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Just Another Monday

A Short Story

By Scarlett ElizabethPublished 6 years ago 10 min read
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It is just another Monday in Mrs. Smith’s class. I sit, three desks from the left in the farthest back row, spinning my dull ring around my finger in a sort of habitual motion. I like to sit in the back. I don’t like it because I can goof off like the other kids, but because I can’t stand the idea of someone constantly watching me. I don’t want my back to be on display to those behind me. I don’t want to worry if I’m sitting up straight or if my hair looks okay. I don’t want anyone to notice what I’m wearing or even have a thought about what I’m doing. I want to just sit in peace, and do my work. In the back, it’s almost as if I’m not there. I go unnoticed. High school is not how I expected it to be. I always imagined a place of freedom and of higher intelligence that encouraged free thought and individuality. Now, sitting in the back observing the classmates around me, I know I was wrong. The girls in the front of the room are passing notes and laughing, their low cut shirts falling lower with each giggle, each of them modeled in the image of their favorite celebrities. Each one trying harder and harder to be someone else. The boys to my right are throwing balled up paper at each other and the kid to my left is asleep. It seems as if I am the only one paying attention. Here, it seems less like a school and more like a prison. We can’t speak our minds or use creative thought, but instead are taught to be more like the standard, turning each of us into boring and lifeless replicas of the system. Instead of being known by our names or hobbies, we are labeled by numbers: our test scores, our class rank, our GPA. They police how we dress, how we talk, how we sit, how we think, and even when we pee, yet tell us to act more mature. Every day is a sick repetition of the day before until summer, which only leads us to another year of this lifeless facilitated learning. My eyes draw to the faded diamonds on my ring. There was a time when this ring wasn’t so dull. When my mom first gave it to me, it was beautiful and sparkling. Throughout the years it seemed to grow with me, becoming older as I did, and losing some of its shine as a result of the usual wear and tear. Now it just seemed to be a depressing reminder of what once was.

“Hey do you have a pencil I could borrow?” The kid in front of me faces me now, breaking me from my thoughts. I think his name is James. I nod and turn to fish a pencil out of my bag, and place it softly in his hand. “Thanks!” he smiles brightly, “By the way, I like your shirt.” I twist my ring again and feel my cheeks turn red. He turns back around and my head falls to look at what I am wearing. I have on faded blue jeans, and a plain white shirt that sits atop my collar bones; nothing special. I should’ve worn something a little nicer today. I would have worn my mom’s old yellow sweater today but I couldn’t find it this morning. I woke up a little too late, and didn’t have much time to get ready. I didn’t even have enough time to find a belt, so I have spent a fair amount of my day pulling up my pants. I needed to get to school early today so that I could get my math book from my locker upstairs, but since I didn’t, I would have to get it this period. I check the clock. 9:24. The bell would ring in six minutes and I wouldn’t have enough time to get my book before my next class. I raise my hand quickly.

Mrs. Smith notices me and grumbles in my direction, “Yes?”

“May I go to my locker?” I say in my most innocent and polite voice. She nods reluctantly and I stand up, pulling my pants up as I walk quietly to the door. I hope nobody is watching me. The door shuts behind me and I can breathe again. I am alone. I focus on my steps. I count them and lose count, and then count again, keeping my head down. I have always hated the awkward obligation to acknowledge someone walking by in the hall. Whether it was a teacher or student, I always seemed to fumble my words, and not even manage to get a polite greeting out correctly. Instead of worrying about those unnecessary interactions now, I focus on the floor; on the tiles below me or on my steps. Whatever it was, my head always stayed low. I neared the steps to the upper level of my building now. The way the school was designed, the classes were on the lower levels, and the lockers and bathrooms on the top. It always seemed illogical, but at least it was organized. I climb the stairs carefully, putting thought into each step, each one pulling me closer to my destination. I enjoyed the quiet hallways. The sound of my own footsteps echoing against the walls, and my steady breathing calming the air around me. I reach the top now and set off towards my locker. Locker 417; just as bland and lifeless as the rest of them. I wonder what locker my mother had when she went here. I wonder if she walked these same tiles and stared at these same walls. I wonder if she thought it was bland too. I stand in front of my locker now, and jiggle the lock. It pries open, revealing my book inside. I grab it swiftly and close the locker door. I hear footsteps coming up the stairs now. My heart races. I hope they won’t try to talk to me. My eyes return to the tiles as I retrace my steps back to class. I try to count but it’s hard to focus. The footsteps are near me now. Walking briskly. Then they just stop. I feel my muscles tighten with anticipation.

