A Day in the Life

Anna Smith, not your typical teenaged high school girl. Long dark hair with streaked blonde highlights swaying as she hurried across the grass in front of the school, books held tightly against her chest, a look of consternation on her pretty face knowing she was going to be late for class.

Not that her history teacher, nor any teacher would ever admonish her for being tardy, she was somewhat of an exception at the school because of her traumatic history.

Given the high profile and very public nature of her ordeal and the inability to escape the invasive all-encompassing social media, everybody in her school knew what had happened to her. What they didn’t know, inventive imagination crafted to embellish the lurid details of the tragedy.

It was one of those hushed things people whispered about under their breath. “That’s her, that’s the girl,” they would say about her as she walked passed, her brilliant green eyes downcast and unwilling to meet their pitying looks.

Like gawpers slowing down to see the splashed blood and scattered body parts of a horrific motor vehicle accident, she was the subject of morbid and macabre fascination and no small amount of cruel japes.

She felt particularly sensitive in light of the fact that her father’s case was once again in the national spotlight and he was now eligible for a release review. Once again the bright cruel light of the media was on her doorstep, trying to capture an unguarded moment or sensational soundbite to elevate them above their peers as they wanted to know how she felt. Did she fear he would come after her if he was released? Her mother had encouraged her to stay home, what with the news van and bustle of people parked outside on her street, she just wanted to be away from there, away from the circus.

Tapping gently at the door of room 112, she watched the silhouette of the history teacher Mr. Collins, backlit through the frosted glass, as he approached the door.

Opening the portal, “Miss Smith, delighted you could join us today,” he said warmly, tone genuine, empathy in his aged blue eyes. He was one of her favorite teachers. Tall and slightly overweight, she guessed he was in his forties, wavy brown hair streaking silver at the temples. He always wore a sport jacket with patches on the elbow whether he was wearing dress pants or jeans. Lately he had taken to wearing glasses, calling it the curse of advancing years.

She smiled and ducked her head, “Sorry Mr. Collins, something came up at home,” she replied, not interested in publically sharing the fact there were several news reporters staking out her house.

He returned her smile and opened his hand toward her desk. Hustling, she moved up the row and slid into her seat.

Mr. Collins returned to the blackboard, “As we were discussing, the historical significance of the…”

Leaning in from the left side, “Everything okay?” whispered Veronica, light blue eyes filled with concern as she searched Anna’s face for some indication of the source of her late arrival.

Anna smiled at her best friend and nodded. The blonde girl returned the gesture and smiled back, shifting back in her seat.

“Daddy’s girl,” sniggered a male voice from the back of the room, masking the words in a manufactured cough.

Mr. Collins turned from the chalkboard, “I’m sorry Vincent, was there something you wanted to add to the discussion about the political implications on the United States as a result of the sinking of the Lusitania?”

The boy with short dark hair shook his head, a look of contempt on his youthful face “Sorry, I just coughed,” he said, adding a shoulder shrug.

Mr. Collins frowned and stared a moment. Vincent Porter, snide punk, one of Wilmington’s ‘in crowd’ always disruptive and without any degree of social tact. Star center on the school’s ice hockey team with whispers of scholarships to Michigan in the fall. The other kids deferred to him for fear of becoming the target of his mean spirited taunting.

“Asshole,” seethed Veronica, turning in her seat to glower at the boy, dirty look on her face.

Vincent rewarded her with a smirk before putting his fingers across his lips and flapping his tongue at her.

“Pig,” Veronica remarked vehemently, turning back in her desk.

Trent Davis, a lean light haired boy with a lopsided grin on his pock marked face, another member of the school’s ice hockey team leaned in close and hissed, “Scar Baby.”

Though low, she heard it. Scar baby. The words stung her, cut her more cruelly than the blades her father had used so many years earlier. It was the name her step brother Caleb called her when she was a freshman and he was a sophomore. Now he was a senior and she a junior but the name had stuck, despite the fact that none of her disfiguring wounds were openly visible. Some of the others in his pompous circle of the school’s elite would just call her SB, mostly for Scar Baby, Slice Baby, Scarred Bitch, or even Stupid Bitch. There were at least a dozen other vicious variants circulating through the school, all thanks to her step brother. Valen, another senior, once one of the inner members of Caleb’s circle but now outcast like her because of his parent’s very public shattered marriage involving gender identity issues told her SB stood for Sex Bomb and Sweet Babe. Tall and lean with spiky brown hair, she liked him, he always made her smile, and he always treated her with dignity. But Trent, she loathed Trent.

Anna turned in her seat to face the object of her spite, staring at Trent, her verdant eyes full of anger, that visceral feeling roiling deep in her stomach, a slippery oily sensation, like viscous sludge threatening to rise up from within and drown her.

He was making small cutting motions across his right wrist with his left hand and pouting in her direction before Vincent laughed out loud.

“Mr. Porter,” cautioned the teacher without bothering to turn around.

It felt like sickness, like something abhorrent, she almost retched.

Suddenly Trent’s eyes filled with alarm as a bright red jet of blood spray squirted out from his wrist, the one he was mock cutting.

“Holy fuck!” yelled Vincent, his own eyes wide as the arterial blood spattered across his desk.

Mr. Collins turned, the frown on his face replaced by concern as he saw Trent rising to get up, blood spilling from a gash in his wrist. Rushing over, the teacher immediately clasped his hand over the wound. “Everybody be calm!” Mr. Collins barked as several girls shrieked. “Stay in your seats,” he ordered.

Anna turned back toward the front of the class, the nauseous sensation receding back into her.

“What happened?” the teacher asked, firmly holding the boy’s wrist trying to staunch the flow.

Pale white, Trent just shook his head, as Mr. Collins moved him toward the door.

“Everyone just keep reading chapter 11 about the British use of propaganda to shift popular opinion and draw the US into World War 1,” he said to the class, removing the boy out to the hall and toward the school infirmary.

At first there was stunned silence in the class, then a susurrus of whispers as people speculated on what had happened. Ten minutes later, the buzzer rang, signifying the end of class.

“You know you just got to ignore those jerks,” Veronica said falling in step beside Anna as they filed out of the room.

Anna nodded, she was tired. She always felt tired after she felt the sick feeling inside of herself. She didn’t know how, but she knew somehow she was responsible for Trent’s cuts. “I know,” she said vacantly.

“All they know is what they hear on the news and they have no clue how badly you were hurt,” soothed the blonde, draping a commiserating arm over Anna’s shoulder.

Anna nodded, welcoming the human touch, but careful to keep Veronica from feeling the scars, it always came back to the scars. She shook her head, barely able to remember a time before the scars.