Viciously clicking my black pen in one hand and searching the classroom for something interesting to stare at, I come to the conclusion that I am unbelievably bored. Nope, nothing interesting left except for the posters I’ve read about twenty times in the past hour. I don’t want to talk to any of these lame kids, and there is an adult, my irritating teacher, staring down my back to make sure I continue my slave duties. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but this is just like any other Wednesday for me. Can I just leave now? Anyways, why do adults get so much authority? Like really, they aren’t even that smart.  I look at the clock directly above me to see I still have a long forty-five minutes to go until school is over. My teacher chooses that moment to walk behind me, her heels clicking on the floor.  Ugh, I hate that sound. She is plump, with big red cheeks that look like apples, and she never fails to contrast by sporting blue eyeshadow all over her wrinkled tortoise eyelids. She suddenly stops and looks at me suspiciously, squinting her eyes like a snake who has found its prey. Or maybe she just really needs glasses. For a moment, I almost believe that she is going to swallow me whole. Ironically, Miss Swiss always smells like Roquefort cheese, and no one really likes her... except for Patty, the well-known brownnoser. Yes, her name really is Patty. It is actually Patty Guggenheim. Anyways, I am pretty sure Miss Swiss never got married, and, for her partner’s sake, hopefully she never will. Her voice never sounds below a shout, and she spits over anything she possibly can. You really don’t want to hear her scream. Since pretty much the whole school is positive that she has an evil plan to take over the world, there are some rumors swirling throughout the students that she spits because she has a contagious disease called Swissophrenia that can make you really sick. Apparently, it can kill you, too, although I’m not sure if it’s literal or if it just kills your social life. Ask Burt, he’s the one that told everyone about it. He claims that last year during the winter season when everyone in our school got sick, they needed more nurses so his aunt came in to help; turns out Miss Swiss was “sick” too, so she sneezed the biggest sneeze she could make and got his aunt super duper sick. It’s horrifying.

All of a sudden, Miss Swiss unexpectedly spits out, “Jen, let me see your paper,”  and just like that, I’m forced to return to reality and instantly lose my train of thought. Sighing, I hand her my mostly-blank paper where I have scrawled about half a sentence, quickly jerking my face away from her just in case she spits on me. Better safe than sorry, right?  Scowling at the paper, Miss Swiss shifts her heels, at first unconsciously tapping out strange rhythms on the cracked floor. Then she begins tapping them faster in an impatient way. Her face slowly contorts, almost furious, and I groan internally, anticipating her next rainfall of spit. Surprisingly, instead of exploding, her tapping slows down, and she just shakes her head and looks at me with dismay. “See me after class.” she says while handing me a new piece of lined paper. No spit, thank God. About thirty torturous minutes later, the bell rings, and as my classmates loudly file out, I walk over to her desk with hesitant steps. This is a matter of life or death, after all.“Can I help you?” I say, my voice trembling. Everyone has always joked that Miss Swiss secretly wants to kill us all, but what if it’s true, and I’m first? My mother may be an alcoholic, and I might not have many friends, but I still have dreams and aspirations to live for. One of the main ones is to move out of that disgusting apartment that is home to the monster I am forced to call Mom.

Miss Swiss just turns and looks at me for a while, before simply saying,“I see myself in you, Jen.” I’m starting to get confused, what happened to her pulling out her laser eyes and shooting me until I die a painful and bloody death? She sees her shimmery eyeshadow and red face in mine? Miss Swiss seems to notice I am confused, and she continues. “You are a very good writer. Why are you throwing your talent away?” She lifts her head out of the papers she was grading. I feel spit, the size of a sesame seed, land on my discolored cheeks. “Have you ever had anything painful in your past that you could write about? Any distant memories?” My mouth presses together in a tight, firm line, but my hands start shaking behind my back and, I want to go cry. I pictured a man, with brown hair just like mine. He was tall, had brown hair like mine, and worked all night to make sure his wife and daughter had something to eat. He was my dad, emphasis on was. He died after a hard, and rough battle with cancer while paying his own medical bills. He had been an amazing runner, and throughout the chemotherapy, his dream to run in the Olympics never changed. My dad, Keith, always said, “If you run from your fears, you are running from yourself.” I don’t want to share any of this with her. I’m not ready to share any of this with anyone. So I scowl fiercely, I pick up my book bag and walk out, slamming the door behind me. I press my back against the door, that reads room 18. I just stand there for a moment, breathing in the polluted air of Webster Junior High. I hear her steps coming toward the other side of the door, and rush out of the hallways and into the streets. I hoped she got the hint. That memory was too painful for me to even think about. But it was too strong for me to get rid of. Why can’t I control my brain? Why can’t it all just disappear?

