Trying to live #Wattys2024

Chapter 22 (Edited)

The last two times I was at the principal's office, I received bad news. First, my mom's accident, which resulted in me being temporarily shipped off to my neighbor's—my ex-boyfriend's home, to be precise. Secondly, a punishment for accidentally throwing a pie at a new teacher.

Both times, bad things followed.

Now, I met three cold, stern stares across from me.

I smiled awkwardly. "They say third time's a charm," I said meekly.

"Not for you, girl. Not for you," Coach Morgan replied, shaking her head and repeating "not for you" as if it was her slogan.

Coach Morgan was my former cheerleading coach, a fascinating woman known for her intimidating look called "the stare." Her dark-skinned arms were crossed, and her hair was slicked back in tiny braids all over her head.

She stared at me as if I had committed murder, but then she always looked like that. I rarely saw her laugh or generally happy.

Or it might be me. It had to be me.

Coach Morgan and I had a very good coach-captain relationship. She loved my ideas and the way I brought her concepts to life. I wasn't just her student; I thought I was her equal. I never hesitated to voice my opinion—at least regarding cheer matters. Apparently, I didn't realize she had the same relationship with Juliette too.

I thought I was someone special, but being humbled shows you a lot of things you once ignored.

Everywhere else, I was the quiet, obedient mouse. I believed being perfect meant listening to elders, agreeing with everything they said, and never questioning them.

See how that ruined my life?

Anyway, the beginning of junior year ruined my relationship with Coach Morgan. She constantly reminded me that I was the cheer captain and had responsibilities, that I needed to follow the cheer schedule, be on time to practice, and be nicer to my squad.

I missed training or came hours late. I was always drunk—sometimes more, sometimes less. But still drunk enough to cause drama.

I was a bitch to my squad. I called them names. I wasn't proud of it.

In the end, I stepped down.

I quit.

I had to.

That's my version.

The next semester of junior year, I had to be on track. And I was.

"Do you know why you're here, Ms. Vermont?" Principal Richardson asked. Beneath her seriousness was something else. Her eyes were full of daggers. Was she mad at me?

I chuckled awkwardly and shifted in my seat. "Not really. Is it because I missed classes? I promise, I'll do all the assignments I missed."

Then I clapped my hands, remembering something. "Oh, or is it because of the textbooks? I didn't do it intentionally. I would never do that to books, but I can't help myself if someone forgets their book and it just lies there, staring at me. I get so bored, so I have to doodl—"

"You do what?" Ms. Becker, my former math teacher in middle school and last year, asked. I conveniently forgot she was here.

But that's always the case—math didn't exist for me, so I forgot every person associated with it.

Ms. Becker, a lanky figure with white-blondish hair and round glasses, proclaimed herself as the next math wonder. Until now, she was just regionally known, not internationally.