In Need of Hope

The First Time

Hope's POV

I swing my backpack over my bony shoulder and quietly thump down the old wooden stairs in a hurry. Pausing at the couch, I take a moment to study my father, still drunk, passed out on the couch. His five o'clock shadow is back, along with beer stains on his white tank top. I curl my lip in disgust at his beer belly that sticks out and run my hand gently over my right ribcage. Ouch. I grab my cardigan off of the metal hook next to the door frame and slam the door shut without locking it. Hell, if they want him, they can have him.

I weave in and out of clumps of cliques on my way to homeroom, trying to avoid all possible human contact, even though no one wants to talk to me, anyway. It's a fucking zoo on the first day of school - everyone running around like they didn't just see their friends last night. But then again, they were probably so wasted they don't even remember it.

"Mercer," my homeroom teacher, Mr. Mitchell, calls out. I feel hives creep up the base of my neck when all eyes turn and focus on me. I raise my hand slightly and make eye contact with him. He nods and continues to go down the seemingly never-ending list.

"Phillipps," he continues. A petite blonde raises her hand and flips her long hair with the other. She giggles with her best friends and I roll my eyes at their bitchiness.

"White." Mr. Mitchell calls the last name and your typical American jock raises his hand and announces to the class that he's here. I look over at him diagonally, his legs on the seat in front of him, a football on the desk in his hands, his letterman jacket resting snug on his upper body. I mean, it's the end of fucking August, wear a t-shirt for God's sake. Ugh, fucking jocks.

After twenty minutes of what feels like some sort of purgatory, the bell rings and I swipe my bag off of the desk. I fall back so that I'm the last person to leave the classroom, which also means I don't have to get caught in the frenzy of the hallway. As I'm about to pass through the doorway, Mr. Mitchell grabs my arm. I immediately yank it out of his grip and turn to face him.

"Ms. Mercer, I assume that this year you will actually show up to your classes and participate? I don't want to be getting e-mails saying otherwise, got it?" He gives me a stern, fatherly look, which makes me queasy. He held the look for a moment or two, and I shifted my weight.

I give him a tight nod in return and fold my arms. He nods back, dismissing me. I put my head down and hurry to my next class - Visual Arts 3.

Art is probably the only thing in this world that I'm one hundred percent sure of. It's something I'm good at. Something I enjoy - which is rare for me. When in doubt, grab the sketch book, right?

"Ms. Mercer, you're late," Ms. Fink says, not sounding surprised.

"I had to talk to a teacher," I muttered quietly.

I scanned the art room for the only open seat, which was, of course, next to Matthew White, supreme male bitch. I quietly placed my backpack on the ground and sat down.

"Hi, I'm Matthew, people call me Matt or Matty," he said, warmly.

"Hope." I muttered. I felt hives creep up again, no one ever talks to me. Literally, no one.

"That's a pretty name," he blurts out.

"My mom gave it to me." Instantly, I felt like I wanted to throw up. I haven't even used the word "mom" or "mother" in over six years.