The Bad Boy and Faith

Just a little closer... if I could... just... get a little closer...it's right there how can't I reach it. I huffed in frustration and decided a different method was needed to retrieve my pen that was now kissing the floor. It was my lunch period and I found myself in the library once again writing wretched poetry that reflected my daily predicament. I rose silently from my seat, trying to avoid the scraping of the chair across the floor. I didn't want to be kicked out again by Mrs. Reeves, the librarian. My pen had somehow ended all the way under the table towards the wall. I hunched over, my large belly making it hard for me to reach under the table so I dropped to my knees.  And then I heard it... a dreadful sound, similar to a baby's screech. This sound marked the beginning of my second downfall of the week. The first one was not so terrible, but also not amazing news that my mom was being relocated. It wasn't so terrible because maybe it was a good idea to get a fresh start, but then again what about the lack of friends at my current school? It wasn't much of a loss to go across the country, maybe it'd be better for me in the long run. Besides the ridicule was beginning to get to my head. Sometimes I found myself looking in the mirror wondering if I was an actual slutty pumpkin.  Anyway downfall number one aside, my pants were ripped. I mean ripped where no daylight has shone and I didn't have a spare. Boy, I wish I had listened to my mom's advice when I got my first period about keeping a pair of spare trousers.  I sighed defeatedly and grabbed my pen. I had no idea what I was going to do. I could fake a sickness, but I had already used that once this week and I limited those to one per week. Looks like I was all out of wild cards. I could check to see if the main office had a spare pair of pants but then I gave up on that idea when I realized I probably wouldn't be able to fit them. Looks like I will have to live with this situation for the next four periods. It was either that or face the wrath of my mother. My ripped pants could be: A. The object of more ridicule, B. Cause unwanted attention, or C. Give me a newfound strange reputation. They were all very creative when it came to teasing, but not when it came to their classwork. I plopped down into my seat and placed my forgotten pen on the table. My poetry was now abandoned and is no longer an object of my attention.  It didn't take long for an idea to pop into my head. I had about fifteen minutes to retrieve my jacket out of my locker before the halls were filled with ripe and cunning teenagers. I gathered my things in my arms and hightailed it out of the library but not before receiving a skeptical look from Mrs. Reeves.   After I retrieved the jacket from my locker and wrapped it around my waist I decided it was a good idea to get to class early. This may not come as a shocker but I made sure I reserved the seat in the darkest and draftiest corner as to avoid any attention altogether. I also tried to make it my mission to make it to class before anyone else so I wouldn't have to walk through endless patronizing stares and snarky remarks. It didn't take long for the designer-clad, glossed lips and preppy students to pile in preparing for the lecture. I could hear them gossiping about the latest debacle that occurred in the cafeteria which really didn't phase me or surprise me. I don't know if this occurs because of my being the head of the rumor mill at least twice a week or simply because I had outgrown the maturity of high school kids.   I attempted to sink down into my seat hoping I could disappear, but it was nearly impossible being an elephant hiding in plain sight. I settled on placing my head on my desk until the teacher came in. It wasn't hard to hear Mrs. Andarsan, because she was loud and catty. It was unusual for an art teacher in my opinion, because usually art teachers were reserved and mousy. But Mrs. Andarsan was my favorite because she was neither of those things. You couldn't get away with blowing your nose without her permission. She wasn't this strict teacher who abided by every rule, she just didn't take a whole lot.  She could be really cool just as long as we didn't press the wrong buttons. She allowed a lot of things other teachers would frown upon. She was eccentric and she loved her job and she loved her students. I knew she had approached me when I could hear the clattering of her beaded necklaces and her usual high-heeled boots. She wore those throughout any season. I shifted in my seat and lifted my head and saw a beaming Mrs. Andarsan. She clasped her hands together and greeted us. "How was your greasy lunch today?" She grinned at us and gathered our personal portfolios of the art we did in class throughout the year. I wouldn't say I was good at art, I was just average. It didn't take much to drag a pencil across a piece of paper, it was the emotion and interpretations that were important. "Today I'll present to you 4 established artworks and you must reflect upon one specific piece of your choosing and develop your own interpretation of the artwork. Your interpretation can come in the form of art, an essay, or something creative approved by me. This assignment should be completed over the course of two weeks. We will work on this assignment during the scheduled class time." She cleared her throat and slammed her hands on the desk, probably to get the attention of those who weren't paying attention. AKA...me. It didn't take long for me to begin to drown out the sounds of Mrs. Andarsan's lecture. I spent the majority of my class time daydreaming about things I could be doing instead of being there. Before I knew it, it was the end of the day and it was 15 minutes until the final bell would ring signaling that it was time to depart to our homes. And with that 15-minute bell came my doom.  