FRIDAY'S GIRL ·ϿʘϾ·

Chapter 5

Calipartyguy18: Are you feeling any better, April? April: Not yet, I still feel like I'm suffocating. Calipartyguy18: I wish I could be there with you to stand up for you. I'm so sorry. April: They're such jerks... But I don't want to bore you with my stories. Calipartyguy18: You know I like talking to you. I'm here to listen and support you in whatever you need. April: Thank you, really. Sometimes you're the most real thing I have, and it's weird because I don't even know you. Calipartyguy18: I feel the same. I'm going through a tough time too, but talking to you makes me feel better. Have you tried any relaxation techniques to calm down? April: Yeah, I'm trying to breathe deeply, but my brain is in overdrive and I can't stop overthinking. Calipartyguy18: You're not alone, I'm here with you. This will pass, even this. Plus, it's already Friday. You can disconnect over the weekend. April: I know. Thank you so much for responding so quickly! Calipartyguy18: No problem! Did you know laughter is a great way to reduce stress? Can I tell you a joke? April: Seriously? Calipartyguy18: I swear. April: It doesn't hurt to try. Calipartyguy18: What does a bee do in the gym? April: Okay, surprise me, what does it do? Calipartyguy18: Zumba! April: That's terrible. Worthy of being burned at the stake in the town square. Calipartyguy18: It's not that bad! Admit it, did you laugh? April: Just a little. Calipartyguy18: I knew it! April: I feel a bit better. Thank you. Calipartyguy18: You're welcome! April: Talk to you later. Calipartyguy18: See you later.

I took a deep breath. I'd been locked in the school bathroom for ten minutes, needing a refuge and some peace. I held my phone in one hand while my arms wrapped around my backpack as if seeking more protection. Almost involuntarily, a slight smile had formed on my face, though the knot of anxiety continued to strangle my stomach.

"One, two, three, four... Breathe in and out slowly," I mentally told myself, trying to control the anxiety attack I was having due to some jocks from the football team who had surrounded me after class to give me a hard time. After sticking a note on my back that read "freak," they'd snatched my digital camera and started tossing it around, the jerks. Every time I saw it flying through the air, I felt an unbearable vertigo because my mom had made a tremendous effort to buy it for me. It was like my baby; I loved it so much that I refused to use the one the school provided for the school newspaper.

"Stupid jerks," I whispered, on the verge of tears, hugging my backpack tighter where I had stored my precious camera.

The worst part was that I actually identified with the word "freak"; I had internalized it to the point of becoming a kind of vampire who feared mirrors almost as much as scales. At that moment, I hated my body, my face, my skin, and my hair. I loathed every part of myself and just wanted to disappear without a trace, hoping that dark feeling would fade into nothingness.

The helplessness burned me like a hot iron, while I ground my teeth. How I wished I had defended myself, screamed like a madwoman, kicked their asses, and told them to their stupid faces that the real freaks were their precious mothers, but I couldn't. They were twice my size and outnumbered me, so now I had to ride the spiral of self-criticism, reminding myself to tuck my ears back, tail between my legs, and keep walking without a single whimper.

The four walls covered in marker drawings of the cubicle where the toilet was, whose electric blue color was faded with time, closed in around me, as if trying to trap me in an increasingly narrow space, a place unable to hold all my feelings. Despite that, it was the only place I had to be truly alone with myself, protected from the rest, without anyone harassing me. Naively, I had believed things would get better during the last year. How wrong I was!

Just as I was about to open the door to leave, the sound of footsteps stopped me in my tracks. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the overwhelming aroma of very expensive perfumes was almost nauseating. I held my breath, a cold sweat beginning to soak my back, when I recognized the shrill voices of Chloe Miller and Isabella Fernandez. Anxiety coiled around my stomach, squeezing tight, as I wished I could become invisible in that tiny blue cubicle.