Sierra #2
“I stumbled outside and skinned my knees. Could I get something to clean them and a band-aid please?” I lie, not wanting to share the truth that I know every teacher at this school already knows.
“Of course. Take a seat, and I’ll go get the first aid kit and clean it up.
I’ll check if the nurse is here and she can take a look at it too, just to be safe.
Then I’ll make sure to get you a note to cover being late to class in case it takes a bit.
” Her voice is so soft and sweet, reminding me so much of my mother.
The nurse is in and honestly, if I’m being truthful, I think she and Mrs. Bullock are in cahoots together, trying to give me as big a reprieve from the bullying as they can.
I often wonder why the teachers never step in, even though they’re aware of what goes on.
Maybe this little token today is their small way of trying to help.
Who knows, maybe their hands are tied in some way, I don’t know.
It doesn’t condone or change the fact they allow it to happen.
“Okay, Sierra, here’s your note. First period started just a few minutes ago, so you won’t be that late, plus it’s the first day, so I doubt you’ve missed much.” She hands the note out and I take it, offering her a small smile.
“Thank you.” Opening the door, I step into the hallway and wave awkwardly.
Taking a quick look at my schedule, I see my first class, Literature, is just down the hallway.
As I make my way down the now abandoned hall, all the doors shut with the mumbling sounds of the teachers behind them, I prepare myself for the next thing to happen.
I’m always on edge for seven hours a day while I’m here, never knowing who could jump out from around the corner to assault me in some way.
I stop briefly, noticing the flier for the audition signup for the school's production of Grease, something I would love to be a part of.
A moment of bravery hits me. I reach out and take hold of the pen attached to the string, and poise the tip of it over the next blank line on the paper.
I go to write my name probably a dozen times before dropping the pen and stepping away quickly, moving toward my classroom, which is two doors down.
Auditioning and being accepted is a pipe dream, especially when Savannah plays a key role in helping to cast. No doubt she will be Sandy.
Opening the door to my classroom, every eye jerks up, staring directly at me.
“You’re late. Class started nearly ten minutes ago, young lady.” Mr. Blake looks at me sternly, clearly irritated at my late intrusion.
“Yes, sir. I have a note from Mrs. Bullock. She had me see the nurse after I fell on the steps out front.” I take a couple of steps over to him and extend my hand, holding the note out to him. He pulls it roughly out of my grip and looks down at it as if he needs to verify I’m not lying.
“Yes, you’ve disrupted class enough. Find an empty seat and sit down.” He waves his hand dismissively, his lip pulled up in a sneer.
Looking around the classroom, I see an empty seat at the back and move down the aisle, paying close attention to the jerks attempting to trip me as I pass them.
A chorus of “slut”, “whore”, “trash” and “bitch” fill the air as I pass, but does Mr. Blake say a word? Nope. Nada. Zilch. There’s no way he didn’t hear them.
Sliding into the seat, I keep my head down, placing the notebooks on the desk.
Looking down, I sit there and begin to pick at my nails.
“Please pass this textbook and syllabus back to Sierra.” I hear Mr. Blake tell the girl sitting at the desk in front.
I’ve seen her around, but I can’t remember her name.
“As I was discussing before I was interrupted, this semester you will be working on a literature project in pairs. You will pick a writer and read a collection of their works, then compare and contrast them and write a report on their writing style and what you feel their contribution to the literature world is. This will count as seventy-five percent of your grade. You, however, will not be choosing your partners, rather a random draw will. I will go down the row starting on the right side of the room and each person will draw a slip of paper from the bag. Once they are all pulled, you will stand one by one and announce your number and pair up with the person with the matching number. You will quietly and slowly move over to your partner and discuss which author you and your partner will choose during the remaining time we have in class. Does everyone understand?” He waits for a moment as we all call yes or nod our heads in agreement.
I wait for the bucket to get to me and pull out my slip.
Once we’ve all pulled, Mr. Blake announces we can look at our number.
As the girl in the front of my row announces her number, one guy from the football team has her matching number and she moves over toward him. Clearly, he had no intention of moving.
“Thirteen,” a deep voice booms out, with silence following. “Thirteen,” the voice calls out again, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Right here.” I stand up, knowing I’ll be the one who needs to move.
“No, sit down. There’s an empty seat, so I’ll move over to you.” His kindness shocks me, catching me off guard while also setting me more on edge, not knowing what he plans to do.
The person stepping over and sliding into the seat beside me is someone I’ve never seen before. He extends his hand to me, “Hi, I’m Zander. I'm new here this year.”
He’s stunning. Tan skin and dark, silky hair I just want to run my fingers through. His eyes are a drool-worthy honey brown color. Doing a double take, I see he has his eyebrow pierced and something sparkling in his mouth, making me think maybe his tongue, too.
“I’m Sierra,” I whisper once I’ve gotten control of myself.
“I know,” he chuckles, trying hard to not be loud, “I heard the teacher say your name. So, any clue who you want to talk about? I mean, we could go with the obvious choices Bronte, Po, Twain, but I was thinking we go with someone maybe a little more obscure or not so mainstream that everyone else would choose.” His voice is deep, but he has a slight cheerfulness present in it.
Fuck, he has brains and actually knows some writers.
Before I know it, the bell is ringing, signaling the end of class.
We barely said a word the entire time, but I watched as he furiously scribbled the names of authors he wanted us to consider.
His handwriting was elegant, not what you would expect from a boy.
He even made fun little designs when he made some of his letters.
He stands, collects his books, and starts to walk away before stopping.
“So, Sierra, want to exchange numbers, so we can plan some time to work on this project outside of school?”
Before I can even answer, Jack, Wesley’s best friend, makes his way over.
“Dude, I feel sorry for you, getting stuck with her. Make sure not to get too close. I hear crabs can jump. Come on, man, we need to get to the gym. Coach has a hissy fit if we aren’t there on time,” he says, slapping Zander on the back, steering him out of the classroom.
Just before he steps out the door, though, I see him looking back over his shoulder, taking one last look at me, with what looks like confusion mixed with sadness in his eyes.