“Then what is the circumference of this circle?” she asked. I detected a hint of annoyance in her tone, but it didn't faze me. It never did.
“I don't know,” I replied automatically as I darkened a swirl with my pen.
“You haven't even looked at the board.”
I looked up for a second, long enough to see that there was indeed a lopsided circle drawn on the board. A line was going through the circle and there was a number scribbled above the line, though I didn't look at it long enough to see what that number was. “Still don't know,” I answered.
Mrs. Aito made a grumbly noise. I was frustrating her. “Why don't you at least try to put in some effort, Carson? Look, the diameter of the circle is eight. How can we use that to figure out the circumference?”
Mrs. Aito had a tendency to try to spoon-feed me. No matter how annoyed she got, she never gave up. It was like she thought there was a legitimate answer hiding in my brain and if she poked and prodded long enough it would come on out to play. Again, she was either hopeful in the most delusional sense possible, or she really just liked making me look stupid in front of my younger peers. Either way, I didn't even know what a diameter was, let alone how to use it to figure out the circle's circumference. Honestly, I didn't even know what a circumference was, nor did I care.
“I don't know,” I said, going back to my swirls. I could hear the sophomores snickering around me. I used to get embarrassed by the laughter, but I really didn't care anymore. At some point I just realized that once I was free of Bishop High School I'd never have to see any of these kids again, so I really shouldn't give a damn if they thought I was stupid.
Besides, when terrible things were said about you on a daily basis, your skin got tough enough to handle a few giggles.
“Carson, you have to start paying attention,” Mrs. Aito said.
I ignored her. If I hadn’t grasped the concepts in the previous two years then what made her think this time would be any different? More importantly, if she hadn’t grasped the concept in the previous two years that geometry was not high on my list of priorities then maybe she was the one that needed to start paying attention.
“Carson, this is important,” Mrs. Aito went on. I detected a note of pleading in her voice, which was probably just for show.
Play the concerned teacher as you humiliate me. I see how you work.
“How?” I asked. I looked up at Mrs. Aito with steely eyes.
“Excuse me?” she asked, puzzled.
“How is it important?” I usually did my best to say the least amount of words as I possibly could in class, but I wanted Mrs. Aito to know that I could play her game too. “I'm not going to use geometry when I get out of this place, so how is it important?”
Mrs. Aito opened her mouth and then closed it. Her expression softened, which threw me off. I had been expecting steam to come out of her nose or sparks to fly out of her butt or something. “There are plenty of situations in life that require geometry, Carson. There are plenty of careers that use math in one way or another – ”
“Like prostitution?” someone asked. Everyone in the class burst out laughing.
“Yeah, I don't think prostitutes need geometry, Mrs. Aito,” someone else yelled over the noise.
“As long as she can count some dollars she'll be fine.”
“Counting? Please, she's not exactly picky. She'd probably just take whatever money they gave her. She wouldn't mind if they were a few dollars short.”
The class erupted with howls of laughter. I looked up at Mrs. Aito. She seemed positively helpless, like she didn't know how her innocent conversation took such a wrong turn down a sketchy street before taking a second wrong turn into the parking lot of a sleezy motel.
I looked back down at my notebook and continued drawing swirls.
At least we didn't have to keep talking about circumferences.
The rest of the class continued to discuss my future business ventures as if I wasn’t sitting right there. I drew faster, my right-hand producing swirl after swirl. At some point my left-hand made its way to the pointy tip of the spiral notebook binding. I tuned everything out and focused solely on my notebook. I got lost in another zone and didn't even notice when the bell rang. One minute I was cranking out swirls like a paper tattoo artist and the next thing I knew Mrs. Aito was standing in front of me, knocking on my desk.
“Who's there?” I asked sarcastically before looking around the room. Everyone had left.
“Carson, can we talk for a minute?” Mrs. Aito asked me. She was looking at me the same way my mom had earlier, like I was some injured animal that needed saving. I looked down at my left hand, the hand that was still clutching the metal tip of spiral binding. My brain just seemed to register a dull throbbing in my thumb. I released the binding and glanced down at my hand. I watched as a dot of red blossomed out of my skin. It was like watching a mini volcano erupt. I quickly wiped the blood on my jeans and looked up before Mrs. Aito saw.
I didn't want to be saved.
“I have to get to my next class,” I said as I shoved my things in my bag and stood up.
“This will only take a minute,” she said.
“Fine.” I exhaled as I plopped my bag on the floor and hopped on top of a desk in the next row. “I don't really need English anyways. Knowledge of grammar rules and Shakespearean quotes aren't exactly requirements for prostitutes.”
Mrs. Aito cringed and turned away like I just accused her of being the big slut. When she turned her eyes back up to me, she looks pained. “Carson, I'm so sorry about what just happened.”
“It's fine.”
What else could I say? Yeah, you should be sorry, and you should also learn how to control your class while you're standing there being sorry? I guess I could’ve said that, but I didn't feel like wasting my breath.
