The front office is slightly chilly, a discrete hint that the air conditioning is on full blast despite it being autumn outside. In the middle of the office is a large grey desk coated in stacks of various informative papers and forms for parents and students to fill out. There is a catalog holder displaying flyers for different events and clubs for students to sign up situated next to the entrance to the backside of the desk. Around the corner is a hallway stretched to the far side of the office with a collection of doors lining the hallways decorated in autumn pumpkin cut-outs and the tables located next to the chairs in the waiting area have ornamental gourds and glittering pumpkins laying overtop. The two secretaries behind the desk are engaging with students who had entered before me, so I take a seat at one of the chairs to relieve the pressure in my leg.
I catch a couple of glances as I sit awkwardly in the chair, gripping my crutches so they do not fall onto the floor. A few teachers dressed in business casual attire brisk past me, eager to make copies of their work on the giant copy machine that covered the far wall. The wall has a mural of a wolf’s head, bearing its teeth threateningly at the faculty that dare to pass by.
“Can I help you?”
My head snaps to my right at the woman standing over me. Her deep set brown eyes are peering over the frames of her glasses and she has her hands at her sides, her posture welcoming yet eerily off-putting. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a tight bun, giving her a bird-like appearance. She has a baby pink blouse under a cream colored cardigan and she is wearing jeans, contrary to the teachers who wear dresses and slacks.
I straighten my back in the chair. “Hi,” I force myself to say. “I’m Kristen. I’m new here, and I was told to meet with a counselor to schedule my classes.”
She grins at me with a friendly smile. “Well, welcome,” says the woman. Her tone poses the question whether her welcoming is an inconvenience to her day. “I’m Mrs. Perry. I’m the principal here. Have you already registered?”
“My aunt and uncle already registered me, so I was told I just need to sign up for the classes I need to take now.”
Mrs. Perry smooths out a kink in the fabric of her blouse and wraps her fingertips around the edges of her cardigan before crossing it in front of her, blocking out the cold of the office air. “You’ll want to see Mr. Handler, then. I’ll go get him for you.”
She retreats into the back hallway and I watch as she pokes her head into one of the open doorways. She mumbles a few words that I cannot overhear and backs away when a man follows her out. Her hand points an index finger towards me and the man approaches me with his own hand outstretched. He is wearing a black suit with a grey and black tie, and his blonde hair is slicked back. I remain seated as I shake his hand, and I notice that his attitude is more warming than Mrs. Perry.
“Miss Wright,” he greets me, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Shall we step into my office and get your classes planned out?”
I nod my head and return the greeting before I stand up. Mr. Handler offers to carry my bag, but I politely decline as I follow him to the doorway to his office. Mrs. Perry tells me to let her know if I need anything, and I agree although my brain is screaming to refuse.
I take a seat in front of Mr. Handler’s desk and sneak a peek at the picture frames resting on the shelf above his computer monitor. In the photos are professional shots of two little girls with blonde hair in salmon-colored floral dresses with bright smiles on their faces. I assume they are his daughters, and I notice that there are no photos of any women that could appear to be his wife. Divorced, maybe?
Mr. Handler pulls the door to his office behind him, closing out the murmurs of students and leaving us in a pit of silence. He lowers into his leather rolling chair and swivels the mouse to his computer back and forth until the screen wakes up. My hands are folded onto my lap and I cross my legs, watching Mr. Handler squint at the fine lettering on the monitor. He pushes his glasses higher on his nose and props his elbow on the black desk, his fist pressing into the soft part under his chin as he rests his head on his hand.
“Can you tell me the classes you took for your junior year at your old school?”
I pause for a moment to think, my thoughts clouded with the unfamiliarity of someone referring to my school as my “old school” other than my aunt and uncle. “Er… I took English 11, U.S. History, Spanish II, Algebra II, and Biology,” I state. I know I took an art class and my yearbook class was during fourth period, but I don’t bother to mention them because I know he is just looking for the main ones that most counselors care about.
