Eclipsed Hearts

MONDAY, August 27th 2020

7:15 am

I contemplated whether to go for a run this morning, but I ultimately opted for some extra sleep instead. Normally, I run every day except for Sunday, but with the first day of school adding enough early-morning challenges, I decided to postpone my run until after school.

Fortunately, I've been driving my own car for approximately a year now, which means I no longer depend on anyone but myself to ensure I arrive at school punctually. What's even better is that I not only arrive on time but also manage to get here a solid forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. As a result, I typically claim the third parking spot in the lot, securing a convenient location.

I use this surplus time wisely, taking the opportunity to explore the athletic facilities adjacent to the parking area. Given my intention to try out for the track team, it's essential to familiarize myself with the surroundings. Besides, idly sitting in my car for the next half hour, watching the minutes tick away, isn't my idea of making the most of my time.

As I approach the track, I spot a guy on the other side of the field jogging around. Deciding to change my course, I veer to the right and make my way up the bleachers. Finding a spot at the very top, I take a moment to absorb my new surroundings. The view from up here reveals the entire school laid out in front of me, and it doesn't appear nearly as vast or intimidating as I had imagined.

Mia had thoughtfully created a hand-drawn map for me, jotting down a few helpful tips. Retrieving the paper from my backpack, I examine it for the first time. It seems like she might be going the extra mile to make up for leaving me on my own.

I gaze out at the school grounds, then shift my attention back to the map. It appears straightforward. The classrooms are situated in the building to the right, the lunchroom to the left, and the track and field area behind the gym. Her pointers are listed extensively, so I commence reading through them.

Never use the restroom next to the science lab. Ever. Not ever.

-Only wear your backpack across one shoulder. Never double-arm it, it’s lame.

-Always check the date on the milk.

-Befriend Stewart, the maintenance guy. It’s good to have him on your side.

-The cafeteria. Avoid it at all costs, but if the weather is bad, just pretend you know what you’re doing when you walk inside. They can smell fear.

-If you get Mr. Declare for math, sit in the back and don’t make eye contact. He loves high school girls, if you know what I mean. Or, better yet, sit in the front. It’ll be an easy A.

The list continues, but I can't bring myself to read any further at the moment. My mind is fixated on one particular entry: "they can smell fear." Moments like these make me yearn for a cell phone; I would instantly dial Mia and demand an explanation. I neatly fold the paper and tuck it back into my bag, shifting my focus to the solitary figure on the track. He's positioned there, back turned to me, engaged in some stretching exercises. Whether he's a student or a coach, I can't discern, but if Benjamin were to catch sight of this bare-chested individual, he might suddenly adopt a more modest stance regarding his own abdominal display.

The guy rises from his seat and strides toward the bleachers, completely oblivious to my presence. He proceeds to leave through the gate and heads towards one of the vehicles parked in the lot. After opening the car door, he retrieves a shirt from the front seat and smoothly slips it over his head. Without wasting any time, he gets into the car and drives away, just as the parking lot starts to fill up rapidly.

Oh, God.

I sling my backpack over my shoulders with intent, smoothly threading both arms through its straps, and make my way down the stairs that seem to lead to a daunting destination.

Did I mention "Hell"? Well, that's quite an understatement. Public school has turned out to be everything I feared and then some. The classes themselves aren't terrible, but my recent bathroom experience near the science lab was a traumatic ordeal that will haunt me forever. A simple heads-up from Mia, suggesting that the restroom is more of a makeshift brothel than an actual restroom, would have been greatly appreciated.

Now in my fourth period, I couldn't help but overhear disparaging terms like "slut" and "w***e" discreetly exchanged among nearly every girl I encountered in the school corridors. And as if subtlety had taken a day off, a pile of dollar bills just tumbled out of my locker, accompanied by a message that left little doubt about my unwelcome status. The note bore the principal's name as the sender, but skepticism arose upon spotting the misspelled "you're" in place of "your," along with the message, "Sorry your locker didn't come with a pole, slut."

I find myself gazing at the note clutched in my hands, a restrained smile curling at my lips, as I reluctantly acknowledge the self-imposed journey that awaits me over the next two semesters. I had naively believed that such absurd behavior only belonged within the pages of fiction, but here I stand, a firsthand witness to the unsettling reality that some individuals genuinely fit the description of 'idiots'. Amidst this bizarre spectacle, I can only hope that most of the pranks played at my expense will be as trivial as the current one involving a shower of cash resembling a stripper's performance. It leaves me pondering: Who on earth would use money as an instrument of insult? Perhaps the answer lies in the realm of the wealthy, or should I say, the extravagantly rich.

I'm confident that the group of girls giggling behind me, dressed in revealing yet high-priced outfits, anticipates my response to be dropping my belongings and rushing to the nearest restroom in tears. However, there are only three problems with their assumptions.

1) I don’t cry. Ever.

2) I’ve been to that restroom and I’ll never go back.

3) I like money. Who would run from that?