Locker # Non Existant

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Locker # Non-Existent

It’s like I’m invisible to the people I need, and the center of attention for the ones who hurt me. My dad left before I knew him. My mom comes home late and falls asleep, waking up to three grueling shifts during the day and through the night. It’s what she needs to do to keep us afloat. At school, it isn’t much better with my ADD we just so happen can’t afford to medicate. My seat is in the last row, at the very back, and my eyes refuse to read the board. Behind me, the air conditioner goes full blast. Then comes the mean girls.
‘Sweatshirt Freak’ they call me, ‘the Goth’. But they don’t understand. I need someone to care about me, and that’s what my life lacks. I wear the sweatshirt because I’ve never got enough warmth from my little corner, same as my needing someone to care situation. The lack of love has shaped me inside and out. I shake off my problems and try to focus on math.
“Does anyone know the answer?” Ms. Oliver eyed the class, refusing to give the answer herself. I know it, but she ignores my hand swaying in the air. Her stone-gray eyes lock on every student, but me.
“Since no one has any clue about the answer, maybe we need to have a quiz on Friday so you people will actually study.” Moans erupt all around me as my educator scratches the answer on the board with her Stone-Age chalk. I think to myself ‘I give up’ as I put my head down just like I’ve done many times before.
‘Lucky for us’, our school has a playground-type thing where we have some 20 minutes to ‘enjoy’ ourselves. Like detention for me, but without the teacher and only the bullies. Now think ‘Bullies’; you might imagine the stereotypical brain-dead kid with more fat than muscle, with his buddies standing menacingly behind him. Maybe not, because we’ve got none of those here. Well, probably the brain-dead part.
Think more like bleach blonde, or a dark brown that could only be dyed, or piranhas with sharp tongues and Jimmy Choo flip flops that are never ticketed by the dress code. Or you could just think of them as the girls that everyone stays within 4 to 5 feet away from at all times in fear of getting attacked or hurt in some way. And these lovely ladies have a hobby; tormenting me. Sometimes they hit me, or throw my tennis ball, my only source of single player entertainment, over the fence. Most of the time they use completely backhanded compliments to hurt me. That way I can’t turn them in because I have no proof.
Mr. Sleepy-time Supervisor’s cell phone alarm goes off, and he stumbles awake, calling us to get our butts back in the building. Everyone clears out and I am the last to leave. My sweatshirt has assorted holes and tears, and my poor tennis ball has gone to live with the squirrels in the woods past the fence. I walk into the hallway yet again with red eyes.
I open my locker, and it groans like a dying animal to be put out of its misery. A paper flutters to the ground and I open the letter addressed to Sweatshirt Freak. Yep, they got the address right. I know nothing good is coming. I don’t need to read the signatures to know who it’s from. I slam the locker and take off crying to lunch, letting the paper with my verbal torment float to the ground to sit with the dust bunnies.
“Pizza, please.” The lunch lady throws the greasy mess down on my plate, making it obvious she desperately wants to be in the Career Transfer Office right now. I make my way to the table where the losers with no friends sit. Even the losers, who are a little more socially acceptable than me, give me weird looks. I don’t provoke them, or do anything to draw attention, the intimidating group of girls sauntered towards my table, right on time. I must remember to compliment them on their timing.
One of the girls, Megan, shouts from 3 or 4 feet away, “Hey! AC girl! Cold enough for ya?” The others shriek in approval as if Megan just performed a miracle. Then their evil popular girl leader, Carly, steps forth and, with a smirk, empties the contents of her chilled bottled water into the air, specifically above my head. They’ve done this kind of thing before, but something feels…different. They all start laughing like it’s the best blonde joke of the century; at how ridiculous I look sitting there soaked.
Something snaps. I stand up. They fall silent.
“You can’t treat me like this!” I yell in Carly’s face.
She hands me a phony sympathy smile.
“I’m sorry, honey. Let me know if you want to ever embarrass yourself again in front of the whole grade. I’d be happy to help”.
I look around and realize we are the center of attention for every set of eyes in the cafeteria, even the supervising Spanish teacher, who seems to have no interest in helping an outcast like me. I think I need to make a call. Hello, Board of Education?
I make a pained expression, and end up making that some fake smile.
“You know what? That’s just what I needed. I was getting a little hot anyway.”
“But I absolutely must return the favor. Here; looks like your make up needs a little touching up.” I grab the artificial pizza and carefully smear it in Carly’s face, working slowly as to cover all areas. I drop the mutilated bread and it ungracefully lands on her purple plaid Burberry shirt.
“There. Now isn’t that better?” I smirk and twist on the heel on my Converse boots, and strut out of the lunch room. I hear various sounds such as Carly’s ignored screeching, the applause coming from the huge “nerd” table, and feel six pairs of eyes follow me down the hallway along with six gaping o’s of disbelief instead of the girls’ normal blabbing mouths.
A week goes by and my life has changed for the better.
I came back from the bathroom in 2nd period to find a note labeled “Alexa”, the first time anyone has ever acknowledged me with my real name at school, containing an invite to hang out next Saturday with the girl that sits in front of me, Kelly.
Kelly and I walked down to the office during study hall today and turned in all the hate notes that Carly and Company slipped in my locker and on which, forgot to erase their names. They got busted, and my form of revenge is complete.
The best day ever passes by and I find myself happy at school for the first time. During 4th period, one of Carly’s cronies turns around and expresses her hatred for me in her facial expression. I smile genuinely in her direction.
“Wasn’t four Friday schools and a week-long suspension enough for your poor little mind to handle? Or do you need more to help the message sink in?”
Her face morphs to shock as it hits her; that she just got a taste of her own medicine.
“Katie? Is there a reason you’re turned around while I’m talking?”
Katie’s head whips around as the teacher stands, rapidly tapping his foot on the tile floor.


“Well?”


“Well…I...umm…” She looks from him to me as her eyes fill with desperation for some answer to Mr. Brumback’s question, as my eyebrows rise in triumph to pair with a smirk. “No.”


“That’s what I thought,” Brumback remarks as he goes back to torturing us with the tactics of whatever war we’re studying. Point two for Alexa.
I had too much fun with Kelly on Saturday. We met up at the movies and I met some of my new friends. Afterward, I stayed over at her house and we pulled a prank on her older sister, who, contrary to her yells, couldn’t get us in trouble, seeing as her mother thought we were “just younger kids and you need to get over it because its just a childish prank”. All things I wasn’t able to do before. Playing a prank on a sibling or going to the movies with friends. Having friends. It is truly priceless.
So, this past week was quite productive. I stood up to the Torture Squad, made a bunch of new friends, and got back at the girls who hurt me with some pretty sweet revenge that will prevent them from getting to me ever again. Yeah, I’d think very productive.





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