When I awoke or rather, drifted back into what consciousness I had left, I found myself in the hallway right outside my Geometry class (which also happened to be directly across my Spanish class) with a slight feeling of worry that I had lost how I ended up in the hallway in the first place. It was as if I wasn’t present in the time I had gotten up and walked there in the changing of classes, but I was too high to think much of it and suddenly I was hearing soccer Joe yelling at the top of his lungs, “Mel is a SLUT.”
Soccer Joe was another boy I had my encounters with, ironically with the name Joe. He was a star player on the boys soccer team, middle-eastern with a personality that donned him simply to die for. I was one of the lucky freshmen he chose as his victims, which put me in a position where he would my hold my hand or kiss me in public – like having a hot boyfriend without the binding title. Having his attention was like having a trophy, so it was no surprise the shock and confusion that vibrated in my bones as I heard him referring to me, and worse that I could not respond or focus on anything other than the pattern of the glazed brick that lined the hallways.
As his voice faded so did my consciousness, and I did not drift back again until a little before my last class where I was surrounded by a group of boys that were my good friends – all having a discussion about what could possibly be wrong with me, how my eyes were bloodshot, how my makeup was smeared and how I uttered half sentences about being tired.