Finding Hope in Texas by Ryan T. Petty Page B

hallway, like a gazelle fleeing a lion
on the African savanna. This would be much worse if I got caught,
though. Lions were relatively nice and just severed the jugular of
their prey. Jody and her friends were going to do much worse to me
if I was caught, and as I learned from yesterday, the hallway was
no place to be. It felt like forever, but I finally pushed open the
large metal door at the front of the gym and scurried out into the
parking area. Ah, open space. At least it gave me a fighting chance
not to be cornered like a rat on a sinking ship.
    But now I had to wait, and wait, and wait
longer still. Twenty minutes standing in the cold winter breeze was
certainly not the shortest time in the world. The parking lot was
empty of people and I suspected if any adults came by that I would
be immediately sent to the office for leaving class without
permission. And as if my thought had been his cue, a man in a dark
suit began to descend on me from the school building. Oh
crap! As he came, his body language told me that the day had
been tough for him too, as he walked with finality-to-the-day
expression written upon his face. That is, until he saw me.
Quickly, his authoritarian demeanor returned to take on one more
misbehaving child who he needed to show the error of her ways.
    “Hello.”
    “Hi,” I replied, but in a noncommittal
way.
    “Young lady, what are you doing out
here?”
    “I was having cramps so I got permission to
go home. I’m waiting on my mo...aunt to pick me up.”
    “Oh?” His voice cringed and I knew it was
from that one word: cramps . Men would rather hear that the
world was ending in the next five minutes before they ever heard of
a woman speak of the physiology of Mother Nature. His gaze shifted
back and forth as though he had been thrown off his trajectory by
this new information. “Alright then, carry on,” he lamented and
began to continue on his path, away from the birds and the bees. No
more questions, no grilling, no water boarding. Cramps .
Mr. Dark Suit doesn’t like them. I’ll have to make a note of
that.
    It was just a couple minutes later when Mags
pulled up in the Ford POS and I flew into the passenger seat.
    “Drive,” I ordered, looking over my shoulder
at the doors to the gym.
    “And good seeing you, too.”
    “I’m sorry. I just feel really bad.”
    “Oh, honey, should I take you to the
clinic?”
    “Um, no. I mean, if it gets any worse, then
maybe.” Yeah, if it gets worse than I’m feeling fine but scared
of having the living crap beat out of me , then we should
definitely look into it. Mags put the car in drive and we were off.
I had escaped and could feel a gleam of comeuppance fairly dealt
cross my face. This had to end the onslaught of attacks against me,
the defilement of my locker, the misfortunate accidents wielded
upon me during practice. I sighed in relief. It had to be over.
    As soon as we got home, I ran into the house,
across the living room, down the hallway, and shut and locked the
door to my room. If I hid out in there, maybe my “sickness” would
be a bit better in a couple hours. Charlotte Bronte would keep me
company for a while. Ah, Jane Eyre, if anyone was as a
depressing sole as me, it is you. Of course, you are only a
fictional character, and even in the end, you find your family,
gain an inheritance, and got Mr. Rochester in his tarnished
condition. I sighed. It always worked out well in these
classics; I guessed that was why I had been such a fan and why they
were still popular after two hundred years. And even though I had
read them many times before, this time they really made sense, that
maybe the best part of someone’s life could be just around the
corner, that some small change could put you on the greatest path
of your life. I truly hoped so, probably even more than Barack
Obama had hoped for change. Still, I wondered if Mr. Rochester wore
a hook for a hand or just had a nub. Did Jane tease him later in
life and call him pirate?