatural attention when I heard growling. I turned my head back slightly to catch a look but they abruptly stopped. What a bunch of weirdos.
I had a hard enough time adjusting to this school last year as the new girl; small school cliques are strong, well-established, and hard to acclimate to, but the popular crowd's newfound attention toward me was bound to be a setback in my goal to have a lowkey year. I wanted to pull my hood over my head but I also didn't want every teacher within eyesight to remind me to put it back down.
I picked up my walking pace and started to head to my first class of the day, Art. I walked into the overly bright room and squinted as I sat down.
BBRRIINNGG!!
The warning bell rang, sounding almost like a fire alarm. They really need a new bell system at this school. Within a minute students flooded the class filling it with noise. Laughing, talking, the sounds of bookbags, books, and pencils shifting all around off of people and onto the floors and desks. Er. Tables is a better term.
BBRRIINNGG!!
The second bell rang signaling the beginning of class. The teacher began with the typical introduction and welcome speel before the classroom phone rang.
"Elora Dread, they need you at the guidance office." the teacher said unimpressed, almost disappointed that her class had been interrupted.
As I walked down the cracked tile halls, I wondered if it had anything to do with Remy's crew staring at me, but once I arrived, I discovered it was just for a simple schedule change. I should have known it was something small, it's not as though I would have unintentionally done something within the first ten minutes of the day to get in trouble.
The times I took English and Study Hall were being flip-flopped. I asked why my schedule was being changed, but the counselor didn't know, but what I can say, this school is weird. I rolled my eyes and opened the door listening to it creak. I let go on my way out letting it slam itself back shut.
As I walked back to class I challenged myself to think of every odd thing that has ever happened at this school. Last year my Math teacher kept going on rants about the president, and my Science class was filled with several failed chemistry demonstrations. I mean, how did he expect us to know how to conduct the experiment if he didn't even know himself? I chuckled to myself thinking about how he kept blowing up the lab.
The Spanish teacher is the most pathetic, but I decided to take her class again since it is way more entertaining than any reality TV show I could watch at home. Between her crying over her husband–who left her for a younger woman–every other day, or the way she makes us salsa dance every Friday, the class itself is never dull. But, I cringed at the fact that 35 kids cramped into a class meant to seat twenty.
I have debated jumping out the window like my classmate did last year just to find out what it is like to get chased by the principal while 34 other students scream, "GO! GO! GO!". But my desire to stay unnoticed overruled my drive to experience that thrill.
I walked into art and sat back into my seat completely unnoticed; I guess I'm what they call a quiet kid. The kid that the teacher describes as nice to the parents at conferences because she can't remember them type of quiet. But this status has allowed me to see more and do more, mainly because I am not being watched by classmates or teachers.
I sit at my desk ignoring the icebreakers being done. I tap my finger silently on my desk and look at the art displayed on the walls. I think back to last year when the school's internet was down. The school lunch staff had to make notes of who got lunch and a la carte so they could input it into the system later.
I went through the lunch line four times and only got my name noted once. Since I had no desire to use four lunches, I gave three away so everyone at my lunch table could eat for free.
That is when I really established myself a small friend group, but soon this sense of normalcy and peace I spent the last year cultivating would come crumbling down.