Mr. Handler clicks on a few buttons on his monitor and leans back in his chair with his fingers interlocked behind the crown of his head. “I received your transcript from your old school.” There. There it is again. Old school. “I believe the best course of action is to have you take Pre-Calculus, World History, Chemistry, Spanish III and English 12.” He leans forward again as I mentally scan the list of classes he recited off to me. His mouse taps on a different tab and pulls up a separate page. “You have two openings for electives. You can pick between cooking, a computer class, art, psychology, graphic design, band, choir, theater, creative writing, public speaking-”
“I like art,” I interrupt him.
He stops mid-sentence and stares at me with his jaw slightly lowered open. “Okay,” he finally utters and clicks on one of the options. “What else would you be interested in?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Creative writing sounds fun.”
He smiles at me and clicks again. “I think you will like it. Ms. Terew is a wonderful teacher. You can tell she is passionate about English.”
The small printer next to his computer whirs and spits out a paper seconds later and Mr. Handler snatches it off of the plastic arm that hands it to him. He holds the paper out to me and I take it, examining the order of classes listed on it. His arm reaches across the desk and he grabs another page off a stack and adds it to the few in my hands.
“Here is a map of the school.” He points his finger at a cluster of black outlined boxes. “The classrooms are labeled with the room numbers. Your locker number along with the locker combination is on your course list. If you have any questions, feel free to ask any of the teachers or staff here. We’re all happy to help.”
Mr. Handler and I exchange thanks and I amble out of his office towards the doors to enter the remainder of the school. My crutches clack on the linoleum and, as if on cue, the bell indicating that it is time to head towards the first class of the day blares over the intercom.
Behind me is a tsunami of students entering the hallway towards the senior lockers and I attempt to pick up speed, afraid to be that person that slowly holds up the speed of traffic. My good leg is screaming in agony as my weight presses on it and I notice myself dodging students moving past me instead of expecting them to move over. A few of them furrow their brows towards me and do double takes, and I shrink my head downwards closer to my shoulders and keep my eyes pointed directly to the carpeted hallway. My eyes dance upon the line of numbers that label the blue lockers and I finally discover where my locker is located at the very end of the long stretch. I feel thankful that it’s at the end close to an emergency exit and I momentarily picture myself escaping this prison through the grey door lit up by the LED exit sign. The lock on the metal attached to my locker struggles to open after multiple attempts of twirling the dial around and around, and I feel my underarms begin to sweat with anxiety. Eventually, the lock pops open on the fifth try and I inspect my locker, although there is not much to see but a mental reminder that this is not my old locker, stacked neatly with textbooks and decorated in polaroid photos of me and Miranda at the fair and during sports games where Miranda was dressed in her black and red cheerleading uniform.
I pull my phone from my pocket and text Miranda a quick update, sending her a list of my classes with a half-hearted smiley face emoji, thankful that the ability to hide true emotion is easier over text. I press ‘send’ and toss my bag with my sketchbook into my locker. My locker clanks shut and I scurry into the crowd of students, attempting to blend in as I’m swept into the tsunami towards my first class.
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By noon, my stomach is growling, spiteful towards me for refusing to eat breakfast this morning. The first four classes of the day were excruciatingly boring. My Pre-Calculus teacher reminds me all too well of my previous history teacher and I wanted so badly to be able to lean to my left towards Miranda and pass her one of my cartoonish doodles of our teacher with an absurdly swollen vein protruding from his forehead, but I immediately remember that Miranda is many miles away joking silently to the vast emptiness of my old desk.
I hadn’t spoken to one person throughout the day except for the brief welcoming messages from my teachers and them handing me my textbooks that are beginning to deteriorate my spine from my backpack weighing me down. As lunchtime approaches, my Chemistry teacher quietly hovers over me at my desk and permits me to leave his class so I can make it to the cafeteria early before the others are dismissed.
