FRIDAY'S GIRL ·ϿʘϾ·

Chapter 3

The game was over, and I felt the weight of guilt settling in my stomach because of Brad's accident. My foot tapped against the floor as we waited in front of the locker room door, where the players' commotion could be heard. Each and every one of them had refused to say a single word to the school newspaper. Apparently, they intended to punish us for what happened at the end of the game.

Grace Johnson, one of the best reporters at school and my best friend, was fuming with anger. Her eyes, normally serene, now burned like red-hot embers.

"What can we do?" I asked, full of frustration, swallowing hard. In our hands was not only the front page of the next edition of the newspaper but also the exclusive on that first win of the year.

"The Theresean Chronicles" was not just a random collection of articles from a student newspaper; for us, those of us on the editorial team, it was the heart of our school, a place where every story and every voice deserved to be heard.

The long hallway leading to the locker rooms, usually full of laughter and chatter, felt oppressively silent. The dim lights increased the feeling of loneliness as the last rays of the sun set on the horizon. Grace kept tapping her phone, her long nails clicking against the glass. I knew her well enough to know she wouldn't stop at anything.

"Those brainless jocks are not going to ruin my report," she stated with fierce determination, tucking a synthetic hair braid behind her ebony ear. "If I have to, I'll barge into the locker room while they're showering."

Her words made me smile despite the tension. I knew her well, and she was fully capable of doing just that. My friend was a true force of nature, just like her passion for journalism.

"If I hadn't messed up..." I thought, sinking into my thoughts. Specifically, I visualized the exact moment Brad fell to the ground, his face contorted in pain. The guilt burned inside me, and I wondered if there was anything I could have done to prevent it. The deathly silence that followed and the sensation of hundreds of pairs of eyes looking at me with disapproval still haunted me.

"We lost a battle, but not the war," she muttered, as if trying to convince herself.

Meanwhile, the rest of "The Theresean Chronicles" team awaited us in the newsroom. Jake, the editor, was probably already swamped, organizing columns, chatting with proofreaders, checking illustrations, trying to get everything ready in time for publication. We couldn't show up without any material, or we'd be in big trouble.

During the game, I had worked hard to take well-framed photos, and some had to be very good, I was sure of it. Unfortunately, my second-hand DSLR camera's shutter had started to malfunction a few days ago. I should have taken the analog camera and sent this one for repair, but since I was as poor as a church mouse and the newspaper's edition deadline was near, I ventured to use it with disastrous consequences: the flash had gone off at the wrong moment, blinding Brad. Hooray for me! Always making friends! A big round of applause for myself!

"They've had it out for us since last year," I said, nervously nibbling on a hangnail on my thumb.

I had started this last year on the wrong foot. My scholarship was in limbo: Mrs. Clayton was still reviewing the documentation to clarify what had happened. Unfortunately, the money I saved working full-time all summer had vanished to pay for tuition. And now I had just ruined this first newspaper article. Sometimes life sucked!

To top it off, facing the mirror each morning was an unbearable battle. Its reflection didn't lie, and the rolls of my flesh made clothes fit poorly. So I preferred not to wear tight clothes, and black had become my ally. Sometimes I felt like the fat was an impregnable prison, something that condemned me not to be entirely myself. Add to that the social pressure, the cruel comments from some jerks, and the constant comparison my brain made with the rest of the thin and pretty girls, and we had the perfect storm for my anxiety to increase.