I sulk all the way to apartment 3B, a long walk in the hot sun. I catch a whiff of the smell of smoke. Ruth, as usual, is sitting on the balcony smoking, mascara smudged and face red. I don’t ever call her Mom anymore, it’s just Ruth. She lost that privilege a long time ago. When she disappeared on me, she was just too caught up in her own emotions to remember that she had a daughter. One day she just shut off and stayed that way, like a computer that just won’t turn back on no matter what you try. She’s the one who never fails to let me down, and those rare occasions when I see her, I just want to punch her. She suddenly speaks.  “What are you doing here?” She must be drunk; she hasn’t said a word to me in two years. I don’t bother to reply. “Answer me, you-” She stops herself, but then keeps talking, her tone slowly rising. I just keep ignoring her like I always do. “Why did I even have you? You are disgusting, and stupid, and you don’t even deserve a home or the things I do for you!” Why is she suddenly yelling at me? What has the ever done for me? I want to argue, but I know it’s not going to be pleasant. “You know, when your dad died, I thought of murdering you,” she snarled viciously, her pitch unsteady. I move as slowly as possible so I don’t catch her attention, my feet creeping across the grimy brown carpet that was once a beautiful cream color. Too late, she notices, and she screams, infuriated with her less-than-perfect daughter. “It’s all your fault I’m like this!” she screams even more loudly, wobbling on the broken heels of her dirt-caked shoes. At least she admits that she is intoxicated, and damaged beyond repair. But then she picks up a beer bottle she most likely drank from last night, and my victory is short-lived. What is she doing? She throws it, and I instinctively jump back, crying out as shards of green glass explode everywhere. Luckily, I am okay, but I need to get out before she hurts me. I run past her and pick up my flimsy sleeping bag off of the floor and a dirty shirt to wear tomorrow. She’s screaming by herself in the hall, too tipsy to follow me. I hear more glass smash as I run to the cupboard to see if there’s anything edible in it, but I only find a pack of cobweb-covered Marlboro cigarettes and a dusty shelf. Gritting my teeth, I walk straight out the back door. It used to have panels of glass in it, but Ruth must have had one of her fits while I was gone; now there’s pieces of it everywhere, and a cool breeze and some fireflies are passing into the apartment. I have a brief moment of sympathy for the landlord before it hits me: where should I go? It takes me a while, but I finally decide on the park, and I sprint there with no hesitation. I set up my new home behind a circle of bushes and find my torn up book in my bookbag. I read for a little bit, and eventually fall asleep, ignoring the moisture on my cheeks and the drops on the pages of my book.

