hand and claws my fingers off the strap. Then she tosses the bag to Isabelle. I hear a splash and laughter. I am vaguely aware that my backpack is now in the toilet.
My hand hurts so fucking bad, worse than anything. There is blood. I can feel it sticky on my fingers.
“That’s it for the bag,” says Chloe lightly. “Now for the bitch.”
A wrestling match. Isabelle and Zeena take hold of my arms, start dragging me back. Instinctively, I struggle, twisting my body around, flinging myself forward. Chloe reaches down, grabs my ankle. I kick wildly, but Isabelle and Zeena pull me back and I end up on the floor. They drag me by the arms into the stall. I drum my feet on the floor, make horrible whining noises, but I don’t have the breath to really scream.
My head is slammed against the porcelain rim and I go into a whole new place of pain.
Zeena giggles. “Oops.”
“Let’s see if hair flushes,” says Chloe.
My hair is gathered and yanked so hard, my head lifts up; now it’s my neck on the rim of the toilet. I smell something bitter, suffocating.
“Oh, Zeena,” tuts Chloe, “you didn’t flush.”
“Bad me,” says Zeena.
There’s shit in my hair, I think with odd detachment. I’ll cut it off when I get home. I feel the piss water seep into my hair, my head grows heavy. It’s getting harder to breathe, my neck is at such a weird angle. Not a good way to die, actually, strangling in the toilet.
“Clean rinse,” says Chloe.
I hear Isabelle say, “Guys?” She sounds nervous, and for a moment, I have hope.
But then I am flopped over. The wind is knocked out of me as my chest slams against the rim. Toilet stink hits my nostrils just before my face is slammed into the water. Something solid brushes my cheek and I gag hard.
Zeena drops the seat over my head. Pretends to sit on it.
They’re going to drown me. On purpose or by accident. I can’t breathe, this is bad, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!
Only when Zeena stands up do I realize I’ve been screaming this out loud. I thrash away from the toilet, crying. My wet hair spatters piss water all over me.
And they’re laughing. Chloe and Zeena are laughing so hard they have to hold on to the sinks to stand up. Isabelle is by the door, a strange, frozen smile on her face. Their ugly, hateful spirits slam at my consciousness and all I can process is Hate you. Destroy you.
And then the door whines as it opens, thuds closed. Silence.
They’re gone. It’s over.
I start to cry again.
I don’t really know for how long.
Then the door opens again. Cassandra comes through, humming her odd tune. From the floor, I see her frown; maybe the smell reached her. She looks down. Sees me.
“Oh, my God.” She kneels down beside me. I feel her touching my face.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
I nod and shake my head at the same time.
“Duh, no, obviously,” says Cassandra. “Can you stand up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll get you a cloth,” says Cassandra, standing.
A few moments later, cool wetness on my cheek. The hot stickiness of tears and the bitter stain of piss is wiped away. I take a deep breath.
Cassandra says matter-of-factly, “This was Chloe, right?”
Just the mention of Chloe’s name feels humiliating. I tear up again, nod.
Then, in my head,
Stop it. Quit crying. Crying doesn’t help you
.
I look up at Cassandra. Her face is still, watchful. She doesn’t feel the least bit sorry for me, I realize.
Waste of time
.
“I guess there’s no point in just sitting here.”
“Not really,” she says.
“Maybe I’ll stand up.”
“Good idea,” she says.
There are showers at our school, but they’re far away, and I’m not walking through the halls like this.
Cassandra helps me wash my hair in the sink with soap from the dispenser. I take off all my clothes, scrub myself with harsh paper towels.
At one point, a teacher tries to come in. Cassandra blocks the door without fuss, calling, “Period crisis.
My hand hurts so fucking bad, worse than anything. There is blood. I can feel it sticky on my fingers.
“That’s it for the bag,” says Chloe lightly. “Now for the bitch.”
A wrestling match. Isabelle and Zeena take hold of my arms, start dragging me back. Instinctively, I struggle, twisting my body around, flinging myself forward. Chloe reaches down, grabs my ankle. I kick wildly, but Isabelle and Zeena pull me back and I end up on the floor. They drag me by the arms into the stall. I drum my feet on the floor, make horrible whining noises, but I don’t have the breath to really scream.
My head is slammed against the porcelain rim and I go into a whole new place of pain.
Zeena giggles. “Oops.”
“Let’s see if hair flushes,” says Chloe.
My hair is gathered and yanked so hard, my head lifts up; now it’s my neck on the rim of the toilet. I smell something bitter, suffocating.
“Oh, Zeena,” tuts Chloe, “you didn’t flush.”
“Bad me,” says Zeena.
There’s shit in my hair, I think with odd detachment. I’ll cut it off when I get home. I feel the piss water seep into my hair, my head grows heavy. It’s getting harder to breathe, my neck is at such a weird angle. Not a good way to die, actually, strangling in the toilet.
“Clean rinse,” says Chloe.
I hear Isabelle say, “Guys?” She sounds nervous, and for a moment, I have hope.
But then I am flopped over. The wind is knocked out of me as my chest slams against the rim. Toilet stink hits my nostrils just before my face is slammed into the water. Something solid brushes my cheek and I gag hard.
Zeena drops the seat over my head. Pretends to sit on it.
They’re going to drown me. On purpose or by accident. I can’t breathe, this is bad, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!
Only when Zeena stands up do I realize I’ve been screaming this out loud. I thrash away from the toilet, crying. My wet hair spatters piss water all over me.
And they’re laughing. Chloe and Zeena are laughing so hard they have to hold on to the sinks to stand up. Isabelle is by the door, a strange, frozen smile on her face. Their ugly, hateful spirits slam at my consciousness and all I can process is Hate you. Destroy you.
And then the door whines as it opens, thuds closed. Silence.
They’re gone. It’s over.
I start to cry again.
I don’t really know for how long.
Then the door opens again. Cassandra comes through, humming her odd tune. From the floor, I see her frown; maybe the smell reached her. She looks down. Sees me.
“Oh, my God.” She kneels down beside me. I feel her touching my face.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
I nod and shake my head at the same time.
“Duh, no, obviously,” says Cassandra. “Can you stand up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll get you a cloth,” says Cassandra, standing.
A few moments later, cool wetness on my cheek. The hot stickiness of tears and the bitter stain of piss is wiped away. I take a deep breath.
Cassandra says matter-of-factly, “This was Chloe, right?”
Just the mention of Chloe’s name feels humiliating. I tear up again, nod.
Then, in my head,
Stop it. Quit crying. Crying doesn’t help you
.
I look up at Cassandra. Her face is still, watchful. She doesn’t feel the least bit sorry for me, I realize.
Waste of time
.
“I guess there’s no point in just sitting here.”
“Not really,” she says.
“Maybe I’ll stand up.”
“Good idea,” she says.
There are showers at our school, but they’re far away, and I’m not walking through the halls like this.
Cassandra helps me wash my hair in the sink with soap from the dispenser. I take off all my clothes, scrub myself with harsh paper towels.
At one point, a teacher tries to come in. Cassandra blocks the door without fuss, calling, “Period crisis.
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