Delta

i. bad habit

{ picture: lydia mason; song: bad habit by the kooks }

School was hell.

I could deal with the teachers and the boring classes. I could deal with the monotonous routine of copying down notes and listening to lectures day after day after day. I could deal with the crappy cafeteria food and the more-than-annoying pep rallies. What I couldn't deal with were the kids.

I was, essentially, their punching bag. The outcast. The freak. The girl with the target on her back. And boy, did they make sure I knew it. They ripped into me with sadistic glee, making fun of me, tripping me in the halls. Laughing at me. Telling me to cut myself and kill myself. That what the hell was I doing, anyway? Who was I trying to fool? When there was a real spectacle to be had, they stood in excited crowds and watched me get beat up, shouting encouragement at my attackers. And if I was really lucky, they'd tell me, disgust marring their words, that they hated me.

(That part was okay, because I hated myself too.)

I was that girl, Hester Prynne in the modern era. Ostracized for everything from my clothes—slightly on the punk side—to my music taste—definitely on the punk side—to my hair—bright turquoise—to my, well, promiscuity. I was the outlier, and thus the easy target. Rebekah and everyone else who'd made it their mission to break me knew it. They could feel that there was something so fundamentally wrong with me like sharks could smell blood, and they were closing in for the kill.

All things considered, today had—thank God—been fairly abuse-free thus far, and I definitely wasn't itching to change that. As soon as the bell rang for the end of school, I was out the door and at my locker in record speed. Finally, I thought, heaving an internal sigh of relief as I stuffed my dog-eared Algebra textbook into my bag. I'm free.

(Ha. As if.) "Hey, bitch," someone snarled from behind me. I sighed for real this time and turned around; really, I'd been stupid to think I could get through a day without encountering them.

Allyssa glared back at me, her perfectly-manicured eyebrows drawing together. If I looked at just the right angle, it looked like she had a unibrow. God, did I ever wish I had a bucket of water—or industrial-strength makeup remover, because knowing her, that shit was probably slathered on thick enough to leave a permanent stain—to throw at her. "Got plans for the weekend, bitch? How many guys will it be this time? You know, if you keep going at this rate, you'll have to install a turnstile."

The resulting shove was expected. I had already dropped my backpack to free my arms, but I didn't have enough time to brace myself before I slammed bodily into the locker. Ouch. Yeah, that was definitely going to bruise.

Allyssa burst out into giggles at the thump of me hitting locker, sounding for the life of her like a chipmunk on helium. Around me, a crowd was gathering, and they laughed along with her maliciously, slowly. I blew my hair out of my face and pushed myself away from the locker, my muscles protesting. "Ooh, turnstile!" I snapped back, balling my hands into fists. "That's a big word, Allyssa! Do you want a gold star?"

The crowd stopped laughing. As Allyssa's eyes flashed murderously, I could feel the excitement growing in the air and buzzing around me. They wanted a show, and when Allyssa flew forwards to grab a fistful of my hair and slam me against the locker again, they got it.

"You go, Allyssa!"

"Get her!"

"Yeah!"

"Pound her!"

I was their light entertainment: come one, come all! Watch Lydia Mason eat locker, today and every other day by the locker bay. Refreshments not provided. But if they wanted a show, I'd give them one.