“Hey, you!” His voice echoes in the hall and sends a shiver down my spine. I keep walking. I gulp hard and suddenly feel uneasy. I lose track of my steps and start to count again, seeing the stairway a few feet ahead. He’s in front of me now. I’m pushed against the lockers hard, my shoulders digging into the metal. The cold and rough edges cutting into my skin like knives. My book slams hard onto the floor. His hands grip my white shirt tightly, wrinkling the smooth cotton. My eyes stay on the floor but I’m shaking now. A boy in black jeans stands in front of me, waiting for my reply.

“So which one is yours sweetie?” I gulp hard, not finding my voice. He pushes me harder. “Hello? I asked you a question.” I am breathing heavily now, shaking more intensely, yet still aware of the cold metal against my skin.

“4-1-7,” I breathe out, hoping he releases me. I don’t want to be late for class. His hands slide around my neck now, slowly, and force me down the hall to my locker. He jiggles it open to find it empty, and I can hear him sigh. I finally take a look at his face now. He looks like every boy I have ever seen, yet not like any of them at all. He is familiar, but also a stranger. Something about him makes my stomach feel uneasy. His mouth turns into a twisted smile, and his hands soften on my neck. I prepare to run back to class. I can’t be late. The bell will be ringing soon.

“I like your shirt,” he says as his hands tug at the neckline of my plain white shirt, revealing the bare skin beneath. I try to push him back but it’s no use. Suddenly I have a deeper longing for my mother’s yellow sweater that would not have been pulled as easily. I look down at his hands as they travel further down my chest and realize I am crying. My tears are grey from my mascara and fall to my white shirt, staining the cotton with each drop. I wish I had worn a darker color. I don’t want people to know I have been crying. I want to yell but I can’t find the voice to do so. His lips are on my neck now, his hands still pinning me down. My tears flow faster. I can see the dark clouds out of a nearby window and wonder if it has been like that all day. I wonder if it will rain. Maybe I could blame my messy shirt on the rain. His lips begin to fall lower and his hands reach the tops of my loose jeans. I feel him undo them, and his hands forcefully explore my body. If only I had woken up earlier. I would have had a belt. Maybe it would have slowed him down. I try to fight back but I have no strength. I wonder when the bell will ring. If only I hadn’t slept in. I wouldn’t have had to miss Mrs. Smith’s class or be in this hallway in the first place. I wouldn’t have stained my nice shirt or ruined my makeup or risk being late to my next class. I hear footsteps approaching and my head falls to the side. It’s James. He’s standing at the top of the stairs. He can see me. I want to wave him over but my hands feel limp. For a second, I’m glad I’m visible. I’m glad I have his attention. I hold my breath as I wait for him to do something. He stares at me, his eyes blank. My eyes beg him to come closer; to help, to do something, to do anything, but he never does. He just stands there, watching. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a slut. I feel my breathing slow and my eyes fall back to the floor, water flooding from them. I wonder if my mom ever cried like this. The bell rings and his hands release me. I hear his heavy footsteps and I even think I can hear him laugh. I sink to the floor lifelessly. I look up and he’s gone. James is gone too. I’m alone. Yet this time, it doesn’t comfort me. I look to my shaking hand at the spot where my ring once was and I feel a sharp pain in my heart. It’s no longer there. I lean my head against my locker now and close my eyes, seeing his twisted smile in my mind, hoping my tears wash his fingerprints off my skin. I feel so stupid for waking up late. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have had to go to my locker anyway. I hope nobody notices the stains on my shirt or the makeup on my face. I don’t want them to think I’m crazy or dramatic. I wipe my eyes now and bring myself to my feet, gathering my book from the floor. I walk towards the stairs without bothering to count my steps. I can’t be late for class.

gender roles
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About the Creator

Scarlett Elizabeth

18. I write short stories and poetry.

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