Fiction/Young Adult/Drama
Assumptions — Senior Year — Chapter Six
Ayma Kuntz
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High School (n)—where self-esteem, innocence, and dreams go to die (unknown)
It’s happened every year over the past five years, always on the first day of school. I was always sucked back into that horrible dream, one I could never escape, the day I started at Bayshore.
Why would tonight, the day before the start of my senior year, be any different?
‘I entered the classroom on my first day of middle school at my new school. I’m a big sixth grader. I chose to go to public school instead of the private prep school I’d been to since kindergarten.
The class is already full of students. They stare, wondering who I am. I notice I’m not dressed like most in their jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. Nope, my mother picks out all my clothes, right down to my underwear.
The teacher, a young woman, maybe fresh out of college, waves me to the front of the room. She put her arm around my shoulders. “Welcome to Bayshore. I’m Ms. Arthur. Can you tell everyone your name?”
I looked out to the classroom full of fresh faces. They all appeared welcoming. Well, most of them did.
I told them my name, and that was when it started.
A whisper.
A finger point.
Almost all the kids in the room were making fun of me. They didn’t even know me.
I glanced at the teacher. She seemed speechless, like she had no idea how to control the situation.
I did the only thing an ordinary twelve-year-old girl would do at that moment, I ran out of the room, letting the door slam behind me.’
The door slamming kept replaying itself
over
and
over
and
over again.
I woke with a startle. The sound of a door being closed loudly wasn’t coming from a dream. My mother was pounding on the bedroom door.
I threw off the blankets, grabbed my robe, slid my arms through, and made a quick beeline for the door. Mother stood in the hallway with a scowl on her face, which wasn’t abnormal for her.
“Why was your door locked?” My mother, Karolyn, squinted her eyes as she glared at me. “Why aren’t you dressed for school? I don’t have all day to wait for you. I have a business meeting in,” she glanced at her cell phone, “one hour.” She straightened the collar on her dark blue button-down blouse. “You have thirty minutes to get ready. I set your clothes out last night. They’re hanging in your closet.” She turned to leave, then looked back over her shoulder. “And Ayma, do something with your hair. You always look like a damn clown ready for the circus.” With those complimenting words, she strolled back down the hall to the stairway.
I get it. I wasn’t her. Thankfully. I mean, my mother was beautiful, but it was all fake.
Fake hair. She loved her wigs.
Fake nails. She gets manicures weekly.
Fake body. She’s had her share of liposuction.
Fake face. She’s had more injections than a heroin addict.
Fake boobs. Those girls wouldn’t be that perky without some sort of lift.
My mother dressed with perfection. Always in the best from the best. I could see why she had to be clothed in such fashionable wear. She’s a high-end attorney here in Tampa Bay. Her clients were well-off. They’re multi-millionaires with a shit ton of money to pay their way out of every mess they, their family members, or their companies got themselves into. This, in turn, made my mother a relatively wealthy individual.
Both my parents are attorneys. They divorced a few years ago, irreconcilable differences were the main culprit. Meaning they didn’t love each other anymore, or one cheated on the other, or for some other reason, they couldn’t find a way to keep our family together. Dad remarried, has twins, and lives in California. Since he left, I haven’t seen or heard from him, leaving me with only my mother.
The clock above the bed indicated there were only twenty more minutes before the shit hits the fan, and Mother stormed back up the steps like a tornado gone wild.
I put on the attire my mother picked out. Black trousers, a long-sleeved button-down white silk blouse, a black blazer, and of course, I couldn’t forget the matching black loafers to go with the whole assembly. I was a regular old-school librarian. I had no time or need to do anything with my hair. I pulled back my dark brown locks into a ponytail, grabbed my backpack, and away I went with one minute to spare.