Mrs. Aito shook her head. “It’s not fine. Not at all,” she said firmly. Her expression became fiercer, like a fire had been lit in her belly and the flames were working their way up her body. She seemed to be taking the whole thing rather personally. I wondered if she’d ever been called a prostitute in school. “Gossip and rumors cause people to say ugly things.”
I just looked at Mrs. Aito and said, “Sometimes the rumors are true.”
I knew that she knew about my reputation. I knew that most of the teachers knew, even the ones I didn't have. I knew because several of the highly respectable male educators in this fine establishment had approached me with “extra credit” opportunities on more than one occasion. I’d never agreed of course (I did have limits) but the offers were there, and the old pervs always seemed truly surprised when I said no.
Mrs. Aito swallowed hard and became unusually interested in a loose thread on the sleeve of her highlighter pink cardigan.
Yep. She knew.
I would’ve continued to stare Mrs. Aito down until she became so uncomfortable that she just let me leave, but her cardigan was giving me a headache. Wearing clothing that bright should’ve been a crime. Wearing pink at all should’ve been a crime.
“What do you want to do with your life, Carson?” Mrs. Aito asked after a moment.
I looked back up at her. She was smiling at me. It was a warm smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Mrs. Aito's eyes looked... sad, which confused me, but not as much as the question itself. Was she really asking me what I want to be when I grew up?
“Didn't you hear? I'm on the fast-track towards a career as a low-class hooker,” I said dryly.
“That's not what you want for your life, Carson.”
My body instantly tensed. I hated when people told me what I needed to do or didn't need to do or what was good for me or what wasn't good for me. How did Mrs. Aito know that wasn't exactly what I wanted for my life?
Mrs. Aito quickly added, “What I mean is, you have so much potential, Carson. I want you to realize that you can have more for your life. You can do anything, be anything.”
What was she, my new life coach?
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I hated to burst her bubble, but I was going to burst her bubble.
“No,” I said. “I can't. I'm not smart. I'm not charming. My personality is shitty at best, and I'm not a team player. I'm pissed off ninety-nine percent of the time. I have zero social skills and a sucky attitude. So, no, Mrs. Aito. I can't do anything.”
I expected Mrs. Aito to throw me out of her classroom. I expected Mrs. Aito to write me up and give me detention for my language. I didn’t expect Mrs. Aito to smile again. For someone that just got her bubble burst, she didn't look all that broken up.
“You don't give yourself enough credit, Carson. If you tried harder, I think you'd surprise yourself with just how much you're capable of.”
I didn't respond. I realized that I was dealing with an eternal optimist and no matter how much I rained on her parade she was still going to try to point out the rainbows to me. I didn't have the time or desire to look at rainbows all afternoon.
When it became clear that I wasn’t going to speak, Mrs. Aito opened her mouth again. “You're a senior, Carson. You need to pass this class to graduate and what you're doing right now is not going to cut it. I'm signing you up for a tutor.”
I started to protest, but Mrs. Aito held her hand up to silence me.
“It's not optional,” she said. “If you don't do well on the next few tests, then you will fail the class, and you won't get your diploma. This is your last shot, Carson.”
Mrs. Aito wrote something down on a piece of paper on her desk. “I'll get in touch with the tutor and she'll contact you within the next few days to set up a meeting. She's very good.”
I imagined the expression on my face had to be one of pure resentment and bitterness, but I didn't say anything else. I just picked up my bag and stormed towards the door.
“Carson,” Mrs. Aito called out just as I reached the door. I turned around and glared. “I'm on your side,” she said softly, smiling yet again. “I want you to succeed.”
Mrs. Aito's smile looked real. But I knew better. I knew that people who appeared to be warm and welcoming were the ones you had to watch out for. They were the ones that caused the most damage.
You see, an upfront asshole will punch you in the face, but a person that pretends to care will stab you in the back.
I stomped out of the classroom. I didn't want to look at Mrs. Aito's smiling face for another second. Smiles were dangerous and knives in the back were much more lethal than fists to the face.
Chapter 6
Lines
Lines
On my skin
On my heart
In my head
Lines everywhere
Thick lines
Thin lines
Deep
Shallow
Some are invisible
Some are not
Most I can hide
Most I can pretend aren't there
But they are there
They exist
They sit
On my skin
On my heart
In my head
They sit and hold my pain
And I sit and wait
For someone to come and tear them open
Rip the lines apart
And leave me to drown in my pain
Some people had great timing. I’d never been one of those people. If I’d been one of those people, my butt wouldn’t have been occupying space on a chair in the waiting room of Dr. M's office for an emergency therapy session on a Thursday afternoon. That's what happens when your mom walks in on you holding a pair of scissors to your thigh.
