dysphoria, Iâm not sure whichârecedes slightly, but it doesnât quite disappear.
I feel Soloâs eyes on me as he walks into AP English, but I donât meet them. Why did he bother pretending to be nice to me yesterday, only to ignore me in front of his friends? I avoid looking at him for the duration of the classâand when the bell rings, Iâm the first one out the door.
Ten minutes into AP Government, the buzzing sensation starts to intensify. My arms feel particularly wrongâtoo skinny and angular for how feminine Iâm feelingâso I pull my hoodie out of my bag and put it on, tugging down the sleeves. It doesnât make much difference. I cross my legs at the kneeâsometimes a shift in posture helpsâbut today, itâs not bringing any relief.
French passes in a blur. All I can think about is trying to cross the quad feeling like thisâor worse, walking the Gauntlet. My heart is beating in my throat now, and a numb tingling blossoms in my cheeks and the tips of my fingers.
Itâs starting.
But I know what Iâm supposed to do. Iâm supposed to close my eyes and picture the whiteboard. Iâm supposed to paint it black with my mind until thereâs nothing left but a calm, quiet void.
I close my eyes. I dip my imaginary paintbrush into the surrounding blackness and begin to paint the board with long, slow strokes. Long, slow strokes. Iâm three-quarters of the way to the right edge, almost done, when a patch of white appears on the left border. The black is dripping away, revealing more and more of the whiteboard beneath.
This always happens; Iâve never once succeeded in painting the whole board black. Sometimes the exercise manages to calm me anywayâbut this time, itâs not working.
My face is completely numb now, and the tingling has spread through my hands all the way up to the wrists. My shortness of breath must be audible, because the pretty girl with long blond hair who sits in front of me, Casey Reese, keeps looking over her shoulder at me.
As I pass her on my way out of class, she asks, âÃa va?â
âYeah, thanks,â I reply.
But Iâm not okay.
My vision is starting to tunnel. Iâm not thinking, just putting one foot in front of the otherâand before I know it, Iâm halfway down the stairs to the cafeteria. When I realize where I am, ten yards from the Gauntlet, part of me wants to turn and run; but I donât. I continue forward, eyes on the ground, drawing my shoulders up toward my ears as if Iâm bracing for impact.
Iâve covered most of the distance to the cafeteria line, and there have been no taunts yet, nothing thrown; maybe the novelty of harassing the new kid has worn off. As I pass Soloâs table, Iâm tempted to glance over and see if heâs watching, but I keep my head down instead; itâs not much farther. My heart thuds against my rib cage.
And then Iâm through. I make it to the outdoor hallway and break into a run. The concrete wall of the auditorium blurs past as I round the corner. Just ahead, thereâs a wheelchair ramp by the side stage door. Itâs protected by a low wall about two feet highâjust enough to conceal me if I lie flat on my back.
Finally, I make it, Doc Martens squeaking as I come to a stop on the smooth concrete. I bend over, chest heaving, hands gripping the aluminum safety rail. I try to slow my breathing.
But then a hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch hard.
âTake it easy,â a voice says.
My eyes are blurred with tears, and I draw one still-numb hand across them to clear my vision: the figure standing before me is the pale boy from Government I saw sitting with the Hardcores yesterdayâthe one with the long nose and the lip ring. Heâs standing on the ramp, hands up in a gesture of surrender. Despite the heat, heâs wearing that same black coat. Circular sunglasses with mirrored
Learning to Kill: Stories