All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Things I'll Never Say
Why do they make me come in here every single day? With the bright pink walls, neon green carpet (complete with loud orange stripes) and a huge desk taking up most of the room screaming disorganized, I don't see how these visits are supposed to help me 'calm down and collect my thoughts'. It's a ADD kid's worst nightmare, and here I was, smack in it...again.
I mean, I've been staying out of trouble. Really, I have. I haven't looked at Riley since he made fun of my hair and I ripped his out. I haven't skipped class since I got caught in the girls bathroom smoking.
So why was I in the middle of your office now?
I glowered at you as I entered the room, all squished up behind the desk and sitting on the only normal piece of furniture in the middle of this whole freakish room--a high-backed black office chair. You smile at me, then usher me into the only other chair in, so small that my knees curl into my stomach. You force yourself up to close the door. Then you sit back down, your 'concerned' smile plastered on your overly made-up face. I scowl back.
"How's school?" you ask in your 'politely interested' tone that I hear you use with everyone. The light flickers, then brightens, washing out your orange tan. You ask again, your fake smile slipping down a notch. I close my eyes. I don't want to say it.
"School is not okay. My teachers still hate me, and they fail me even though I do all the work. Everyone except Mr. Warner, who likes me a little too much. He always stares down my shirt, and rubs against me whenever he can. I wish he would stop, but I'm afraid of what he'll do if I tell him to. I don't have any friends; all the kids think I'm a freak. And I killed the lizard in the science lab. It scared me," I want to say.
Instead, I glare at the mole above your lip. It has three hairs coming out of it.
The seconds tick by, and each time the second hand moves, your kind look falters. A silent minute later, you look at me dejectedly.
"Is your home life okay?" You try again, forcing the smile back. I look at your eyebrows, drawn on ten shades lighter than your hair.
In my mind, I say, "Home is terrible. Awful. My mom's relapsed into her heroin addiction. She's smoking it now. It sticks to my clothes. People notice the smell. My dad walked out last week when my mom found out about his girlfriend...and other children. I miss him. Mommy scares me when she gets high, and no one's there to save me from her anymore. The power's out, and the water's been shut off. My baby brother is dying. He's starving; we're out of food, and mom's using all of our money on crank. His cheeks are sunken in and I can count all of his bones, and most of the time he just lays in his crib. I wish I could feed him."
On the surface, I just rock back and forth and look at the 'Just Say No' poster. You sigh. I switch to looking at the plastic knick-knacks on the shelf above your head.
"Are you okay?" I swallow hard.
"Yes." No, of course I'm not. I tug on my sleeves, trying to cover up the cuts crisscrossing my arms and the little pinpricks going up my vein. My head lowers--I hope you can't see the rings around my eyes from staying up too long on a high. I try to fight the drugs, but how can I when mom's been slipping them into my food since I was nine? It's not my addiction--it's ours. We're only together then.
I'm not okay.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I sneak a peek upward through my grease-darkened hair, scared that you'd seen my bruises. You have the fake concern on your face again. I almost laugh. You don't care whether I live or die, just as long as you get your pay-check.
"No. There's nothing to talk about." I growl. You lean back in your chair, your eyes wide.
"Do you need any help?"
I want to scream, "YES! Yes, please help me!" I look at you, the way the skin folds over your eyes, the way the can of hairspray makes your hair look like a wig. I manage a little smile.
"No," I murmur. "I'm fine."