A Measure of Worth

Short story I'll be submitting for Workshop. Not the original short I was planning to submit, but it came after a particular class I'm taking touched on a subject that hit home with me. Cussing inside

It’s the feeling you get when you know you’re not welcome at any lunch table that has people sitting at it. That bitter taste when you realize any words that come out of your mouth will be twisted and thrown back at you because you have been forced into silence. It’s your stomach flipping and turning when you realized that today, you have to do it all over again. Today, you will put yourself through hell in order to do what needs to be done. It’s not as bad a hell as some, but it is bad enough for you to want to call it hell. When your name being said aloud causes your throat to tighten; when you know that by simply moving you will attract the attention of the very thing you want to avoid. Hope knew what the feeling was, and the days where she changed. Do you know this feeling? Do you remember the days? Do you? Do you?

                It was the day, one week and four days after the head teacher quit, when she knew what her hell was going to look like. The small rectangular classroom with its dark blue hounds tooth patterned carpet and white rough walls smelled like bubblegum and sweat. There was the scent of urine by the bathrooms and a faintly moldy smell in the front right corner by the door. The wooden shelves were short and worn, like you would find in an elementary school. They were full of dents and scratches colored in with highlighters and pens, initials and hearts scribbled in the corners so the teacher wouldn’t see. The young girl had English lessons to complete, and no one to complete them with. The friend she normally worked with was off with another group of middle school kids, working on some math project she’d completed yesterday.  Hope sat alone at a table by the disgusting classroom bathroom in her uniform, the navy polo shirt and khacki skort baggy on her bony and petite body. Wavy blonde hair had been desperately tied back into a braid with short hairs frizzing everywhere, her pale blue eyes with dark circles underneath focused on her writing assignment. There was a younger boy sitting at a square table, struggling to keep his attention on his work. His Middle Eastern looks and small stature were no help to him. She watched as another boy, a larger and older one, began to poke the young boy. He teased him, pinched him, and made fun of him. Anger shook Hope’s tiny body, causing her writing to become illegible as time passed, until she could write no more. Hope silently stood up and gathered her things, calmly walking to the little boy’s table and sitting back down. She opened her mouth; she made eye contact, and learned what the fear of a first enemy felt like. The shaking of her fingers, the sensation of falling (which had always terrified her), the acidic saliva in that clung to the sides of her mouth. He did not thank her for helping him, for chasing away his bully with her presence. He didn’t want the help of a teacher’s daughter, or a “teacher’s pet.” She had a headache and stomachache by recess, and it didn’t leave until the early hours of the next morning.

                It was the day, two hours after a rigorous math test, that she knew who the demons in her hell were. Hope learned quickly that her only measure of worth was in her academic performance- she was neither pretty nor athletic, just polite and book smart. Mrs. Fletcher had asked her to take some papers in a manila folder to the office because the assistant teacher was busy helping another student. Hope met her mother’s eyes across the room briefly and smiled a small smile. Her mother went back to helping the student, and Hope began her journey across the field to the office. The glares and stares of seated students bore into her from all sides, the weight made her shoulders droop a little. She walked slowly in hopes of delaying her return to the small hell she had created for herself. Hope was walking even slower on her way back to the classroom, when her gaze was brought from her shoes to a bench where a young boy from her class sat happily. He bounced his leg as he played with his phone. She killed the question she wanted to ask him as it tried to pass her braces-covered teeth, pressing her hand against her thigh so she didn’t wave and make the mistake of catching his eye. It was but a simple question from the teacher that accelerated and aggravated the situation. I didn’t see him in the office, no. He’s outside ma’am.  It was her honesty that put her into this place; her honesty had failed her. When everyone had “circle time” in the afternoon in preparation for noon dismissal, she sat in her usual spot, stomach growing queasy and muscles tightening as no one came near. There was a huge gap around where she was with hostile eyes on either side. One person pointedly sat down near her, and then scooted away when the boy from outside whispered in his ear. Her heart sank when she caught the words said.

                “Don’t sit next to her; she’s the one who got me in trouble. She tattles on people, so you can’t talk to her at all. Don’t trust her. Teacher’s pet.”

                Hope put her clenched hands in her lap, nails digging into skin, breaking it, and digging deeper. She looked to the ground and waited for dismissal as patiently and calmly as she could. The next day, she wore a rough school jacket to cover the bruises on her upper arms from gripping herself so hard at night to stop from crying.

