Rainy Days

Birthday Tears

"Margaret!" The sharp voice I know too well snaps me from my dreams about chocolate cake, and the cool desktop sends tingles across my face, burnt with exhaustion. And embarrassment.

How did she notice me even in the back? I just want a little rest on my birthday... I hastily wipe away the drool trickling down my chin on my scratchy sweater before I bob back to sleep. My cheeks flush as I lift my head, messy tangles of rusted locks tumbling down. I look like a cat fresh out of a bath—flustered, eyes darting around as if searching for an escape.

Thirty pairs of eyes stare at me.

Snickers and whispers linger among them—hushed so I can't hear what they're saying, but loud enough that my face burns hotter. A disdainful tapping snaps me to the front, and I barely make out Ms. Edna through my welling eyes, rapping her finger against the chalk-caked blackboard.

"The answer to number one, Margaret?" Her lips curl up into a smirk, like she knows I've been caught in a trap I can't escape. She has her arms crossed around a black blouse, dark boots tapping underneath a stiff dress, and a bun that sits annoyingly on the top of her head. I resist the urge to march up there and rip it right off, instead blinking away the hot tears that threaten to roll down my cheeks.

I grope around my pockets for my stupid glasses, but they're nowhere to be found.

"Uh... number one?" I squint.

I can practically hear the exasperation seeping through her sigh. "Yes. Number one." She says, dragging the words as if I can't understand English.

I narrow my eyes until I nearly force tears, but the blackboard remains a muddle of squiggles and lines dancing around. Not that I would make anything out with my glasses, either. It's forty! Brainless girl. Stupid. The whispers grow louder and harsher as my chest tightens like the fists by my side. It's not only the insults themselves, but that they're true. I'm just a stupid girl who forgets her glasses every day, dresses like a boy, and always gets in trouble.

Keep to yourself today, alright? We'll have lots of fun when we get home. My little sister, Violet, told me as we walked to school this morning. I foolishly convinced myself I could.

"You know her father ran off with another woman, right?" The boy next to me doesn't even try to whisper. Giggles erupt to my side. Whispers pierce my ears as I feel the whole world closing in on me. And in the front of the class, I want to wipe that stupid smirk on Ms. Edna's face not just off her face, but the face of the earth.

"SHUT UP!" I slam my fists on the desk, sending it crashing into another. Papers fly all over, and for a moment all I can hear is my heart pounding, my breaths ragged as I choke on tears. My father. The thoughts come clipped like my breath. He's the reason my mother ended up like him. Why I—

"Margaret! To the office!" The smirk is gone from her face, sure, but now I wonder if it would have been better to leave things as they were.

At least the rest of the day is as quiet as I am. There are whispers here and there, but most of them stare at me like I'm some sort of outcast.

Well, if that makes them shut up, so be it.

I pick up my sister at the front of the school later. We're both bundled up in thick, puffy overcoats and mittens that could double as oven mitts. Her golden hair flows in wisps beneath a faded red cap, her cheeks flushing as little snowflakes flutter across the snow-swept city.

"Happy birthday," Violet says as we trudge down the whitened streets. The street lamps quiver in the breeze, splotches of orange light dancing across the snow.