Three Weeks left (Chapter 2)

I trudge down the halls to my next class, which is English II. I’m not too thrilled, just focused on going home.

I stop at the bathroom on my way there, swinging the heavy oak door open .

When I sit down in the stall, there I see, written in permanent marker above the toilet paper dispenser.

“Reagen Bennett is a dirty slut.”

I sigh, digging a marker out of my bag. I’m about to scribble over it, but I stop myself, allowing the tip to levitate a centimeter from the R in Reagen. All I can think is, in 2 weeks and 6 days, whoever wrote this is going to feel really sorry. So I decide to let whoever live with the guilt, and let it plague whoever will come into this stall.

They’ll go, “Oh my, how awful!” and then continue with their day. The next time they see it, they’ll be moderately taken aback. But the third time, they won’t even bat an eye.

I sit down in English, this time, my spot is in the back row, by the window. I like to gaze out of it, and Mrs. Winters doesn’t seem to mind. On days when I want to hurl myself bodily out of it, I ask Mrs. Winters if I can change seats to a spot away from the window. She’ll ask, “Oh, are you chilly?” And I’ll nod my head yes, although anyone close enough and paying enough attention would see that my eyes are screaming, “No, it’s just that right now, flinging myself through and/or out of it seems pretty ideal, and I don’t trust myself enough to sit next to a loaded gun.”

The period is ordinary, and the entire day serves to be boring and typical as well. The most exciting thing that happens is seeing a squirrel narrowly dodge a car on its way across the street.

My mom is always there to pick me up at 3:32 sharp every day, and this day is no different. I hop into the seat, shutting the door.

“How was your day, sweetie?” my mom asks.

“Extravagant,” I reply flatly.

My mother sighs and shakes her head, rolling her eyes at me. “I really wish you weren’t so sarcastic sometimes.”

“Oh? You want me to be serious? Because I can be serious,” I inform. I start to fake cry, thrusting my hands into the air as I scream, “Father! Please stop hitting me! I promise I’ll be good!”

“For God’s sake, Reagen!” Mom snaps. “I’ve had enough with this attitude of yours. You, honey, need to get it in gear.”

“Kind of hard to get it in gear when you’re out of fuel,” I mutter.

My mother scoffs, pulling into our driveway. I turn to get out, but she grabs my head, pleading, “Listen, Reagen. Once we get in, we have to talk about something. And just so you know, even if you don’t agree with your father and I, there’s no way out of this.”

“There’s always a way,” I respond, my voice steady.

My mother gives me a look that says “Reagen, I know you’re my daughter but you’re such a handful and I’m tired of putting up with you.”

As we walk inside the house, I find myself twiddling my fingers, nervous about what the big announcement is. They’re getting divorced? A relative died? No wait, the death scenario has really nothing to do with disagreements and not being able to worm out of it. I think back to the other times I’d had a talk with my parents as a reference for what this one could be about. And not a sitcom talk, but like a late night TV drama talk.

Last time I had a “talk” with my parents, my cat had died. It’d ran into the middle of the street, and a car came by and hit it. My parents had tried to keep me from finding out until they had a chance to talk to me, but on the walk home from school that day, it was kind of difficult not to notice Whiskers smeared across the pavement.

I sit down at the kitchen table, the chair groaning beneath me. I cross my legs at the ankles, figuring that whatever this is about, I better be comfortable for it.

My parents sit across the table, holding each other’s hands. My dad’s wedding ring sits comfortably on his ring finger, but my mom doesn’t even wear one. She insists this is because it’d be an absolute tragedy if it went missing, but really, everyone but my dad knows it’s because the ring doesn’t fit on her finger quite right and she was too polite to ever tell him.

So they claim that communication is the best tool humans have, and that without it, we’re no more than Neanderthals, but Mom can’t even tell Dad that the ring doesn’t fit .

Yep. That’s my parents. Utter hypocrites.

“Hello, Reagen,” Dad greets. I can tell he’s trying to be nice by the way his voice is all soft and his eyebrows the slightest bit tilted.

“Dad,” I answer. I lean back in my chair, asking, “So, what’s this all about?”

Mom gives Dad a hesitant look, and he squeezes her hand. She smiles at him and looks back at me. Bleh. As if one little hand maneuver could, in any situation, say anything at all.

“Reagen, we’ve been noticing you’re a bit….” Mom’s eyes scan the ceiling as she searches for the right word. Crazy? Clinically depressed? Borderline sociopath??? “Troubled.”

“The word is alternative,” I smirk.

My dad narrows his eyes at me and gives a little shake of the head, which is his warning glare.

“Your father and I are doing the best we can. And we think, right now, that the best thing to do would be to send you to another school. A private school,” she adds. “You’re already enrolled, you start Thursday. You’re cleaning out your locker Wednesday after school.”

I don’t scream. I don’t argue. I don’t swear my ever burning passion and loyalty to my current school district or any of its inhabitants.

I say, “Interesting.”

My parents chuckle, both of them loosening up.

“So, you’re willing to do it?” Dad asks.

I nod. “I’m okay with that.”

The next few days are all a blur. I distinctly remember Kaitlin Levine looking good in front of the teachers by giving me a giant hug goodbye and dramatically lying,

“I will miss you soooo much, Reagen!”

The night before going to my new school, I sleep better than a baby could ever dream of. ­­­