Battered, With Love

Chapter 15 -- Secret Desires

“All beauty comes out of ugliness. That’s why I write. I write when I’m on the verge of bursting out in tears, when I stare up at the ceiling in vain hoping that the tears will slide back, out of sight. Because when I’m in one of those moods, I can’t sit still because I need a release. That’s why I write. It’s a high. It’s a passion. It’s where I can express what I don’t dare to say out loud, woven into the patterns of the words I pen.” -- Ash

            Girls and the bathroom have an interesting relationship. It’s like this safe haven, this place that you can let go and chill out and not worry about whether or not you look fat or if your hair is messed up. No matter how alliances and loyalties and friendship work outside of the bathroom, every girl in a public bathroom knows that the bathroom is the one chill-out zone where you can gain a little bit of a reprieve from the pressures of looking good.

            During English class on Wednesday, I head to the bathroom on the other side of campus. I need the long, quiet walk. I take my sweet time even though we’re reviewing the first few chapters of Their Eyes Were Watching God. I really don’t care right now. For the past two days, I’ve been extremely careful not to get myself into any situations that could ignite rumors. Sarah and I haven’t gotten a chance to talk about Hamza and right now, I’m too exhausted and stressed out about college applications and homework to get myself involved with her infatuation.

            I head up the stairs of Renfrew Hall and swing open the door silently, immersed in my own thoughts. At the water fountain in the middle of the boys’ bathroom and the girls’ bathroom, a guy and a girl, definitely younger than me, stand facing each other. They have one hand clasped together, fingers interlaced. I awkwardly make eye contact and then head into the bathroom, only freezing when I stride by the mirror and catch sight of my black hair; the girl also had black hair…could it have been—

            “Please don’t tell anyone.” Her voice is begging me, and I sigh, wondering if I’m wearing a sign that says, ‘Willing to Entertain Drama.’ I really don’t want to hold people’s secrets. I’m not one of those girls that goes around inquiring about rumors. I just want to do my thing and get out of here. And I also just want to go to the bathroom. My bladder can’t hold this much.

            “I won’t.” I respond, heading into the stall before I ruin my pants from having to go so badly. After I’m done and walk outside to wash my hands, I hear her voice again, making me jump slightly and splashing some drops of water on the drably grey tile floor.

            “It would be a bitchy thing to do…spread my crap like that.” God, attitude much? I grab some paper towels, one for my hands, the other one for the tile floor. Wouldn’t want anyone to slip.

            “Hidayah, is a defensive attitude something you and Hamza share or is it coincidentally ingrained in both of you to have one?” I ask calmly. Hamza’s little sister uncrosses her arms, taken aback. “I just said I won’t say anything. Believe me, I’m not trying to sound condescending but I have my own stuff to worry about right now.” She’s silent, trying to read me. I continue, “Besides, I have no one to tell. And I’m not going to tell Hamza, if that’s what you’re worried out, which I’m pretty sure you are.”

            “Aren’t you guys like best friends?” She asks suddenly, confused.

            I can’t help but crack up at the thought of Hamza and me being best friends. More like best enemies for the past five years. “No, not at all. Look, just as a word of advice, be careful who you share your stuff with. Don’t set yourself up to be the next piece of gossip.” I’m about to walk out when she stops me again.