Sweet Charlotte

「 two: lost commotion 」

May was the worst possible time to start going back to school.

Her parents had told her after she finished chemo in November that there wasn't a point in sending her back to school that semester. They figured they might as well wait until the next one started.

Christmas passed, as did the New Year, and as the first semester came to a close, Willow found herself struggling. So, as she had been doing for the past couple years, she went through homeschooling.

After a debate with the school, and more so a debate with her parents, Willow had arranged to have her homework brought to her once a week. In her room, in her cozy bed, with a cup of rose and chamomile tea and a spoonful of honey, Willow passed every assignment.

It wasn't until her parents suggested she might want to have a presence at school before the conclusion of her senior year did Willow ever consider the idea.

'What about prom, and cap and gown, and your grad pictures?' Her Mom had said. 'You don't want to do any of that?'

The answer, of course, was no. When one was perpetually bald and sick from having poison pumped through their veins, attempting to impress her revolting peers in a 300 dollar bedazzled and itchy prom dress didn't seem that appealing.

Her mother didn't care. Her mother wanted grad pictures, and her father wanted a boy to harass at the door as they left for prom. They wanted the normal high schooler experience.

So, she was sent back to school in the middle of the semester.

Great.

She felt ridiculously out of place. Like she didn't belong, and she surely didn't look the same as when she left. Back then, she was much bigger, far more energetic, and her hair was a normal colour. That was going to be a shock for her teachers for sure.

While she may have looked different, her style was all the same. Black joggers, a grey pullover with 'Brighton' written in maroon on the front, brown boots — ones she'd had for going on two years — and her jean jacket. Since her stay in the hospital, her jacket had become baggier, but it still kept her warm. It kept her warmer than before her hospital stay, though she knew that wasn't due to its size.

Her book bag was slung over her shoulder. It was made of basic, brown fabric, one she had sewn patches and clipped buttons onto. It was scattered all over the flap of the bag, with her favourite patch being a beautiful cursive of "f*ck leukemia" written in white over a pastel pink heart. The sleeve also contained a rainbow button, a grey teddy bear pin — a gift from Lily, the little girl she frequently babysat when Willow was thirteen — and a "this man ate my son" pin with a picture of Ted Cruz. Of course, her newest addition was another small patch — a little peach.

She had been extra careful when sewing it on. After all, their family didn't have an iron. They couldn't afford one. Taking the sewing kid her grandmother gave her as a gift when she was seven was a solid replacement, messily stitching in every knick-knack she could find with the small remainder of white thread. Maybe when she ran out she would switch it up to yellow or orange. Something light. Something happy. Maybe pink.

The ring on her index finger kept getting caught on the bag's beginning-to-tear strap. The brown fabric latch had been wearing out for a while, and now was finally starting to give way. Willow didn't have a job, so there was no way she could afford twine to stitch it back together or, God forbid, buy a new one. If she was successful, she wanted her bag to turn up like Frankenstein — barely held together by whatever she could find to stitch it closed. And of course, because anyone who sees the poor thing will want to put it out of its misery.