My eyes lecture me in the large reflection before me, speckled with splashes of toothpaste and water. It amazes me how it became so dirty in three days of use. The grey towel on top of my head that traps my hair inside weighs me down, and I have to struggle with my balance in order to keep it upright. My waist presses into the counter as I lean close to the mirror to apply eyeliner above my lash lines, and I wince as the pressure of the stiff counter is beginning to feel uncomfortable. I can hear Sherry and Mark downstairs conversing amongst themselves, a pair of footsteps entering and exiting their bedroom across the hall once in awhile, and pots and pans clinking together in the kitchen.
I finish the small wings that I had perfected over the years with my jet black eyeliner, not too thick to make myself look like a raccoon. My eyeshadow is minimal: a pale olive shade over the eyelid that is only slightly darker than my skin tone, and a darker cinnamon brown shade in the crease that I had managed to blend out smoothingly. I roll the wand of my mascara in its tube, making a mental note that I need to buy more soon as I inspect the tiniest amount of mascara that actually clings to the wand. I coat my lashes several times, working the wand in a rolling position under my eyelashes and watching them slowly darken with each application. After brushing my teeth, I pick a rosy pink lipstick and form my lips in an 'O' as I carefully swipe the wand over my already pink lips.
My finger brushes off a stray eyelash that had made its way to my cheek and I unwrap the towel from my head. I drape the towel over the shower curtain rod to dry and grab my purple comb, gliding it through my hair to release the wet tangles. When my hair is straightened out, I toss my hair over my head and lean down, hanging my head upside down while I use my hair dryer to blow out the moisture from my thick strands. The whooshing sound of the hair dryer is deafening, and I don’t even notice until I flip my hair back and stand upright that Sherry is standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
I practically jump out of my skin and I almost drop the hair dryer before I switch it off, my ears ringing from the noise. Sherry startles as well as if I was the one that snuck up on her. I drop the hair dryer into the empty sink and position my hand on the edge of the counter, diminishing the urge to flash her an annoyed glance since she had wandered into my room unannounced.
“Sorry,” she apologizes. She is clutching a dish towel in her hands, and I wonder why she didn’t just leave it in the kitchen where it belongs. She points in the direction of the door to my bedroom. “I knocked, but I figured that you didn’t hear it over the sound of the hair dryer.”
“It’s fine,” I lie and fake a smile. I place my lipstick and mascara back into my glittery, ocean blue makeup bag and zip it shut. “What did you need?”
She switches the decorative dish towel with orange pumpkins on it from her left hand to her right hand and leans against the wooden trim of the doorway. “I was just curious if you wanted any breakfast.”
I shake my head and comb out my hair, fixing the tangles that the hair dryer caused again. “Not today. I’ll just wait until lunch at school.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Not even a banana or anything?”
I shake my head once again and smooth out my emerald green t-shirt that somehow became wrinkled in the shopping bags we walked out of the mall with the other day. “No,” I tell her. “I’m used to waiting until lunch at my old school. If I eat breakfast, I won’t really be hungry for lunch, so I would rather just wait.”
Sherry sighs disappointedly and her eyes scan my body, observing the pair of grey sweatpants that I had picked out at one of the outlet stores and my plain, green t-shirt that I had combined with them. I feel self-conscious as I stare at my outfit in the mirror.
“They fit really well,” she announces, gesturing the hand towards me that holds the dish towel.
“I feel frumpy in it,” I reply and frown. I run my hands down my hips and thighs, attempting but failing to make them appear skinnier.
“Frumpy?” my aunt scoffs. “What kind of word is ‘frumpy’? You’re skinny, anyways. Besides, the doctor said you only have to wear it for a few weeks and then you will be in a boot cast, and you can wear jeans or leggings with a boot cast.”
I sigh and droop my shoulders, listening to her words and convincing myself that she is right, and I am being stupid. It’s only for a few weeks and then I can return to my normal attire that I wore before the accident.
The accident.
I had rehearsed my lines over and over, repeating in the mirror how I was going to explain what happened if anyone were to ask. I don’t want to explain the details to anyone just yet, especially when I was suppressing the memories of the details to myself. No one needs to know the details just yet. I am not ready to face the details. I had spent countless hours in my hospital bed in denial of the events that occurred, but I know I eventually have to come to terms with reality.
Sherry leaves me to finish up and I place my crutches under my arms, listening to them click against the tile and hardwood floor as I retrieve my empty backpack from the end of my messy bed. I feel bad leaving my bedroom in disarray, but Sherry told me not to worry about it since she knew that walking around was a daunting task for me at the moment. The backpack is thankfully weightless on my back as I toss it on before grabbing the extra bag that contains my sketchbook and going downstairs.
Mark is already waiting for me at the base of the stairs. He has a pewter grey dress shirt on with black slacks and a matching black, leather belt around his waist to hold them up. He told me that he is a criminal justice professor at a nearby college and he has a PhD, and Sherry is a physician’s assistant for a neurologist at the local hospital. Mark said their inability to have children made it easier for them to attend their graduate classes, but knowing how motivated they are, I can guarantee they would still be where they are with or without children.
I check the time on my fully charged phone and realize that we are right on the brink of being late and I flash an apologetic smile to Mark, who has his hands in his pockets and pretends that he was waiting patiently the entire time. “Ready?” he asks.
