Caught

A Story by Sydney Rachel

Another excerpt from what I've been working on

“What’s that?” asks Erin. I follow her line of sight down to my left wrist. Three angry red lines, all parallel, are peeking out of the sleeve of my dark blue hoodie.

“Nothing,” I reply, hastily pulling the sleeve down to cover my wrist.

Concern colors her features, but she just shrugs as she takes her seat. Ms. Glade flips off the lights and turns on the projector. As it flickers to life, I slowly take my iPod out my bag and slip it into my pocket. Then I slide one of the ear buds under my sweatshirt and up my sleeve. I stick it in my ear, and rest my cheek in my hand, making sure the wire is completely concealed. I reach into my pocket and hit play, and watch idly as Ms. Glade flips through the slides.

“Emily.” A voice startles me out of my trance-like state. I look up to see Ms. Glade looming over me, her mouth uncharacteristically turned down at the corners and her brow furrowed. She holds out her hand expectantly and I look at her blankly.

“The iPod,” she says, by way of explanation.

My face floods with color and I pull the headphones out of my sleeve. I hand her the iPod, my eyes cast downward, and she makes a disapproving tsk with her tongue.

“Sorry,” I mutter, not really sorry at all.

“Are you?” she asks. “Because I don’t think you are. You have handed in one homework assignment in the past two weeks. You haven’t passed a single test this marking period, and I have yet to see you open your notebook.” Her voice grows louder as she gains speed. “You are failing this class! You need to start showing some initiative, or you are going to continue to do so. If you plan to have any kind of future, you need to clean up your act, Emily.”

I swallow hard and make my face a smooth mask, trying not to show her how much her words sting when I reply blandly, “So when do I get my iPod back?”

I can practically see the smoke blow out of her ears. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, probably stopping herself from cursing me out. Then her face hardens into a mask that rivals mine.

Her voice drops about two octaves and ten decibels. “I expected more of you Emily. I thought you were better than this.”

I look her straight in the eye and sneer, my voice cold and metallic, “So did I.”

Then I slide my chair out, grab my bag, and storm out of the classroom.

At first I have no idea where I’m headed; I’m stuck in a mental limbo, wandering the halls aimlessly. Then I come to a stop at the old staff bathroom. No one uses it anymore, so there’s no one outside the door checking hall passes. Hoping for the best, I reach for the handle and pull down. It’s not locked. I breathe a small sigh of relief and slip inside.

My dad’s pocketknife is in the side pocket of my bag. I told myself that I wouldn’t use it in school, but after basically being told that I’m going nowhere in life, I’m hungry for a release. I’m just about to press the blade to the scarred flesh of my right wrist when the door slams open.

“Emily?” Erin’s voice rings out and echoes off the walls.

I stare at her for a moment, startled, then realize her eyes are on the blade that, in my confusion, has drawn a thin red line across my wrist to add to the others. I silently curse myself for not going into a stall, but I had figured no one would come in this bathroom.

“S**t. Emily. Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.” Erin’s voice trembles a little.

All of a sudden, I am horribly angry. Angry at myself for getting caught, angry at Ms. Glade for being such a b***h, and angry at Erin for following me here. I look up at her, the tiniest bit of a morbid smirk on my lips and press down harder, savoring the pain, and taking satisfaction in the terrified look on her face.

“Emily. Please d-don’t,” she stutters. I answer by sliding the blade further across my wrist. She takes a cautious step forward and I furrow my brow and lift the knife. It’s slick with my blood, which gleams as it catches the light. Then before I can think, Erin lunges forward and wrestles the pocketknife from my grasp. I reach for it but she smacks my hand away and pins me to the ground with such strength I didn’t think possible for someone so tiny in stature.

“Erin, no!” I try for it again, but she just flips it shut. “Give it back!” I shriek, and attempt to throw her off of me.

“No,” she says forcefully, and keeps me on the floor.

“I need it!” I shout, the desperation clear in my voice.

She holds my gaze for a good ten seconds before replying, “No, you don’t.”

I smack my head down on the tile and shut my eyes tight. Erin tries to stop me, but I get in a couple more before she can get her hands underneath my head.

“Emily, stop!”

I open my eyes and two Erins swim before me and the room is pitching and turning.

“Now, I’m going to let you up,” Erin articulates slowly. Her voice sounds far away. “You need to promise me that you will not try to grab the�"” she winces “�"knife.”

I give her the best nod I can muster considering my position on the floor and she slowly gets off of me.

Erin helps me to my feet and turns towards the sinks. I stumble backwards, dazed, and she catches me in her arms.

“Whoa, are you okay?” she asks carefully.

“Yeah,” I manage. I lean against the wall, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

She flips the pocketknife back open and rinses it off slowly. I watch as the sink turns orange with my blood. When she’s done, Erin grabs a paper towel, dries off the blade, closes it, and slips it into her bag. The she faces me.

“Look, Emily, I don’t know what’s going on, but if you need to talk to�"”

I cut her off. “I don’t want to, nor do I need to talk to anyone,” I snap, “And neither do you.” She gives me a puzzled look. “You can’t tell anyone about this,” I clarify.

“But Emily�"”

“No. Not a soul.”

“You need to talk to somebody,” she insists.

“No.” I shut my eyes tight.

“Even if you just talk to me.”

I breathe in deeply and open my eyes, gazing at her, knowing she doesn’t understand.

“Talking about it will only make it more real.”

With that, I stalk over to the sink, trying to keep my balance. I clean off my wrist and dab it with a paper towel. I go into a stall and tear off some toilet paper, and I tie it around my wrist, making sure it is completely concealed by my sleeve. Erin watches me as I stomp out the door. At first I hear her soft footsteps following close behind me, but I take a right turn toward the South Wing, and she turns left to go back to English. I spot the door to the nurses’ office, and on an impulse I push it open. I sit down on one of the chairs and wait until one of the nurses notices me. After about five minutes of waiting, a small blonde nurse finally asks me what’s wrong.

I put on my best sick face (which isn’t very hard, considering I’m so pale) and murmur, “My stomach and head really hurt.”

The nurse takes my temperature and I stare at the electronic thermometer as the numbers rise. It beeps three times and I look at the numbers on the screen. 98.6. Perfect.

“Well, you don’t have a fever. Have you eaten yet?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I have sixth lunch,” I explain.

She nods empathetically. “Do you want to lie down for now, and then you can go to lunch and see if you feel better?”

I nod and she leads me into a small room with four cots. I drop my stuff on the floor, plop down on the cot, and close my eyes.

It seems like seconds later when the nurse is shaking me awake. I groggily gather my books and head to the cafeteria. I get there five minutes late, so everyone is already in line, and the table is empty. I sit down in my seat and set my stuff on the floor.

Then I realize. Erin’s bag is sitting right across from me. Open. With my dad’s knife in plain sight. With a quick glance around the cafeteria, I reach into her bag, pull it out, and slip it back into the side pocket of my bag, where it belongs.