Since Monday, I've heard three days' worth of theories.
Theories about who would be enough of a creep to screw a student.
Theories about who would be enough of a whore to screw a teacher.
The lunchroom has felt like a den of wolves,
table after table filled with sharp teeth.
Strangers in line behind me yap and bark—
they have new meat to tear into, today:
Claire's candidate list, newly posted.
"The student government lists are so hilarious, I almost died—"
"Matt Jackson is on there, what on earth—"
"—and Olivia Scott, which, like … you know?"
"Yeah."
"I've heard Olivia is, like, super nice. But she's suuuch a sluuut, it's insaaane, oh my God."
"Yeah, holy shit, did you hear about her and Dan Silverstein last weekend?"
"Who wants to bet it's her who's dating the teacher? Oh my God, wait. I'm a genius. What if those guys are, like, a smoke screen of sluttiness?"
(I round on them because this week has built up
and up,
and I can't hold this towering weight anymore.)
"Don't
you
dare!"
This student body is a body
poisoning itself deliberately and intravenously.
Acid and hatred and bile.
No wonder I feel sick.
It's quiet.
Two glossed O-mouths, four lined eyes staring.
I have never seen these girls before.
I hope I will never see them again.
If they'll condemn Olivia's open legs,
they'll condemn me if they ever find out—
and they can go ahead.
Isn't the number of partners as unimportant as the height,
the weight, the eye color?
The age …?
But no, no, of course not,
because we've been trained to obey adults;
because rejecting somebody takes a steely, undeniable power when you've been brought up to accommodate, to appease, to please;
because age does matter—I know that.
I swear.
"I'm sorry, Juniper," one of the girls says, "I didn't mean—"
I dash away. Past our table. Olivia and Claire look at me with widened eyes,
as though I am made of stardust
and they cannot drink in enough of my
strange, unfamiliar light.
A shocked look in the hallway as I walk as fast as I can,
two, three, four scandalized glances for the girl showing emotion in the light of day.
I splay my fingers across my face,
as if no one can see me past them, I wish, I wish,
around-the-corner-through-the-door slammed-locked-shut—shaking—trembling—
safe.
Light echoes off the bathroom walls,
rings off the inside of the stalls.
Minutes. I spread calm like sunblock onto my skin.
There is a scream cupped somewhere in my ribs.
I shove my fingers under hot water. They turn red.
I look at my eyes in the mirror, but something there is not mine.
I have not settled back into my skin,
and I cannot coerce myself into believing it:
we are through, we are through, we are through.