It took about two class periods to feel a rash forming between my thighs and for the friction of the roughly padded material on my jeans in between my legs to become painful enough that it began affecting the way I walked. It's a shame that people who have big thighs are plagued with this incurable sickness.  Chafing... It plagued thousands of Americans every day and unfortunately for me, it was happening at that moment. My walk was beginning to resemble that of a neutered dog and pregnant women, and to top it all off I had to walk home. It wasn't that far, maybe 15 minutes on foot, but in my predicament that would add at least 15 more minutes. I struggled to get out of my seat, but not because of the chaffing simply because I was fat. I found myself in the parking lot of the school standing still every few steps. If I was lucky someone would think I was performing a ritual involving complex dark magic and would hopefully choose to stay away from me. I decided to give up and tried walking as normal as possible and failed miserably, the pain was unbearable, so I walked with my legs as far as I could. My arms rested on my side and my legs were spread shoulder-width apart as I trod down the last block to my house. It looked pretty dumb, but I was five minutes from my house, and so far no one had run into me yet. I spoke too soon because I could hear the base of a car approaching slowly, their music was so loud it pierced the sidewalk. I froze in place hoping they'd just drive away and I had no intentions of turning in their direction. My heart rate picked up as the car came to a halt and the music subsided. A door slammed and I could swift footstep approaching, I refused to acknowledge their presence. The only option I had was to keep walking and pretending like no one was there. "Uh..." the voice of a child said. "What are you doing?" It sounded like a girl, she sounded like she was probably between the age of 6 to 8 years old and because I felt an 8-year-old couldn't be that harmful I thought it was okay to turn around. And boy was it not because standing there right behind that 8-year-old was b***h A through D and I was paralyzed with fear. I chuckled nervously and broke out into a sprint, well what I considered a sprint. I didn't miss the look of pure disgust on there as I turned around. It was the only thing I remembered. I had no idea how the little girl looked or did I even get a glimpse of the car they got out of because my body's first response was to get the hell out of there.  Once I reached my house the pain was completely unbearable. I just need to have a seat and moisturize my inner thigh. I took a deep breath and entered my house and was greeted by the stench of alcohol. It was pretty strong and I knew already my mom was completely drunk. With a drunk mom, comes never endless teasing. The thing with my mom, she didn't think that her words were harmful and she thought everything she said was fun and games. But because it was my mom it hurt more than anything. Her words held more value in my heart than any insult spewed from thoughtless teens at my school. And sometimes I found myself looking in the mirror and questioning the things she'd say. The teasing at school was understandable, but the words of my mom were not. Even after every drunken night with her, or every icy derogatory statement, I still loved her. I'd protect her with my soul, with everything I had. She was the only person I had in this world and if it meant taking simple words then so be it.  She lay sprawled out, face down on the couch with her limbs going in different directions, her hair hanging off the edge. When she wasn't so drunk, she was beautiful and looked nothing like me. I got told I looked more like my dad than anything. My mom was naturally beautiful. She had dark natural curls that flowed down her back and brown almond-shaped eyes that smiled even when she was near tears. My mom had faced a lot when she was younger but she told me once she got older her objective in life was to financially support us even without my dad. Those problems were now catching up with her because I found her drinking more than usual. I sighed in defeat and glanced at my unconscious mother and trekked up the stairs to my room. I needed a long hot shower because tomorrow was a big day. It was the day of our move, and a long journey signaling a new start for me.