I wake the next morning to see some old, wrinkly ladies, each wearing an equally ugly neon visor and an equally ugly glare. I shoot them a glare right back; I am used to this by now. I impatiently push my tangled brown hair out of my face and get ready to go for school. I fold my sleeping bag and hide it behind a bush, and then dart to my first class. Although I haven’t had to resort to the park in a while, I feel kind of optimistic this morning. I don’t know why, I just do. Every class just flies by, math, science, art, but then came lunch and my peaceful moment died. I walk out of art class and see some girls sneaking looks at me. No, they’re full on staring… and laughing. I just ignore them and keep walking. Approaching the lunch line, I pull out the only three quarters I have to pay for my lunch with. I hear people giggling behind me as the lunch lady says I don’t have enough money for my lunch. I remove the bag of chips I’ve been longing for from my tray, and stick to my ham and cheese sandwich. I look again, only to see the girls from earlier followed me. I pay, snatch my sandwich, and run out of the cafeteria. I finally go to the girls’ bathroom, like every other cliché loser does in the movies. The ones who sit on the toilet and eat their fattening food very emotionally. But instead of being stereotypical, I turn the knob of the sink, and the water starts running. I wash my face and hands, and even run some of the water through my hair. I also rinse my mouth as an extra treat, to get a refreshing sensation. I know it sounds kind of odd, but thats the only water source I have to clean myself with. I’m almost relaxed, until I hear them. “Jen showers at school!” Oh no. How did they see me? “Jen is a loser!” I hear another one yell. “Why don’t you just go back home to your gross mommy and cry?” That’s it, it’s not about my mother, they’re right about her, but I have to stick up for myself. I can’t run from my fears. So I catcall back, trying hard to put on a brave smirk. “Why don’t you go to your rich daddy and ask him to buy you another purse filled with cash? But you’ll never be able to fill the emptiness inside of you where you know he doesn’t care about you! And he never will! Actually, maybe you’ll need a car instead of a purse to fill up that soulless black hole of yours that you call a heart!” Now I can run.

The bell rings and I walk into language arts class, panting. I decide to forgive Miss Swiss, because it’s not her fault I have issues, most of which are of more importance than her at the moment. I can’t stay mad at her. I walk through the rows of old desks, their bottoms lined with gum from about 500 C.E., and hop into mine, the most creaky of them all. Every time I move, it sounds like a dying seal. We had a straightforward lesson plan. We read some boring stories, I avoid looking at Miss Swiss, we went through some vocab, I try not to catch her eye when she stamps my homework, and then finally comes my favorite part, writing. I flip to the page I left off on in my notebook, ignoring the fact that the click of her heels are becoming noticeably clearer. She’s behind me again, and surprise surprise, she says, “Come talk to me after class.” Is she going to kill me today? Is it a surprise attack? I don’t know, but I do know that I hate surprises. A few minutes later, the bell rings, and sighing, I walk to her desk with a lot more confidence than yesterday, but still not enough. “Remember how I said I see myself in you?” she asks me quietly, even though I am not halfway to her desk. “Yeah,” I say, pretending to yawn, but I keep inching closer to her desk. “Well, I see that we both like writing. So, how about, everyday after class, we will write something together?” My jaw drops. A friend? More strangely, Miss Swiss? At least it’s a start. Lets face it, I am not going to make any other friends. I smile, feeling as if the corners of my mouth are touching my hairline. But that smile quickly vanishes. She can’t know I care. I’ve worked my whole life to make it seem like I don’t care. I can’t ruin that now. “Fine,” I say trying to contain my excitement. I feel like I am baking soda and vinegar, stuck in a mason jar that really wants to explode. I hand her the ripped pieces of paper that has the actual writing I’ve been working on. Then I leave without saying a word, for dramatic effect.

The next day at school goes okay. The group of spoiled girls that laughed at me yesterday are pretending not to notice me, which is perfectly fine with me because I don’t have any more things I want to say to them. They are not worth my time. After the bell rings in last period, I walk to Miss Swiss’s desk and take a seat across from her. I pull out the only piece of paper I have left, the one she gave me. I don’t own any pencils, so while she isn’t looking, I sneakily slip one out from her desk organizer, and my brain is very nearly exploding with things I can write about. So I just start writing, and writing, and writing. She doesn’t stop me. She is writing, too. About ten minutes, later, she drops her pencil and asks very quickly, “Do you want to hear what I have?”  “Um, sure, I guess.” I fumble with the bright yellow Ticonderoga, and she slowly reads me a depressing story about her son leaving her because he didn’t want her to be hurt when he was going to die. She finished, and my voice cracks. “I don’t feel like sharing yet.” I like how honest Miss Swiss’s writing was. I feel like I can trust her. I want to trust her. “It’s all right,” she says. “By the way, just call me June.” I swallow, not answering. “I am sorry, but I have to go home. My mom is probably waiting for me.” It’s a lie, but I need to get out of here now.