My map guides me to the cafeteria and the bells rings the second I step foot into the large room filled with multiple circular tables with approximately eight chairs crookedly placed at each. A few students transform into a ravenous pack of lions as they beat me to the lunch line and I hurriedly form a queue behind them just as the realization sinks in that my hands are occupied by my crutches and I am unable to carry a tray.
I swallow hard and glance around nervously at the cafeteria staff as they plop mashed potatoes and salisbury steak onto the trays for the group of students in front of me. Determined to complete my tasks independently, I grab a blue tray off of the stack and inch my way down the metal counter, keeping my weight pressed against the lip of the counter. My leg is beginning to throb and curse at me under the tightness of the cast that conceals the inflammation, but I suppress my pain and gingerly reach my tray towards the tiny statured ladies under hair nets as they silently drop the food onto the plastic.
Reluctantly, I place more pressure on my cast against the white linoleum and wince as a sharp lightning bolt rockets up my left leg. The tray slides down the counter and I grab an orange from a wide array of fruit in multiple baskets towards the end of the line. When I finally reach the end, I muster a curve in my lips at the lady seated at the computer and tell her my full name. She clicks on a few buttons on her keyboard and nods, giving me permission to finish my goal and head towards a table.
I stare out into the swarms of students who had already picked their seating and finally spot a table towards the far back corner of the cafeteria near another menacing blue wolf logo plastered on the wall. I switch one of my crutches into my right hand while the other remains under my right armpit, and I balance the tray in my left hand. My right hand struggles to grip the handle of one crutch while also dragging the other crutch with two fingers of the same hand. A bead of sweat drains down my face and I silently say a prayer that I can reach the table without bringing attention to myself, but as I prepare to end the prayer, my crutch catches on the leg of a chair and I trip, tossing my tray forward and falling to my knees on the rock hard flooring of the cafeteria.
The crutch plunges into the muscle in my underarm and I yelp at the pain while I catch myself with my hands outstretched, saving my face from smacking onto the floor. I can feel a silence coat the atmosphere of the cafeteria. My eyes sting as they threaten to release a tear in embarrassment, knowing that I now have several unwanted eyes on me.
“What the hell?”
My chin jerks upward and I catch a glimpse of a pair of leather boots that are now covered in small globs of mashed potatoes and salisbury steak, and I sweep my eyes upward towards the owner of the boots. A blonde haired girl about my age stands in front of me, her arms at her sides, fingers open and palms facing towards me as she inspects her dirty outfit with disgust on her face.
My mouth gapes open and my lips twitch as I struggle to find the right words to form an apology, still shocked and embarrassed by my instability to walk. I try to use a chair as leverage to find my footing when another voice breaks the awkward silence behind me.
“Piss off, Hailey. It was clearly an accident.”
A pair of converse sneakers pass my peripheral and another girl leans down to grab the tray that had fumbled onto the floor upside down. She is shorter than Hailey and dressed more casual with skinny jeans and a t-shirt, her goosebumps visible on the skin of her arms. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail and she has a minimal amount of makeup on, if any. Without a second thought, her arm is curled under mine and she hoists me up, her small frame surprisingly strong.
Hailey grabs a few brown napkins off of the table next to us and wipes the residue off of the shins of her boots and groans. “These are designer brand,” she tuts as she brushes a curled bleach blonde strand away from her face.
The other girl holds my tray in one hand and picks my crutches up off of the floor while I stabilize myself against a chair, my knees pulsating and beginning to form bruises from where they collided with the floor. I open my mouth to form an apology when the other girl cuts me off.
“Oh, please. They look like you bought them at Kohl’s, but I’m sure Mommy and Daddy will buy you a new pair once you whine long enough.”
I turn my head urgently to avoid letting Hailey see the laugh that is threatening to escape my mouth.
