I vaguely recall this incident, but cannot for the life of me remember the name of the girl. My stomach twists and I try to push the feeling down. It’s not my fault the girl made the mistake of wearing white jeans that week. Besides, it was funny. Can’t she take a joke?
“She’s so stuck-up, always acting like she’s better than everyone else in this school,” the girl whose name I don’t remember continues.
“Except for Kristen Courteau,” Allie points out. “Any farther up Kristen’s ass and she’d be able to see her tonsils.”
“Poor Kristen,” the other girl coos. “I can’t believe all that happened at her house.”
They continue talking, but their voices fade as they exit the bathroom, the door swinging closed behind them. I release a long, shuddery breath, willing my heart to stop beating so fast in my chest. Part of me wants to race after them and tell the two of them off, but the larger part of me is rooted to the spot, unable to move, and relieved they didn’t realize I was in here the whole time.
I guess I should get used to this feeling of being invisible. Almost everyone’s acting like I don’t exist at all, and the people who’ve acknowledged me—well, I wish they hadn’t. For once in my life, I wish everyone would just forget about me.
* * *
Ms. Kinsey is totally that cliché free-spirit art teacher you’re always seeing in movies. You know, with the crazy long curly hair and hippie skirts and Birkenstocks, and when it’s warm, she takes us outside to sit on the grass and sketch trees and shit. Last year a rumor went around that she’s a lesbian. I didn’t believe it until this one time Kristen and I went to the dollar theater across town and saw her there, holding hands with this really tall, willowy woman with short hair. Kristen thought it was both hilarious and gross, and spent an entire week cracking lesbian jokes at Ms. Kinsey’s expense.
Ms. Kinsey is a freak show, but she’s not so bad compared to my other teachers. I mean, she’s totally ridiculous and over-the-top, but even though she’s been teaching at Grand Lake for a long time, she’s not jaded and bitter like most of the veterans. And she’s always nice to me, even after I almost started a fire with the kiln last year in Intro to Ceramics. I’m not great with pottery, but I do enjoy drawing; I spend enough time sketching out different outfit ideas in my free time to pull out a halfway decent rendering of a flower vase or a bowl of fruit when necessary. Of course, Ms. Kinsey grades on such a wide curve that my actual skill doesn’t matter anyway. If I could ace Ceramics with my lopsided candle holders, I can no doubt pass General Art Studies. I can tolerate Ms. Kinsey’s obnoxious hippie persona in exchange for an easy grade.