"Stop looking at me, weirdo. Do you like me or something?"

Giggles. Whispers. Glances.

"Speak up, gay girl."

More giggles. More whispers. More glances.

Silence. That's all I give them. All I ever give them. Usually, it's enough to get them to leave me alone. 

Today, it's not.

"Answer me when I speak to you, fag."

I don't. I keep my gaze trained to the floor. I really should be answering her, really should be trying not to piss her off.

The girl, Matilda, makes an irritated sound. I can't see what she's doing. I want to look up, want to desperately see the look on her face.

Cold liquid finds it way to my face. There's a gasp somewhere, someone in the crowd shocked even though this isn't shocking. The water goes into my eyes, forcing me to blink. The collar of my shit's wet, turning pink with the color of the liquid, the drink sticking my baby hairs to my face.

I lift my hand, wiping the liquid from my eyes so I can see. Without a word, I turned my back to Matilda and her posse and walked out of the cafeteria. The crowd parted, making a path for me.

Jeers, snickers, stares. 

I push the door open, the halls empty spare a few stragglers. Those few took one look at me before hurrying to the cafeteria, ready for the rumors and stories and some twisted version of the truth.

I don't stop by my locker. I keep walking, no set place in mind. I find my way to the quad, the cloudy sky not doing any favors for my wet clothes. My face feels sticky, my shirt's pink. Strawberry lemonade. I'm sitting on one of the benches around the perimeter when someone approaches.

"Eden?"

I look up. The person in front of me wasn't a student or a teacher. It was the librarian. "Hi, Ms. Sawyer."

"Hi, Eden. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I most definitely was not fine. But she didn't have to know that. 

Ms. Sawyer sits down next to me. "Are you sure about that?"

Hesitation. That's all she needs. And that's exactly what I give her. "Eden, you know you can always tell someone if you're being bullied."

I snort. Does she actually believe that? "I'd rather be known as the lesbian than the snitch, thank you very much."

Ms. Sawyer sighs. "Come on. Let's go get you cleaned up."

She stands, looking at me expectantly. I stand up and follow her towards the A Building. She leads me to the staff bathroom. After asking a few more times if I was okay, she leaves, saying she'll be right back.

I look in the mirror. My face isn't wet anymore, but the lemonade has dried, leaving my skin sticky. Hair is sticking to my cheeks and my white school uniform is no longer white. I stare at my reflection, wondering how I got here, how I've ended up in such a shitty situation.

I snap myself out of the inevitable downward spiral that soon to come. I splash my face with water a few times, taking paper towels to scrub off the sticky lemonade. Drying myself, my uniform is still pink and my face looks like it's been rubbed raw, which it has been. My eyes are red like I've been crying, but I've really just gotten a lot of water in them. I can't go to class looking like this.

The door opens. I turn, scared some teacher is going to walk in and get me in trouble. It's Ms. Sawyer. She smiles at me and holds up what she went to get---a shirt. These are the times that I'm grateful for school uniforms.

"Here. Change your shirt. I've gotten you a pass from your next class. You can go home now, if you want."

I don't want to go home. That's what I want to say, what I should say. "Thank you." 

I don't say it.

Ms. Sawyer just nods and leaves, closing the door behind her. I change my shirt, gathering my old one in my bag. When I exit the bathroom, Ms. Sawyer's gone, probably off to tend to her library. I stand there, nowhere to go. 

Nobody's in the hall. Lunch has to be over by now, so 6th period must have started while I was washing up. 

Where do I go? Even if I wanted to go to class, I still look like I've been crying and coming in late would attract more attention than I want. 

You could go home, my brain supplies, rather unhelpfully. 

I can't, not really. 

I live at home, with my two parents and a younger sister and a dog. But just because I live with my parents, that doesn't mean that they actually talk to me. Ever since I came out in freshman year---or rather, was outed by my ex-friend---they haven't said more than the bare minimum. The bare minimum is very low.

If I came home early, they'd think I was ditching. I'd get in trouble, surely. They have to talk to me to get me in trouble, though. The idea of being talked to, even if I was in trouble, was appealing, tempting.

But I couldn't bring myself to start moving my feet. I couldn't go home. Where could I go?

Without a decision, my feet decide to work. I find myself walking through the halls, through the quad, to the library. When I walk through the open door, Ms. Sawyer looks up. She looks surprised to see me. "Eden, what are you doing here?"

I smile sadly, tears forming in my eyes. I don't talk about my family issues with anyone, I just don't. I'd made that rule as a freshman and I've followed it religiously for the past two years. Yet, I find myself here, the words on my tongue, eager and ready to slip out. 

"I can't go home."

~~~

word count: 965