The other girl who had defended me hands my crutches to me and I wince at my sore underarms as the crutches press into my muscles. The crowd of students begins to disperse the moment the girl looks at them with an expression that could kill an immortal and they find their seats like ants drawn to spoiled food. She sighs and backs towards me, and I find myself allowing her to intrude on my space as she brushes the crumbs off of my pants leg gently. My gaze meets Hailey’s eyes and she glares a pair of daggers into the soul of my being. Her hands pull the hem of her rust orange sweater down over the waist of her leggings and she rolls her eyes before spinning on a heel and disappearing into the frozen students who had previously gathered to stare at the girl who tripped over her own crutches. The girl with the ponytail sinks her shoulders downward as she turns to face me.
“New here?”
“Yeah,” I reply. I feel my head sinking into the neck of my jacket nervously and I hold it higher to appear confident.
The girl begins to outstretch her flat hand towards me and retracts it back quickly, remembering that my hand placement on my crutches was the only stability I have. She bends down to pick up the few bits of food that remains intact off of the floor and tosses them onto the tray. “I’m Natalie.”
“Kristen,” I inform her of my name. She smiles and one of the cafeteria staff members appears next to me, interrupting to ask if I am okay after my fall. I tell her that I am fine and she takes my tray from Natalie’s hands before tossing the contents in the barrel trash can a few feet away and returning to the lunch line. She returns to us quickly and hands Natalie a new plastic tray with the same food I had picked out the first time, and she asks Natalie if she would mind taking it to a table for me. Natalie agrees without hesitation and I thank the woman who had provided me with a new tray.
“You can sit with me,” Natalie offers and she leads me to a table in the back corner of the cafeteria where the wolf mascot painting prowls on the far wall. Her tray is the only one that occupies the surface until my tray accompanies it the moment she sets it down next to hers. “Are you a senior?”
I lean my crutches against the wall behind my chair and Natalie holds them for a second, ensuring that they would not slide and fall on the floor. “Yeah,” I answer, taking a seat. “I just moved here. I’m finishing out my senior year here.”
“I’m a senior, too.” Natalie picks at the foil of a circular object and peels it back to reveal a chicken sandwich she had bought for lunch. “We have Chemistry together. The class, I mean.”
I chuckle at her joke and the way she quickly added detail to clarify what she means, and she laughs with me. I hadn’t recognized her as being one of my classmates in one of my morning classes, but I had my head down the entire time and didn’t pay enough attention to pinpoint anyone that I had classes with. I’m sure many people could pinpoint me, though, seeing as how I am new and currently a focal point with my crutches as aid.
“I didn’t recognize you,” I tell her as I take a bite of salisbury steak from my plastic fork.
Natalie shakes her head and giggles. “No one does. I’m a professional fly on the wall. I was sitting a few seats away from you.” She bites into her chicken sandwich and chews it up hungrily, and then she takes a swig from her bottle of water sitting off to the side. I glance at my tray and realize I forgot a drink to go with my meal, and I mentally groan and tell myself that I will just get a drink from the water fountain when the bell rings. “So,” she interrupts my thoughts and I turn to her to see her struggling to chew her food quickly before she continues. “What did you do to your leg?”
All of those moments of rehearsing how I would explain to other students what had happened to me flood into my memory and I realize how unprepared I really am for the question as if it’s a pop quiz. I had no intention of thinking about that day, but I knew others would be curious.
“I broke it.”
“How?”
I take another bite to prolong my answer, thinking about how I want to put it into words. “I got in a car wreck.”
“Oh. Damn,” she replies. She seems unsure of what to say as she straightens her posture and wipes her natural pink lips with a brown napkin. She crumples up the napkin and sets it next to her half-eaten sandwich. “Good thing it was just a broken leg and nothing else, though.”
Although the comment is innocent and unknowing, I think about the tragic events that took place on that day and force a sad smile on my face. I lose my appetite the moment her words are spoken and gently push my tray away a few inches and lean back, slouching in my chair as the film reel of the last few moments I had with him replay over and over and over again. “Yeah,” I lie, “good thing.”
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