Swallow

Chapter 3

Roanoke High's parking lot was full of vehicles. Nice convertibles, sensible sedans, beaten hand-me-downs, handy trucks, sporty SUVs . . . and then there was Mildred's moped. Mildred glided past all the vehicles and took up a whole car space at the back of the lot. The one time she'd parked closer to the school, she'd come out to find her moped buried in a litter of paper scraps, candy wrappers, and other garbage. To top it off, there were even a couple of soda cans mixed in, the contents of which had been used to coat the moped beforehand. Sticky residue had lingered on the handlebars and seat for weeks before finally wearing away—she hadn't bothered to clean it, assuming they'd just do it again. She discovered that if she parked far in the back, her moped would be left alone. Most people wouldn't bother walking past their own vehicles in order to litter hers before they left the lot.

Mildred stuffed her helmet and keys into her backpack, careful not to drop her remaining doughnut. She scarfed down the rest of her unhealthy breakfast without feeling any guilt at all; in fact, consuming the sweet treat somehow made her day a little brighter. Once she was finished, she slowly made her way up the steps and into the school, breathing heavily. A pair of girls walked by her, giggling to themselves as if she wasn't there. Most students had already rushed off to their first class, leaving behind an echoing silence that made Mildred painfully aware of how late she was.

Rows of lockers lined the hallways of Roanoke High, but Mildred's was the easiest to find. It was the one covered in words like dumb bitch, fat ass, and loser. Permanent marker, ink, scrapes made with keys, lipstick—anything her peers could find for their spiteful scrawls—all joined to form a collaboration of broken words that spoke one clear message: Nobody likes you, Mildred.

Her hand shook slightly as she dialed the combination on her lock. She messed up on the second number, passing it just a little too far, and had to start over. Staring at the locker made her even more depressed than she felt when she woke up this morning, so she tried hard to concentrate on opening the lock. The words were hidden from her as she retrieved her books and deposited her bag but met her again head-on after she closed the door. They stung her anew, those unkind slurs. Twisting black ink or harsh grooves in the paint, they all packed the same punch. At some point in the day she knew the janitor would scrub her locker and repaint it. She rarely saw it in its freshened state, however. By the time she returned, it would already bear at least one or two new graffitied insults. She expected it, so it was never a surprise, but it always hurt.

***

The door to the biology classroom was open when Mildred got there. It always remained wide open until Mrs. Kline entered and shut it. Class hadn't started yet. Mildred let out a sigh at her good fortune. Promptly, one of her books slipped out of her arms, reminding her that any luck wouldn't stick around long for anyone named Mildred Waco. She retrieved the tenth edition of Biological Science for the Classroom with sticky doughnut fingers, hating having to bend over because her tummy got in the way and pressure squeezed at her lungs.

As soon as she stepped inside biology class, she was met with collective groans. It was as though she'd ruined everyone's fun simply by being present. Suddenly, Mrs. Kline's absence made Mildred nervous. The last time she'd been in a teacherless class, some jerk had thrown his textbook square into her back. With nobody in charge to see, he had claimed it was an accident and nothing was done about it. The memory gave her half a mind to turn back and wait in the hall for the teacher, but then she'd look very silly having to come back in when Mrs. Kline returned. It would only give them more ammo. They'd call her a coward and a suck-up.

She put her head down and scurried to the only empty desk in the room, which happened to be a special seat for Mildred. Since she was too wide to fit in the regular seats, where the chair was connected to the desktop, the school had arranged for an alternative in all her classes. These desks were as old as the school and reeked of aged wood and the school basement, where they'd carted them up from once they realized she wouldn't fit in the nicer, new desks like everyone else.