This Year at Home (A Short Story)

THIS YEAR AT HOME: A SHORT STORY

Sarah Bridgeton

Copyright © 2013 Sarah Bridgeton. All rights reserved.

LICENSE

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1

ON JANUARY SECOND, I WANTED my hair to look perfect. So I pulled my hair through my big round brush and held the brush tight. With my other hand, I aimed my hair dryer, turned the heat dial to high, and switched the dryer on.

Thin strands of steam shot into the air as my damp hair sizzled. Sure, I could have let that section air-dry. Nobody was gonna notice it—it was on the nape of my neck. But I wanted to look like a beautiful warrior, and a beautiful warrior has meticulously styled hair.

Normally, I wouldn’t have fussed so much over my hair, but it wasn’t a normal day. Winter break was over, and I was going back to school to face my tormentors.

“Rebecca, you up?” Mom shouted from outside my bedroom door.

She was being ridiculous. Of course I was up. Didn’t the sound of my hair dryer prove it? “Yeah.”

“Turn down the music; it’s too loud.”

I turned down my iPod, even though it wasn’t blaring.

“I’ll be downstairs.” There was jumpy optimism in her voice, a mix of anxiety and excitement. I got why she was a bundle of nerves. Calm wasn’t an option after everything that had happened.

I dabbed finishing crème on my fingers and ran it through my hair. I’d been taunted, teased, and pranked until school became unbearable and I tried to commit suicide last year.

I survived. And at the urging of my parents and therapist, I returned to school to file a harassment complaint. But the complaint was dismissed, and the harassment continued. I transferred to a different school, only it wasn’t a school in the greater Boston area. I went on a study-abroad program in Israel.

Two weeks ago, I had come home from Israel a new me. But I didn’t return to school. It had been the beginning of winter break. I had spent the break preparing for the inevitable.

Well, it was finally that day: my first day back at school.

And the new me would have perfect hair.

Looking in the mirror, I was satisfied. There wasn’t a single hair out of place, not even a stray flyaway or split end. I swiped my bangs to the side.

There would be no hiding from
them
at school.
They
would see my face.

They
were the kids who had tormented me, making school a living nightmare.

Black jeans and a plum V-neck sweater were laid across my bed. New clothes, thanks to Grandma’s generous Chanukah check. Once I dressed, I applied lipstick and mascara. Mom’s Chanukah present had been a trip to a trendy salon, where a stylist had polished my hair and makeup.

I pranced out of my room to the stairs. No need for Mom to worry. My makeover wasn’t limited to my appearance. I had reinvented myself on the inside too; the loser was gone, faded into a bad memory, hardly worth my time or energy.

The stairs creaked as I walked down. In the kitchen, Mom’s new coffee maker hissed. She looked up from her laptop. “Oh, Rebecca… you look stunning. Those honey highlights look great in your hair. Are you sure you don’t want to wear my black boots?”

“No thanks. If I need to kick somebody’s butt, it’ll be in my moccasins.”

She nodded at me. “Do you want to practice one last time?”

My stomach squeezed. “No, let’s go.”

Mom handed me my new phone, which had been Dad’s Chanukah gift. “Remember to hide it in your hand. Don’t let anybody see it. Stay composed, and don’t forget to turn it on. Don’t point it till you have to.”

That was my biggest concern. What if I forgot to press Record? I’d have to trap
them
again. And once
they
knew I was trying to trap them, they’d become impossible to catch.

I grabbed my coat. It was worn, the lining ripped from an unraveled hem. “They haven’t seen me for over six months. Maybe they’ll leave me alone?”

Mom knotted her scarf. “I hope so, but I can’t let you walk in there unprepared. That was my mistake before. Derrick’s parents are a piece of work. Denying he did anything wrong.” She put her hands into air quotes. “‘He was only joking.’”

“Mom, please.” She kept bringing up Derrick. Mom and I had spent hours practicing, going through every imaginable Derrick scenario, till I was mentally exhausted. I didn’t want to talk about him anymore. I wanted to get to school and get on with the plan!

“Rebecca.” Mom wouldn’t back down. “What you’re doing takes guts. I’m proud of you. For coming home. For going back to school. Most people wouldn’t set foot in the school that failed to protect them. But you are.”

Not that I had much of a choice. The study-abroad program had ended after two grading periods, and Mom said I couldn’t run away forever.

I sighed and headed into the garage toward our car. “Can I have some Zen time please?”

My stomach knotted up again. I finally had the emotional strength to stand up to Derrick. That was a given, after everything I had been through in Israel.

But the social issue nagged at me. What if nobody cared about my makeover? What if I still didn’t get invited to parties? I’d have to look elsewhere for new friends, which wouldn’t be the total end of my world, but I had a year and a half before college. That was an awfully long time to walk the halls alone and sit by myself at lunch.

In the car, Mom ignored my request for peace and quiet. “How about I sign you out for lunch? The new Mexican place at Park Center is supposed to be fabulous.”

“It’s not enough time. Lunch is only thirty minutes.”

“Okay. Where do you want to go?”

She wasn’t distracting me. “I dreamed about them last night.”

“Derrick and his friends?” Mom asked, her tone tense.

“No, Mia and Jake. Ben, too. Avi wasn’t in it.” Saying the names of my friends from Israel loosened the bands of stress. In the dream, we sat on a bench, underneath a palm tree. I was leaning back-to-back against Jake. In front of me, Mia had her legs curled up to her chin and hugged her knees as she watched Ben, who was standing before us.