                It was the day, a little more than halfway through the school year, when she understood the gravity of the hell she had made for herself. Hope had learned quickly how to sever human connections, how to eat without talking to anyone, how to do a lesson without working with another. She had learned that she could speak only if called on; her words were best kept inside of her hot throat and tight chest. She learned to move so silently that you could not hear her, so that others didn’t notice her pass. She learned how to walk without making eye contact, how to live without peer interaction. Hope had learned the strength of isolation and what it did to a person. She learned how they arranged seats to keep  her from coming near, how they positioned their bodies to indicate disgust, and how they pointedly grabbed her attention with some quick, sharp movement only to demonstrate to another how inferior she was through too-loud whispers or knowing looks.

                It was that day. He was a large boy, Mexican and proud of his heritage (and he made sure to let everyone know) although there was nothing wrong with his pride, just how he expressed it. He was almost as tall as the teacher, and probably stronger. He walked with his chest out and head up, speaking in the guttural tone he affected to make him sound deeper, tougher. He despised most women, and liked to pick on anyone smaller than him or his very small group of friends. He spiked his hair every day with hair gel, pushing it back with a rubber band until that was banned. He found other ways to make his defiance known. It was a source of amusement to all when the teacher yanked the g-string off of his head, black like his hair to blend in. Everyone laughed until Hope smirked; she had forgotten she was not allowed to do that. He glared at her then, Alejandro. The hatred was evident in his eyes, and she shrank beneath the gaze, trying to make herself smaller, unnoticeable. Alejandro never forgot, but he also never forgave.

                It was twelve minutes after everyone had come in from lunch when he cornered her. He enjoyed the fact that she pulled away from him. He taunted her then that her mother wasn’t here to save her. She had no friends. She was worthless. Puta blanca. Pedazo de mierda. Snitch. Mentiroso. Mascota de la maestra. Cracker. Cabróna. The onslaught of words ripped her apart; all she could do was turn her head to the side, and give him her cheek and downcast eyes. Not a single student said anything to her, not a single student stood up for her, not a single student could be bothered to look at her. Hope kept her eyes to the ground, feeling herself separate from the surge of emotions that shook her frail body. She didn’t notice the teacher come to help her, didn’t notice the verbal fight that ensued. Hope walked toward her table and began to busy herself with assignments she needed to complete, pulling as far away from the mess in her head and stomach, the burning of her eyes and throat, the tightness of her shoulders. It was that day; she learned what she needed to do.

                It was that night she waited in her bed until she was sure everyone was asleep, clenching her pillow until the snores of her parents rose to a loud drone. She slipped out of her bed and tip-toed across the cold marble tile floor down the hall. She turned the handle of the bathroom door slowly, ensuring that no sound was made when she shut it behind her and turned the light on. It was that night that she stayed awake, finding every flaw she could find on her body. She counted them all, and then began to destroy herself in a matter of minutes by listing them out. She found her knobby knees, the shape of her nose, the uneven eyelids, and the thin lips. Her pointy elbows, large knuckles, and skinny ankles. She plucked hair out of her head and rubbed it between her calloused fingers, the roughness of the skin and hair ingraining itself into her mind. If she could find every flaw, find everything wrong with her, she could understand how her hell had grown so large and swallowed her so fast. Hope built her walls then, constructed on flaws. Walls that would shield her from pain. She could learn how to avoid the demons and ignore the stares. She practiced until she became invisible, until the only record of her existence was the mirrors she looked into every night to see if she could find something else to pick at and add to her wall.

                There are things you should know about Hope. She learned to fade into the background of every situation. She learned that one did not need friends to survive. She learned that books could remove her from any uncomfortable situation, and so she let them take her wherever they wanted as long as it was not where she lived. She learned how to smile at everything, but never too big or too happy lest she entice vipers to bite. She learned averted eyes and soft whispers meant she had a chance of not being hurt. She learned that her walls not only blocked out pain, but every other emotion. She learned she was okay with this. She buried herself behind her studies and her wall of flaws and scars.

               After all, measure in worth was how well she could benefit society intellectually, not how well she could function.

Author's Note

I've tried to correct my comma issues. Please feel free to poke and prod and tell me I've messed up grammatically. Let me know if it's really boring, if you aren't getting enough sensory details, etc. I'd really appreciate any help I could get.