Ruthanne Georgeson High

💎 •Bath at the Cafeteria•

𝒹𝓇𝒾𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓂𝓅𝒶𝑔𝓃𝑒

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| dedicated to  beautifulimperfect1 |

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          Her jaw hit the floor.

Bright red and blinding white - it was all everything was painted or coated in. Variant colours were minimal.

The seats—for a single person, curved-back, and four set round a circular and coruscant wooden table were of red and black leathers. They were spaced in a symmetrical organization as if done by a professional events planner. A staircase led to an upper floor that could be seen from the ground, and formed half of the sparkling lit ceiling of the first floor. Metallic chandeliers drooped from thin suspenders in the vaulted roof of the second floor.

To the side of the cafeteria, at the counter and cooking section, held the most spectacular display. The chefs were garbed in long caps, neck ties, gloves and immaculate gowns. Their fingers worked deftly with utensils, feet gliding across the linoleum floor, dashing to and from an adjoined kitchen as they prepared the finest local and international dishes from around the world. African, Chinese, Mexican, Middle Eastern. Their aromas wafted in the air and to where Demi stood, tickling her senses.

Students flocked about vending machines and dispensers, getting water and drinks, and more teemed at the counter to order their food. It was like a picture cut out of a magazine page.

What the f—udge?

She'd literally stepped into a different realm.

She knew it a world-class school, one of the very expensive but nothing could have prepared her mentally for this. Everything—taking it all in—was a stretch on her brain.

          Ruthanners chatted merrily in mellifluous and tinkling voices, clinking flutes containing the best wines and snapping away with selfie sticks, to post on Instagram.

What kind of life do they live?

She felt grossly inferior, immediately, to them. Like a piece of thrash. . . standing on a clean rug. As if her thoughts were communicated to entities in the air and everyone could glimpse it, eyes traced her. Stabbing, they were and twisting into her flesh.

Mostly all talks quietened as whispers began very perceptibly.

Who is she?

What the heck is that thing?

Oh God...

So unfitting.

Filth...

...

Demi's heart plunged to a deep depth. An awkward feeling of being so conscious of herself and physical appearance crawled over her pores, seeping in and making her convulse inside. She wanted to thin into the air. She pressed her knees together in an attempt to keep upright.

It was a decision of a split second: she pushed herself forward, taking a step after another, zero confidence washing down her body and without a clue upon reaching the barrier that divided the rest of the cafeteria from the cooking area.

Looks that held things she could interpret were casted on her from either side of her.

What. . . was she supposed to say?

A lady chef came to her rescue. "Hi, welcome to the cafe! How may I be of service to you?"

"I'm...here on a scholarship," she muttered.

"Oh, great! Can I see your signed pass? The one that—allows you to get waives over...." The lady trailed off.

"Yes." Demi nodded. She pulled her bag away and fished around the smaller spaces in it. She yanked out a folder paper and gave it to the chef. It was given back to her.

"So, what would you like to order?"

Her face mildly rumpled. "I don't really know..."

"Would you like some fried eggs and bread with tea?"

"Yes, that fine." She huffed out a relieved breath.

In seconds, the chef was back before her again, handling a tray which was passed to her. "Here you go," said the kind, young lady. Demisola, grateful to the moon and back, read the name on the lady's tag. Chef Tade, Special Senior.

Demi spinned on her heels. An empty seat wasn't too far off from her and she treaded there, wishing for her life that David or a familiar face was working there.

Would she ever make friends here? Fit in?

She sat down, not dismissing all her thoughts and began eating, her eyes ever shifting around.

But she wasn't observing so well. No above her, right on the balcony before her head.

Rahama stood there, unwinding an agraffe. A few heads from below turned to see her, having little hint as to what the Fiery Ivie minion was doing. They was giggles and sniggers behind her, blaring that they were about to do something mischievous.

Rahama shook the bottle hard, popped the cork. . .

And the champagne came gushing out, with gas and foams down its sides.

Right on the floor nearest to Demi. It missed her head by a small fraction that she jumped out of her seat, her heart already flown out the window. Splatters of the drink dotted her skirt and shoes.

She threw her head upward.

"Oops, sorry," Rahama called from the balcony. "Did that touch you? Awh, can't blame the drink now for not knowing where it was gonna spill..."

The smile of sheer satisfaction on the Muslim girl's face told that her apology was far from sincere.

Every eyes was on Demi.

Every.

Single.

Pair.

Of.

Eyes.

And the masochistic gleam shining through the different colours of their eyes showed they enjoyed every bit of the scene.

The numbness that overcame Demi was short-lived as a brand new wave of humiliation smacked against her. It burned through her soul, threatening to rend it in flames and shoot salty water out her eyes. They were beginning to itch and she muster the shred of strength left in her to pick up her bag, burst through the doors of the cafeteria.

More glances fell on her in the hallway.

She cursed at their heartlessness from what little crack of spaces left in her heart from the painful shape it was being squeezed into. Her sight blurred, her breathing came out in little pants, and she was mad as she ran down the halls to no particular destination.

Trouble just seemed latched on her since she came to this school. Why...? Why was everything...?

She saw an opened door amidst the haziness she was seeing all around and dashed into the empty room. She couldn't bother to verify. She slammed the door shut and rested her forehead on it.

Perhaps that was an overreaction but she couldn't control it, couldn't help. Just when she thought she was thick-skinned, trying to build her esteem up again, it'll be hit and fell to crumbles.

Her breathing was calming, the spinning settling, normalcy returning—

"Hello?"

-

Have you ever been in a situation that got you so enraged? Was it out of proportion? Or it was just appropriate for what happened?

Share your experience in the comments.

💚.