10
ASPEN
You know that saying, you can only avoid something for so long? While Quinton stayed true to his word and left me alone for the past two days, I can’t exactly avoid the rest of the student body, who also happens to hate me as much as he does.
I was sure he was going to hurt me that night. When he told me to get on the bed, I hid my face so he wouldn’t see how scared I really was. I figured he was gonna torture me like the woman from the book. Images of him with a knife in his hand, carving into my skin like I’m nothing more than a piece of meat, ran through my mind.
Not in a million years did I think he would give me a fucking back rub. I still don’t understand what that was all about. If he wanted to jerk off on my boobs, he could have forced me to do it right away. There was no reason to massage me like that unless all he wanted to do was play mind games.
While I’m still trying my best to figure Quinton out, there is no question where I stand with the rest of the school. At every turn, people are messing with me.
This morning, someone tossed their orange juice at me and called me trash. Because apparently, rats and trash go hand in hand. Every day, I have to fight to get through the corridor. No matter what time of day, I always find myself pressed against the wall, my fellow students pushing and shoving me around like a doll.
Relieved that my classes are done for the day, I head back to my dorm room to grab my library books. I’ve not even reached the door when I notice something hanging on the doorknob. My stomach sinks, my mind immediately going to the worst case, that someone is probably pranking me or trying to humiliate me in some way.
I approach the bag like I would approach a bomb threat. As I inch closer, I realize it’s a bag like the one my bedding came in. Hooking my fingertip on the edge of the opening, I slowly pull on it so I can peek inside.
All I see is a rolled-up comforter, but I doubt that’s all that’s in there. This has to be a trick. Something is definitely going to jump out of the bag any minute now.
When a few seconds pass and nothing happens, I start to feel stupid for standing around. Using all my courage, I finally snatch the bag off the doorknob and push into the room. Turning over the bag, I dump the contents on the floor in front of me and watch as a pillow and the rolled-up blanket unfold.
Strangely, they look normal… clean, like someone grabbed them from the laundry room and put them in the bag.
Grabbing the corner of the blanket, I bring it to my nose. The fresh scent of laundry detergent fills my nostrils.
Mmm, smells normal too.
Could it be? Is there a chance that Q actually got me a blanket? That he followed through on his bargain.
I inspect the inside of the empty bag and every inch of the blanket one more time before I decide it must be so. I don’t know how or why, but I’m not going to complain about it. For the first time in a long time, I feel glee, and I’m almost afraid to allow myself to enjoy this moment because I know at any second things will change. Still, I take a moment to revel in the joy, and with a smile on my lips, I switch out the old sheets and scratchy blanket and replace it with the fluffy new one.
If Brittney wasn’t waiting for me, and I didn’t have books to return, I would cuddle up in the bed right now. The newfound comfort calling out to me like a siren.
No, I can’t. I have shit to do. While gathering my books, my eyes land on my computer, and I decide to try to Skype my mom real quick before I leave.
Maybe she’ll finally answer one of my phone calls. I’ve been trying to Skype with her since I arrived, but she never answers, and I’m getting really tired of putting effort into it, but who else do I have to call? No one, that’s who.
Flipping the laptop open, I pull up Skype and click on my mom’s name. The weird ringtone that sounds like an alien invasion is rolling in fills the room. After three rings, the sound suddenly breaks off, and my mom’s face fills the screen.
“Mom?” The word comes out like a question. That’s how surprised I am that she actually picked up.
“Aspen, honey. How have you been?” My mother’s face is painted on perfectly, like a rare canvas, and her blond hair is styled like always.
She looks the same even though I know it’s fake.
“Terrible,” I admit, not sparing her my truth. “This place is the worst. I hate everything about this school.” I try not to come off whiny, but it’s so hard. She has no idea what I’m going through here.
“You’re overexaggerating.” She rolls her eyes at me.
“No, I’m understating it. This is a nightmare. Everyone, and I meaneveryone,hates me. I can’t walk around without people bumping into me on purpose, shoving me into walls, and tossing their breakfast on me. On top of it, I have no place to wash my clothes, and Quinton Rossi is here. Living here, tormenting me.”
“He can’t touch you,” she says, examining her fingernails.
“He can, and he has.”
“You don’t look hurt,” she points out, downplaying everything I say.
“He choked me out in gym class the other day.” For a fraction of a second, my mom’s eyes widen, and worry flickers through them.