Childhood

Anya Zivkovik

I feel a hand grab the back of my head. The mystery person slams my head hard into my locker. CRACK! I drop the books I was carrying and fall on the floor. Someone lets out a long, howling laugh behind me. I turn around. Vladimir Tchaikovsky is on the floor, tears beginning to form from laughing so hard.
"Zivkovik, your head made quite the sound there! Is it because the inside of your head is so hollow?"
He snickers. I don't answer. I learned never to give the bully the upper hand. I casually bend down and pick up my papers, letting my short, neck length hair cover my eyes. I don't want them to see me cry.
"Well, aren't you going to answer me, Zivkovik?" He asks, getting closer to me. At this point, I can see a crowd forming around us, unfortunately blocking my exit. I hear the other students taunting me, encouraging Vladimir to keep harassing me. I pick my books and papers up and begin to push through the crowd. A pair of arms stops me just as I get to the end.
"Going somewhere, Anya? Get back there and face him!" Sneers a girl with long black hair. I gulp and turn around. Vladimir charges at me with full force knocking me on the ground. The wind gets knocked out of me as I struggle to catch my breath. Vladimir's clammy hands wrap around my thin ankles and he hoists me up. I feel my skirt fall down to my chest as the whole crowd roars with laughter. My face feels like it's on fire. Vladimir lets me fall to the ground and walks off. I quickly pull down my skirt and run to the bathroom. Teachers tell me to slow down, but I keep running in fear that another bully will catch up to me. I turn a corner and fling open the bathroom door. Slamming one of the stall doors closed, I slide down on the floor and cry. I have been picked on for as long as I can remember. Every year it's for a stupid reason. This year it is because my family isn't as wealthy as other families. My dad is in and out of part time jobs and Mama is struggling to keep her job as a teacher in a rural area. I brush my hair out of my eyes.
Why does it have to be me? I think to myself. Mama tells me I am very pretty. I suppose it's because of my tan skin and neck-length sandy hair, almost the same colour as my skin. Dad says I have the biggest, darkest, most beautiful eyes he has ever seen. But when I look at myself, I can't help but see plain. I suppose parents are obligated to call their child pretty, even if you disagree.

My thoughts are interrupted as I hear the bathroom door creak open. I scramble on top of the toilet seat, hugging my knees to my chest. I clamp a hand around my mouth to stop myself from breathing so heavily.
"Anya? Are you in here?" I breathe a sigh of relief. It's the principal.
"Yes!" I call back. I get down from my hiding place and carefully unlatch the stall door. The principal, Mrs. Sokolski, is waiting there, her greying hair falling in front of her face. She smiled warmly.
"Anya, when I heard you weren't in class, I knew exactly what happened. I've called your parents, and they are coming to pick you up. We will have to have a meeting. Get your stuff, sweetie," she says. I do my best to muster a smile, however I don't think it is very convincing.
"Okay." I mutter as I walk with Mrs. Sokolski to get my bag.