Chasing Corruption

Chapter Three: School Will Be the Death of Me

Have you ever had that moment when you’re about to get on a scary ride, and right before you get on, you decide you can’t do it but it’s too late? Yea, that’s me. What if Braen really isn’t there and I’m imagining it? What if this is all a dream?

I stand roughly three inches from the cyclone cloud. The wind rips around me, snapping my leather clothing against my skin. My hair is twisting around my face, pieces of trash and leaves getting entangled in it. I tug it against my scalp in hope to smooth it out, but to no avail. The wind just snaps it right out of place again.

I hear another strangled yelp come from inside the cloud, louder this time, so I know someone is in there. I strain my ears for the few seconds I stand there, trying to hear more of what is happening. The roaring wind rushes past my ears, not helping at all. I have to dig my feet into the muddy grass to keep from getting knocked over. As I’m about to take a step in, I hear a deep, ruthless laughter and I stop in my tracks. It’s obviously a man, but is it the same voice as the pained yells? I hesitate for a moment, heeding my step forward. I don’t trust men. And if I have to confront one, I freeze. I try and clear my head and carry on my mission, but the laughter wafts out of the wall and my joints catch, keeping me from moving any farther. I hake my head, taking several deep breaths, but before I can recover, my vision goes shady.

“Scarlette, get down here!” my dad yells from the kitchen. I grunt and push myself away from my small desk in my room, where I was working on my punk band website I maintain with Frankie and Bo. I drag my feet through the hall and down the stairs to meet my dad, hands on his hips and foot tapping with irritation. I huff with mock irritation and he glares down at me, his signature forehead wrinkles deeply creasing.

I raise one eyebrow and wait patiently for his common lecture about school. I glance down to his hands where he holds a tri-folded paper. My report card. I don’t do well in school, much less care about it. I have better things to do in my life, than learn about stuff I won’t need. I don’t mean to sound snotty, but it’s true! I’d rather work on my street smarts than my book smarts. I still go to school, for the sake of my parents, but I don’t try very hard. I usually average C’s and D’s; which actually isn’t bad compared to all my friends. They think I’m the smart one. Ha. Yea, right.

My dad clears his throat and my mom walks up behind him, putting a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Damion…” my mom cautions, because when dad gets mad, he really gets worked up.

“Katherine,” he says, in more of a reassuring way than anything else. He raises the paper up and flips it around so I can see the writing. As I look over it, I can see him losing his composure at how lightly I take it. Like I said before, mostly C’s and D’s.

“Oh the bright side, I—” I begin, but am interrupted by my dad as he slowly tears the paper in half. He lets it go and the two pieces drift to the wooden floor.

“Scarlette Foster,” he says, his voice becoming louder and more strained, “There is no bright side. If you keep this up, you will not have any chance of getting a diploma.”

My mom’s hand slides off his shoulder and he becomes more and more seething with rage. His hands—which were still in the position of when he tore the paper, clench into fists and his knuckles turn white. My dad is obsessed with education. It was his life when he was a kid; both his parents were teachers, and now he is, too. He loves Lilly and Braen because they actually try and get good grades. But he sees me as a burden, a disgrace to education and his happiness. I’ll tell you one thing: he’s not my favorite, either.

I stand there, back straight and face calm. But to be honest, every time he moves his hands, I flinch and so does my mom. She raises her hand to put on his shoulder again but pulls back. We have a strategy, my mom and I. Stay calm, stay motionless, stay painless. Usually it works and my dad calms down and walks away whispering to himself. But it isn’t going as fast as usual; and by usual, I mean every little thing I do that gets him ticked off.

We stay quiet, only our breathing and the faint tick of the grandfather clock echoing from the living room disrupt the silence. My dad’s face is red, and his chest is heaving up and down. His fists unclench like a robot and rest his sides. As I start to relax, he lifts one shaking hand up and points it at me. His mouth opens to say something, but his jaw clamps down.

“Just—just try to do better,” he says, and walks away. I stand frozen like an ice statue and let my head drop. I hear a light shuffling and feel a cold hand rest on my upper back. I rake my shaking hand through my hair, take a deep breath, and stand up straight. I glance through my long bangs and see myself in her expression. Scared and relieved. If it would have gone the wrong way, I could be on the floor, bruised and beaten up. Or worse: my mom could. That’s why she didn’t try to comfort my father the second time. She knew if she did the smallest thing wrong, it could turn dangerous and painful.

I turn around and walk back up to my room and slide into the chair at my desk. I close my eyes for a few seconds and just try and relax. I hear something from downstairs, but it’s too faint to actually make out what it is. A rasp against the single window in my room startles me more than usual, but I remind myself like always that it is just the branch from the old tree in our front yard. I open my eyes again and look up at the wall full of KISS and other rock band posters. In my peripheral vision, a flash blinks on my laptop’s screen.

ONE NEW MESSAGE!

I click on the “read” button and a small messenger box pops up that displays all of the people I can talk to. A little star flashes next to FRANKIE and I click her name.

FRANKIE: Want to hang out today?

It takes me a moment to remember what the day is. September 20, 2010.

YOU: Sure. What time?  

I wait a few seconds for her to reply and a little beep tells me she did. She’s a fast responder.

FRANKIE: Now? I’m really bored. Do you want to see if Bo can, too?

I kind of want a little girl time with Frankie only. I mean, Bo’s great and all, but he doesn’t understand what’s been going on with my dad and everything.

YOU: Well, I kinda just want it to be you and me? That ok?

Beep.  

FRANKIE: Sure, that’s fine. We won’t tell him.;-)Meet me at the bag?

YOU: Ha ha, very funny. See you in like 5 mins. :-P

I close my laptop and jump up to grab one of the many leather jackets I own. I slip on my black and silver combat boots and race out the door.

“Hey!” someone yells, shaking my shoulder. “Hey, Scar, you alive?” I open my eyes to see Bo and Frankie standing above me, both eyeing me with annoyed looks. A strong wind tousles Bo’s black mohawk and Frankie’s hair whips around her face. I’m lying on the muddy ground, sparse grass tickling my neck and hands. I sit up to see a huge whirlwind spinning in front of me. I totally just blacked out.

“Wha—what happened?” I ask, as I stand up. All the blood rushes out of my head, and my vision threatens to go black again. I stumble backwards down the slight slope, blinking my eyes to relieve them of the creeping black.

“We ran over here to follow you, when you…” Frankie begins, but fades out as a wicked laugh escapes from the clouds. Instinctively, I let loose a terrible scream that I wouldn’t have thought I was capable of. Like a girl afraid of a mouse. Images of my father swarm my head, threatening to make it burst, making me scream more. I fall to my knees and put my head between them trying to rid the horrible pictures. I want to have nothing to do with my father. In fact, he wasn’t even a father to me. More like an angry supervisor who wants nothing more than to fire you, but the boss won’t let him. A dog and cat; a moth and a bug zapper; oil and water. The monotonous laughs rings again, and I strain my ears to try and keep it out of my head. It’s feels like my brain will implode with so much pressure. It hurts. And Scar Foster doesn’t feel hurt. Until now, I guess.

My body feels numb. I burn with a 104 fever, my body trying to dispose of the virus. The familiar evil virus that threatens to take over and ruin me. I feel slight pressure on my shoulders, ever so slightly rocking me back and forth, back and forth, back….and….forth….back….and….