Like I said, timing had never been a specialty of mine. In my defense though, I hadn’t been aware that my mom was home. The house had been empty when the bus pulled up to drop me off after school and I’d thought my mom was going to be at work for a few more hours. She was the go-to cake maker at a snooty bakery called Whipped. Sometimes the cakes held her hostage pretty late (no complaints here), especially when she had to construct those over the top ones for spoiled-brats and their sweet sixteen parties or obnoxious lovers ready to tie the knot. You know – the cakes that looked like mountains of sugar with fireworks popping out the top and were so monstrous and expensive that you felt like you had to purchase insurance for them. Yep, my mom was the creator of those sugar mountains. I'd always heard that she was the best in all of Central Florida. This meant she attracted a lot of spoiled-brat teens and obnoxious lovers, which meant I didn't visit her at work very much. To be honest, I wouldn't have visited my mom at work if she baked mini cakes for puppies, but her annoyingly entitled clientele gave me extra incentive to stay away.
When we were driving home from my therapy/torture session the night before I thought I’d heard her rambling on about some super big and important cake she had to start working on, which is why I had been expecting to have the house to myself.
I hadn't planned on cutting myself. It was just an impulsive decision and I'm not even sure how it happened, really. One minute I was laying on my floor and staring at my ceiling, thinking about how I hated school and math and Mrs. Aito and my life in general, and the next minute I was sitting on my bed with my pants off, holding a pair of scissors to my upper thigh. I had started tracing a faded scar with my finger and was trying to decide if I wanted to go through with it when my mom barreled into my room.
I had been so shocked to see her there that I hadn't even bothered trying to hide what I was doing. Instead, I remained seated in that compromising position. I hadn't heard the car pull up or the front door open and of course my mom hadn't knocked before entering my bedroom, so she’d caught me off guard. In no time at all though, that initial feeling of surprise had shifted to a feeling of white-hot anger.
I’d glared at my mom. “Don't you knock?” I asked.
My mom had lost it. Apparently I hadn’t been the only angry one in the room because she’d given me the same look, our faces almost perfect mirrors of each other. “Excuse me? What are you doing, Carson?!”
Her voice had cracked as it got just about as shrilly as I'd ever heard it. I’d just looked down at my leg and the scissors in my hand. It was obvious what I'd been about to do, but I’d known it was in my best interest to keep my mouth shut.
In a second though, the woman had gone from hysterical mom to mom on a mission. I’d watched as her expression changed from horrified to determined in the blink of an eye, and before I’d had time to fully register this change she’d stormed over to my bed, plucked the scissors out of my hand, and dragged me out of my room.
We’d gotten all the way to the front door when she seemed to realize I was still in my underwear. Letting out a sigh of frustration, she’d dragged me to the laundry basket (apparently I was a flight risk and couldn't be trusted to stand alone by the door for ten seconds) and pulled a pair of my pants out of the dirty clothes hamper. She hadn’t said anything as she handed me the pants and I’d returned the silence as I slipped them on.
The instant I had the pants buttoned my mom had yanked me out the door and into the car. I hadn't asked where we were going (though I’d had a pretty good idea) and she hadn't offered. Instead, my mom had spent the whole ride shaking her head and saying, “I thought we had gotten past this,” over and over again like some broken record.
We. I had no clue where she had gotten the “we” from and it set me off. It had nothing to do with her, yet she had made it sound like she was the one suffering. On top of that, I had realized that I wasn't wearing any shoes, which was annoying. I didn't respond though. I’d known anything I said could and would be used against me.
So as my mom drove and mumbled, I’d spent the ride sulking and thinking about how none of it would have happened if my bedroom door had a lock, or if my mom had some self-control and knocked before she barged right in on me. At least then I could’ve hidden the scissors and said I was masturbating or something.
Fifteen minutes later we’d pulled into the parking lot of Dr. M's office.
And that
's how I ended up sitting in the waiting room of my shrink's office on a Thursday afternoon, wearing a pair of questionable pants and no shoes. I looked up at the front desk where the receptionist usually sat. After having a brief and hushed conversation with my mom she had abandoned her post guarding the window that separated the file wardens from us crazies. Several minutes had gone by since she left and I was worried she might have fallen through the floor or gotten swallowed up by a black hole on her way to wherever she had gone. I was about to ask my mom what was going on when the receptionist returned.
False alarm. No unstable flooring. No black holes.
The receptionist gestured towards Dr. M's magical room of happiness. My mom started towards the door and I, rather reluctantly, stood up to join her but she just held her hand up like I was some dog and gave me the universal sign to “stay.”
Apparently I wasn’t invited to the party.
Chapter 7
Waiting
The hardest part of waiting is that feeling
That feeling of being suspended in midair
That feeling of being submerged under water
That feeling of falling
Down
Down
Down
That feeling that you might never hear another hello
Or a proper goodbye
That feeling of not knowing when it will end
If it will end
The hardest part of waiting is that feeling
That feeling that you might be waiting forever
It’d been ten minutes and I was still sitting in the waiting room, wishing I had something – anything – to relieve the pressure pulsing through my veins. I wondered what my mom and Dr. M were talking about and what was going to happen to me as I returned the nasty looks an old lady was throwing my way from a chair to my right.
God, this was a therapist's office. Crazier things than a girl with no shoes and dirty pants undoubtedly blew through this place on a daily basis.
Suddenly I felt a tap on my left shoulder.
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