I walk to the park slower than a snail that is old and tired. I am too exhausted to read half a sentence about that old horse in my shredded book, so I fall asleep. And when I wake up, the first thing I hear is,“Jen is that you?” I look up from my sleeping bag and see the blurry outline of a woman looking at me. I open my eyes a little wider and see that it is actually June. What is she doing here? I sit up and wipe my foggy eyes. What can I tell her? I think I have to tell her the truth. “I don’t exactly have a home.” I regret every one of those six words I just said. I can’t take it back now. It’s too late. She looks at me blankly, shocked. “Ruth, my mother, is at the apartment, and I can’t go back. She will kill me. She said she wanted to herself.” I burst into tears, and June sits down next to me. “How about we go over to my house and discuss this, okay?” she asks in a soothing voice, and I allow myself to be led through the park to her car. It is a Honda, a blue one, with a string of wooden beads hanging from the rearview mirror and a small pack of mints on the side of the shift. The car smells like her; cheese, but with a mixture of some flowers and an old ladies’ perfume. 

We drive to Mary Lane, where her house must be. She parks the car next to a small pink split-level, and opens the door for me. We walk up the front steps. It looks out of place. The whole street is lined with brand new homes, some not even sold yet. She opens the little door and I step inside. “Do we have to discuss?” I ask very quietly. “No,” she smiles. She pulls out a chair from the round table next to me, I assume it is her dining table. “Have a seat. I am going to get us something to munch on.” I sit down and look around, trying to take everything in. She has vintage floral-printed curtains and a couch with a matching print, and a fireplace with a few ancient, iron picture frames on the mantel. I walk toward it and look at the pictures; they are only of her and some boy. He looks pretty tall, with short, brown buzz-cut hair. “Hey,” I hear her say, and I turn around quickly, feeling guilty that I was looking at her things. “I got us something to eat.” I go back over to the table and sit down while she sets down two cups of milk and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. I immediately take a cookie without worrying about manners, suddenly realizing I am starving. “Who is that boy in the pictures?” I ask, chewing with my mouth open. She looks at me sadly. “My son. The one from my story.” I gape. “So it’s true?” Why would she tell me something so sad? Did she trust me, too? First I thought Miss Swiss would murder us all, and now look at me. I am at her house, eating cookies. “Yes, it’s true. He got cancer, and decided that if he was going to die, he didn’t want me to be there.” “That is so sad.” I say. That was all I could say. I could never imagine losing a child. How could Ruth deal with that? How could she want it to happen? Stop. Jen, stop thinking about yourself and Ruth. She suddenly interrupts my thoughts. “I would always tell him that running from your fears is like running from yourself.” June says sadly. I sit there for a moment before it registers, and then I almost shout. “What?” She glances at me again. “I would always say, ‘running from your fears is like running from yourself.’” she repeats. I know it probably sounds stupid to connect a specific quote to someone, but could it be. A piece of hair falls onto my face from my messy ponytail, and I am itching to fix it, but I brush it away impatiently, waving my arms. “I know, I know, but that is exactly what my dad would always say to me.” If what I’m thinking is right, I might just faint. “What’s his name?” she asks, very cautiously. I need to breathe for a second. I just need to recollect myself.  If what I am thinking is true, this could mean new beginnings for myself. Maybe even a home. “Keith,” I say, barely audible. And then my mouth opens and my eyes widen at something I notice. A black figure shows up behind June. I take a closer look, and the looming shadow is holding a gun. “That’s my son.” she whispers. The trigger goes, and my whole life is flashing through my mind. “Run, Ju-”

To be continued...