MILLICENT
The word was still there the next morning.
TRASH.
Carved so deep into my desk that the wood peeled at the edges like a wound someone kept picking at. My textbooks were in worse shape, ripped beyond repair, some pages missing, others soaked with something that smelled like orange juice and cheap perfume.
I hadn't thought to clean up yesterday because I didn't even know where to start, but then first thing in the morning I took a shower, got dressed and reported it.
The dorm matron barely looked up when I told her. She scribbled something in her pad and muttered that she'd “see what she could do.” Which was code for absolutely nothing.
When I went to a teacher, I got a long, tight-lipped smile and a shrug. “It happens sometimes. You know how teenagers are.”
Right. Teenage we
