They come back every autumn: pretty high school girls, walking stiffly through the halls in new jeans and skirts and blouses. They always try too hard during the first few weeks, piling on the jewelry, the make up, the attitude. Soon the social order will be established again, and they will relax back into themselves, but for now the girls will laugh too loud and bat their eyelashes. That is how it's been forever, and you know that's how it will continue.
On the first day of school you're up early, with time enough for a run and a shower and a piece of dry toast. You remember back when you got nervous at the end of summer - when you would think about new classes, new students, new lesson plans and whether that new beautiful gym teacher would finally notice you. Somewhere in the second year, though, all of the anxiety evaporated.
The students in first period are noisy, catching up after summer and reintroducing themselves. You notice your favorite from last year. He doesn't participate, but he turns in homework and you've learned not to expect much, so this is a great accomplishment. Next to him is a girl, setting out her notebooks and pencils. She hears a friend's joke, giggles, then turns around to join the conversation. Something about her bothers you. You can't explain it, exactly, but it is something about the way her yellow hair falls when she throws her head back when she laughs.
You write your name on the blackboard, hand out the class syllabus. The students groan when they see how much is covered, but it's AP French, you tell them. It's supposed to be challenging. Alright, settle down, guys.
After class everyone else is gone, but the blonde girl lingers by her desk, taking too long to put her things away. She has laid out an excessive amount of supplies for the first day: French text book, pens and pencils, a notebook, a novel. It's one of those trashy beach novels, something with beautiful men and teenage girls and sex. You lean on your desk, hands in pockets, watching her.
Were you reading during my class?
She looks up, flips back her hair. No, sir. The sun comes through the windows, makes the gold highlights shimmer, and suddenly you're reminded of a past that you thought you had buried.
What's your name? you ask, and she tells you. You'll be late for second period, Elise.
It's my free period. She sits on her desk, legs crossed, posing. Trying to impress you. The girls are always showing off for the young teachers, hoping someone will see their beauty and popularity. They don't know yet that high school is only the beginning; that their lives now won't matter in a couple of years. Then again, who are you to say that high school doesn't matter? You're the one who has come back, after all; it must have meant something to you.
You sit next to her. You touch her thigh, savoring it, feeling the smooth milky-white give under your finger, and you realize that Elise is trembling. Her eyes are closed and her cheeks are getting redder and redder. You touch her shoulder, sniff her hair. A golden cascade of soft curls.
Please don't, she says, don't... Her voice fades in her throat, but it's still crying loud. You see her shrink down into herself, see her suffering, and it pleases you, because she should, because you want to hurt her like she hurt you. The reason you hate gold should be tortured, just like you were. You stand over her. A surge of hate washes over you like a tsunami, and you're drowning, you can't help it. You smile, but her eyes are closed, so she can't see you.
You push her skirt up and your pants down.
After it's over, you toss away the condom, where it glistens on the carpet like a jewel. Her head is shaking back and forth. No no no no... Suddenly she becomes Elise - a student - again. You step away from her. She's terrified. She bites her lip, hard, so that blood runs down her chin, a perfect slash against her skin. Her eyes open, big black pupils, and they drown you in salt water.
I'm sorry, you say. You had no idea what you were doing, still can't believe what just happened. I didn't--I didn't mean to...You want to apologize, to hold her, to tell her it's not so bad. You want to put your arm around her, to comfort her, but it wouldn't be right. You try to touch her cheek, to wipe the tears off her face, but she turns away.
I'm so sorry, you whisper again.
She leaves crying, smudging blood on the desk when she slips off. You wait until you can't hear her footsteps anymore, can't hear anything, and then you run to the bathroom and throw up.
The reason you hate gold moved out last June. You sat on the bed and smelled her pillow, breathing in her scent. On her dresser, she used to line up all her different bottles of perfume, one for every possible occasion. She tried to explain it to you once: one for errands, for parties, for making love. One for weddings, one for funerals. One that didn't have a reason, but she had liked the bottle. Separately, each perfume magnetized her, trapping you in her essence. Together, in the bedroom, they mixed to form a toxic combination that lingered in the corners even after she took her bottles with her.
She left one more trace of herself. There is a picture, taken during a camping trip in the woods, where you're grinning and holding her and she has short golden hair blowing everywhere in the wind. The angle is wrong, so every time you look at it, you remember how hard it was to hold the camera out and point it the right way, how you accidentally took the picture right before she was ready so that her mouth is forming a word - iloveyou? - and her eyes are closed. She took everything else.
You hate her.