Mia had tossed her head back, flipping her hair—something she normally didn’t do. Then Jake and I weren’t back-to-back anymore. He faced me, his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear him.
What is he saying? Please talk louder
, I had thought. Was he using his usual breezy, casual tone? Or was he being serious?

He’d disappeared suddenly. I wanted to reach out and grab him. Then Mia and Ben disappeared too.

“Oh, Honey.” Mom kept her eyes on the road, but she seemed to pause. “You’ll have those types of relationships with other kids. New kids you’ll meet.”

I nodded, grateful for my study-abroad friends, in spite of the unfairness of us being scattered. Jake lived in California, Mia in Minnesota, Ben in Florida, and Avi in Israel.

Outside, it was a typical winter day, overcast and cold. Dampness lingered in the air. A nor’easter was on its way, expected to hit the following day.

Mom parked the car and delicately stepped onto the concrete. She was dressed to the hilt in a navy wool pants suit and high-heeled pumps. I walked next to her toward the office, my backpack in tow.

The school grounds hadn’t changed much. Small patches of brown grass that surrounded a two-level brick building. The only difference was an expanded student parking lot.

The office was fairly busy, as the school day was about to begin. An administrative assistant briskly told us Principal Nelson would be with us shortly. Nobody else in the office acknowledged us.

The administrative staff went about their tasks, answering the phones and doing computer work. They had been just as cold during the harassment investigation. Not that anybody had said anything rude, but an uncomfortable hush had settled over the office after the complaint was filed, when I had waited for Principal Nelson.

Mom watched the staff, too—with a hard glare.

Finally, after what seemed to be forever, one of the assistants glanced away from her computer. “Mrs. Levine, Rebecca, Principal Nelson will see you now.”

Mom and I stood up. She and I were the same height; the short genes of Dad’s family had thankfully passed me by.

Principal Nelson took speedy steps into the waiting area. He looked Mom straight in the eye, his square-jawed face serious. “Mrs. Levine, my apology for the wait. I pride myself on being prompt, but it’s been busy this morning.”

Mom didn’t answer. Principal Nelson caused a stir when he got the job, beating out several older candidates. A lot of moms gossiped about how cute he was. Mom thought the hullabaloo was ridiculous.

Mom and I followed him to his office. He immediately closed the door, motioned us to take the two seats opposite his desk, and sat down in his high-back chair. I put my backpack down at my feet.

“Mr. Nelson.” The authority in Mom’s voice surprised me. Clearly, she was making up for lost time. “I’ve instructed Rebecca to report any incidents that constitute harassment as stated in the school’s anti-bullying policy. She’ll provide both a written and verbal report.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Mr. Nelson raised his voice. “However, we cannot take action unless there is proof an incident happened. That being said, our staff has gone through additional training on how to handle these matters. I stand by our policies, and I stand by my staff and my students.”

Mom softened her tone. “Well, it’s difficult to prove incidents happen. Sometimes we’re too busy to notice. Frankly, people don’t want to believe such things happen at their school. I want your personal assurance that Derrick isn’t in any of Rebecca’s classes.”

“As you know,”—Mr. Nelson kept his tone sharp—“it’s against school policy to determine class assignments based on parental requests. However, in this case,”—he leaned over and draped his hands on the desk—“I’ve made an exception. Derrick isn’t in any of Rebecca’s classes.”

He looked at me, and I saw compassion in his eyes. “Your locker won’t be near his. It’ll be by the seniors. Is this okay with you?”

Okay with me? Of course it was! “Yes, it is. Thank you.”

“I see you did well in Israel.” He nodded at me. “Straight A’s.”

“That’s my daughter!” Mom bragged as the bell rang.

Principal Nelson stood up and handed me my schedule before I could say anything. “If you hurry, you won’t be late for Homeroom.”

Mom trailed behind me as I left the office. “That went well. The rest is up to you, Rebecca. Walk with your—”

“Mom, please.” I swung my backpack over my shoulder. It was my time: Time to show everybody I wasn’t a loser. Time to continue on with my life. Time to evolve into the person I was meant to be. I didn’t need her to tell me what to do. I was gonna saunter down the hallway like I owned it.

“You okay with your schedule?” Mom asked.

I eyed my schedule. It was fine. English was my first-period class.

“Text me if you change your mind about lunch.” Mom reached toward my shoulder. “You have lint on your jacket.”

I backed away, even though I couldn’t stand lint, either.

It felt totally
déjà vu
as I marched through the office door and made my way down the corridor. Lockers slamming. Kids talking to each other—some walking, some congregated by classrooms. My backpack was heavy, practically overflowing with school supplies. Mom had suggested coming in over break to organize my locker. I had refused, insisting it was unnecessary to make an extra trip to school. I’d thought it might crack my momentum.

My heart thudded. Fairview High. My school.

For years, I had hated it, the place where I felt the worst. Yet, it was still part of me. Treading through it again, my confidence wasn’t shattered, nor did I feel hatred. For the first time, I felt satisfied I had come home.

I pulled out my phone. The situation could turn at any moment. After my suicide attempt and the harassment complaint, I became more than just the school loser. I was even more hated, as the troublemaker trying to get Derrick suspended. Mom had said it wasn’t true, that people just weren’t sure how to show their support.

As I walked to my locker, I connected names to faces. A girl with shoulder-length hair came my way. Hadn’t she been in my homeroom last year? Oh, yeah…Paige Gonzalez. She glanced at me; her jaw dropped.