I nod and Mark takes the keys from the hook next to the front door of the foyer. He twirls them around his finger as he opens the front door, letting the cold breeze of the morning air slowly intrude into the house. I take my black jacket from the coat hook and Mark grabs my crutches for me while I pull it onto my body, blocking out the biting cold.
Sherry meets us at the door and hands Mark his travel mug full of hot coffee that he forgot in the kitchen and kisses him on the cheek. She turns to me and hugs me tightly, careful to not throw off my balance. She wishes me good luck and I follow Mark outside to the porch, glancing back at Sherry as she closes the door behind us.
As I walk to Mark’s maroon BMW and climb into the passenger seat, my nerves begin to get the best of me and I take a few deep breaths, pressing down the feeling of hyperventilating spewing inside of my airways. Mark opens the driver side door and starts the car, jolting it to life as I listen to the engine roar. He catches the expression on my face and places a hand on my shoulder reassuringly.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he tells me and squeezes my shoulder. His other hand reaches towards the console of the car and he switches on the button for the heated seats, and then he turns the vents toward us that blow warm air at our bodies.
“You’re right,” I confirm as I try to muster a bit of confidence. I sit up straight and clench my jaw, and Mark removes his hand to place it on the steering wheel. My eyes retreat back downwards to my knees and I cross my legs, burying my hands under my thighs to keep them warm. I sigh and tilt my head to the side with my chin facing Mark. “But I need to do this. I can’t stay in my room all day, and I can’t get too far behind in school because I need to graduate on time.”
Mark seems to understand as he shifts the car into drive and rolls out of the driveway slowly, the brakes creaking in need of new pads. I place my headphones in my ears and plug the other end into the auxiliary port of my phone, the brightness flooding the front of Mark’s car before I get the chance to turn it down. I blindly switch the brightness down and click on my Spotify app. My finger selects a random playlist and I lean my head back on the seat, shifting my posture so that I can stare out the window at the passing trees and the Victorian houses that are waving goodbye to me. We pull up next to a few school buses as we continue through town and I am greeted by a few elementary children who stick their heads out of the windows and yell their hellos at nearby cars.
I had never rode a school bus. My dad refused to let me ride the bus because of the potential for bullies to terrorize their classmates, and the bus drivers were known for not doing anything about it. Amongst me and my friends, I was the only one who was driven to school by my parents and in one way, I felt privileged to say that I had a father than was willing to take me to school and spend that time with his daughter, and in another way, I felt embarrassed that my father did not think I was independent enough to handle the bullies on the bus and hang out with my friends during that time.
I think back to my friends who I have not seen since the accident. Miranda visited me in the hospital and we text now and then when she is not busy with her classes and cheerleading practice, but I miss seeing her every day. I miss having someone around that I have known almost my entire life. A person who used to joke with me about our history teacher and his anger issues and his capability of blowing a blood vessel in his forehead every time he yelled at a student in our class for talking during his lectures. We were together every weekend and now that it is football season, she is going to be occupied, dancing on the track around the football field of my old school and beaming a smile at the students in the stands as she waves her pom-poms through the air. Meanwhile, I’m here playing the new girl and coming home to a house where all I do is sit in my room alone to do homework, listening to my aunt discuss what dinner she can prepare for the night from the ingredients she has in the pantry.
After several minutes and a car ride drowning in silence, we finally arrive into the large parking lot of a newly built high school. The red brick building consists of two stories and is smaller in length than my old school. The main entrance is a collage of glass windows and the lighting inside is shining through, and I can clearly see inside the doorway from several yards away. There is an awning outstretched towards the curb that separates the school from the parking lot and the walkway is filled with students and teachers chattering away as they carry their coffee cups and pile into the school doors.
I gulp down a bit of saliva and shakily reach for the car door handle as Mark pulls up closer to the curb when I feel Mark’s right hand return to my shoulder and squeeze it reassuringly. My fingers tangle themselves in the wires of my headphones as I yank them from my ears and curl them into a circle before shoving them into my jacket pocket and locking my phone. I turn my head as Mark brings the car to a halt and see him curve his lips into a smile.
“I’ll have my phone on me all day. If you need anything, just text or call me.”
I force a smile on my face and nod at him, pulling on the door handle hesitantly. The sound of students laughing beats at my eardrums and I fight back the urge to jump back into the passenger seat and close the car door, to tell Mark to take me back home where I can cry in the comfort of my own bed and hide from reality. I take in a sharp breath to calm my nerves and open the back passenger door to find my crutches. I hoist them out and place them under my arms, feeling a few stares bore into my back from the students walking behind me. Mark hands me my backpack and my leather bag from the front seat and flashes me a smile, and I keep my eyes on him to calm my nerves as he speaks.
“Go get ‘em, kid.”
I let out the breath that I finally realize that I have held for too long and feel lightheaded as the passenger door closes and I spin around. Mark keeps the car in its place as I hobble towards the front doors to the school, possibly pissing off the parents waiting in line impatiently to drop off their kids and get to work. Before I reach for the cold metal handle of the glass door, I turn back to Mark’s BMW and he throws me a thumbs up before inching the car forward and disappearing among the cluster of cars flowing out of the parking lot.
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