well, this story seems based upon yourself.”
“It’s not.” Bethany’s foot started tapping.
“Explain to me how this story isn’t based upon yourself.”
“It’s based on Dante’s Inferno . That was the assignment.”
“I see.”
“So I chose the Forest of Suicides to write about.”
“Uh-huh.” Setting the story and notepad aside, Mr. Peterson uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. “Do you think about suicide a lot, Bethany?”
She shrugged. One of her hands moved to her mouth and she began tearing at her fingernails with her teeth. She glared at a worn spot on the carpet.
“Do you think that life is pointless? Perhaps that you’d be better off dead, because then at least your peers wouldn’t harass you?”
Bethany heard a loud steady squeaking noise and realized she was grinding her teeth. A chunk of fingernail ripped off, and she tasted blood in her mouth.
“Do you feel that your teachers pick on you?”
Bethany couldn’t even look at the balding man in the shirt and tie who seemed to be reading her thoughts. She glared at her book bag, wondering why the gun wasn’t in her hand now.
“Do you feel like cutting your wrists again, Bethany?”
And then she couldn’t take it anymore. In one movement she stood, picked up her bag, and got the hell out of Mr. Peterson’s suffocating little office. The secretary glanced up as Bethany ran by and out the door.
She heard voices calling her name, Mr. Peterson’s voice calling, “Bethany, wait.” Someone else said, “Wait right there, young lady.” But no one could stop her.
She ran, her footsteps slapping against the tile floors, her book bag banging against her side. She didn’t know where to go. As she rounded a corner, she saw the door to the bathroom and slammed her way inside.
She locked herself in a stall and sat on the toilet seat. Her hands were shaking.
For long moments she sat with the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes, creating blossoming shapes in the darkness. Her breathing, at first harsh and rapid, slowed into a shaky rhythm. Finally she was able to look at her surroundings.
Graffiti covered the walls of the stall. Strings of messages started big and ended small:
Nick Lorden fucks cheerleaders.
How would you know?
Trust me he’s good
Fuck off slutt
Shannon sux N.L.’s dick
In the corner was a string of graffiti Bethany had started last year. She guessed she hadn’t been in this bathroom since that day, because she had never seen anything else written near the original message of Bethany + James 4-ever .
Now, above 4-ever someone had written Damned , and someone else had written Bethany C will do it for free and Mistress Bethany at your service . Bethany’s phone number was scrawled near the last two lines. Bethany stared at the familiar digits until her eyes dried out and she had to blink. Then she forced her eyes away.
Other graffiti messages jumped out at her. Mara W fucks trees . G.N.=trailer trash drug addict . Bethany wished she had never been possessed with the idea to carve her love for James into the bathroom wall.
She rubbed her eyes again and exited the stall, checked her face in the mirror. She looked okay. Trying to look casual, Bethany walked out of the bathroom and headed for the front doors. She walked outside without drawing attention from the secretaries in the office. It surprised her how easy it was. She simply walked down the empty hallways and slipped out the door. There were no shouts of, “Get back here, young lady!” or “Where do you think you’re going, Miss Caleb?” She supposed people must have assumed she had permission, was being dismissed early for a doctor’s appointment or something. The door fell softly shut behind her, and the sudden cold air outside erased the constant noise of the school. No one came out of the door after her. She was alone, walking away. Not that she was walking far.
The stone benches outside the front entrance were empty. Of course,
“It’s not.” Bethany’s foot started tapping.
“Explain to me how this story isn’t based upon yourself.”
“It’s based on Dante’s Inferno . That was the assignment.”
“I see.”
“So I chose the Forest of Suicides to write about.”
“Uh-huh.” Setting the story and notepad aside, Mr. Peterson uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. “Do you think about suicide a lot, Bethany?”
She shrugged. One of her hands moved to her mouth and she began tearing at her fingernails with her teeth. She glared at a worn spot on the carpet.
“Do you think that life is pointless? Perhaps that you’d be better off dead, because then at least your peers wouldn’t harass you?”
Bethany heard a loud steady squeaking noise and realized she was grinding her teeth. A chunk of fingernail ripped off, and she tasted blood in her mouth.
“Do you feel that your teachers pick on you?”
Bethany couldn’t even look at the balding man in the shirt and tie who seemed to be reading her thoughts. She glared at her book bag, wondering why the gun wasn’t in her hand now.
“Do you feel like cutting your wrists again, Bethany?”
And then she couldn’t take it anymore. In one movement she stood, picked up her bag, and got the hell out of Mr. Peterson’s suffocating little office. The secretary glanced up as Bethany ran by and out the door.
She heard voices calling her name, Mr. Peterson’s voice calling, “Bethany, wait.” Someone else said, “Wait right there, young lady.” But no one could stop her.
She ran, her footsteps slapping against the tile floors, her book bag banging against her side. She didn’t know where to go. As she rounded a corner, she saw the door to the bathroom and slammed her way inside.
She locked herself in a stall and sat on the toilet seat. Her hands were shaking.
For long moments she sat with the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes, creating blossoming shapes in the darkness. Her breathing, at first harsh and rapid, slowed into a shaky rhythm. Finally she was able to look at her surroundings.
Graffiti covered the walls of the stall. Strings of messages started big and ended small:
Nick Lorden fucks cheerleaders.
How would you know?
Trust me he’s good
Fuck off slutt
Shannon sux N.L.’s dick
In the corner was a string of graffiti Bethany had started last year. She guessed she hadn’t been in this bathroom since that day, because she had never seen anything else written near the original message of Bethany + James 4-ever .
Now, above 4-ever someone had written Damned , and someone else had written Bethany C will do it for free and Mistress Bethany at your service . Bethany’s phone number was scrawled near the last two lines. Bethany stared at the familiar digits until her eyes dried out and she had to blink. Then she forced her eyes away.
Other graffiti messages jumped out at her. Mara W fucks trees . G.N.=trailer trash drug addict . Bethany wished she had never been possessed with the idea to carve her love for James into the bathroom wall.
She rubbed her eyes again and exited the stall, checked her face in the mirror. She looked okay. Trying to look casual, Bethany walked out of the bathroom and headed for the front doors. She walked outside without drawing attention from the secretaries in the office. It surprised her how easy it was. She simply walked down the empty hallways and slipped out the door. There were no shouts of, “Get back here, young lady!” or “Where do you think you’re going, Miss Caleb?” She supposed people must have assumed she had permission, was being dismissed early for a doctor’s appointment or something. The door fell softly shut behind her, and the sudden cold air outside erased the constant noise of the school. No one came out of the door after her. She was alone, walking away. Not that she was walking far.
The stone benches outside the front entrance were empty. Of course,
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