Bruises
By Elle Rice
The sun shines through the gym’s windows, casting light to be reflected by the pool’s soft waves. The water is a beautiful color of light blue, inviting everyone to try its cool touch. The pool is almost Olympic-sized, and it is surrounded by rows of seats, usually occupied by spectators when a competition took place. There is no competition today, so the gym was empty except for the east wing, where the lower row is occupied by high school girls having their Physical Education classes.
Everybody is decked in robes concealing their maroon one piece swimsuits underneath, except for a girl at the upper right. She is still wearing her school uniform: a white long-sleeved blouse tucked under a red checker skirt that falls just above her knees, a thin red ribbon tied underneath her collar. Her instructor asks her to change her clothes, but she doesn’t budge. Somehow she seems to ignore his calls.
The teacher gives up and then proceeds to teaching the lesson, telling the other girls to dive into the pool. He gives them instructions on how to move their arms, how to use their feet to propel them to the right direction; to help them float in the deep water.
The only one left seated is the girl dressed in her uniform. Surrounded by white robes, she looks a bit lonely. Her classmates call her to the pool, crying out “Lydia! Come here!” but she quietly shakes her head, refusing their invitation.
The swimming instructor, after making sure that most of the students are doing fine in the pool, heads to Lydia and sits beside her.
“Lydia, it’s the fifth time you haven’t changed to your swimming attire. You know that you’re not considered present if you don’t wear the prescribed attire,” he says in a friendly voice.
“I know that sir,” she replies, her voice comes out meekly, indicating that she hasn’t been talking much lately. “But I just can’t stand to bear skin in public.”
“You don’t have to worry. It’s just us. No one’s going to judge you. Besides, the swimsuit is quite conservative.”
Lydia still doesn’t agree. She shakes her head, telling him that she still doesn’t want to do what he wants her to do. He sighs and goes back to accommodating the girls in the pool. You can’t force a stubborn person to do something they don’t want to do.
After school, Lydia heads to the soccer field to watch her boyfriend’s soccer practice. She stays in the bleachers, and waves her hand in his direction to let him know she’s there for him. He probably sees her, judging from the way he tilts his head back at her. She sits their patiently, hoping that their session ends earlier than usual.
When the boys are dismissed, her boyfriend comes up to her and wraps his sweaty hand around her shoulders.
“Hi Babe,” he says and plants a kiss on her dark hair. His body is drenched in sweat, and her shoulders can feel her uniform absorbing the sweat but she doesn’t have the heart to tell him to change or head to the showers. She can’t tell him that because she’s scared he’ll get insulted. She doesn’t want him to be.
“Hi,” she replies, with her eyes looking at her shoes.
“So, I was thinking that we go out tonight. To make up for what happened last night.”
She nods her head, but she dreads the invitation. Knowing him, he’d probably take them to a bar. Alcohol and he didn’t go along very well, and he was violent when drunk. She couldn’t tell him no, because he’d throw a rampage. The last thing she wanted was to get beaten up to a pulp.
They walk towards his car, a blue Honda Civic. He takes his hand from her shoulders and hops in his car, not bothering to open the door for the passenger seat for her. But it’s OK. Lydia’s used to it. She opens the door and seats herself inside, trying to close the door as gently as she can.
