Scorpio

Chapter VII

I knew something was up the moment I walked into my biology classroom. It was the penultimate class of the day, on a Friday afternoon, and I really just wanted to get through the next forty-five minutes without unnecessary hassle, survive another forty-five minutes of P.E., and book it out of school. Unfortunately, my classmates had other plans for me.

A smattering of snickers and sneers erupted as I made my way to my desk. I ignored them and kept my chin up. I tried to squash down the heat spreading up my face. Other people's words don't burn like acid HCl; it was your own sense of shame that did the trick.

Act normal, I told myself as I found my seat. What an oxymoron. Wouldn't it be great if we could oxidize the morons? Turn them into miniature green Statues of Liberty.

When I set my bag down on the floor, I realized what some students in the class had been so malignantly gleeful about. There was a ripped half-sheet of paper laying face up on my desk. It had a caricature of a clownfish and the words, "Found your soulmate, freaking hermaphrodite."

"Got a late Valentines, freak?" someone to the side jeered.

I seethed and tore the note in half, then again into quarters, and again into eighths. A guy burst out laughing. Some of the girls eyed me with disdain. One of the legacy bozos smirked and elbowed Ned Asper several rows away.

Apparently, this whole river of rumors hadn't run dry yet. I didn't know what I'd done to warrant this kind of treatment. I didn't remember ticking anyone off. I certainly hadn't done anything similar to anyone else, so it couldn't be revenge.

It could only be spite.

I ran the gauntlet of sniggers and suppressed coughs to the classroom door, where the trash can was. I was so focused on tamping down the boil fogging my mind that I didn't see someone in the front row stick a leg out.

A trip, and down I went. I caught myself in a jarring sprawl on the linoleum tiles. A round of brawling laughter circulated around the room like the canned studio audience hahas in T.V. sitcoms. I wanted so, so badly to give that dude a piece of my mind.

I got up with my ears on fire and stings pulling at the backs of my eyes. I dusted off my khakis and waffle-knit apricot sweater. A lump formed in my throat. I turned to keep going and pitch the nasty note into the bowels of the garbage can like Frodo had thrown the Ring down into Mordor's Mount Doom. Stuff like that had no reason for being around.

But, before I took another step, I whirled and hissed, "Look in the mirror before you call anyone a freak, you dum-dum clownfish clown face."

The chorus of snickers turned into a chorus of Ooooos. A murmur of whispers swept the cannibalistic onlookers.

"Freak's got s——" someone muttered.

Then, suddenly, everyone became quiet. My back was to the door, so I didn't see the teacher walk in.

"Aurora," he said in a warning tone, "what are you doing out of your seat?"

I spun and saw Mr. Tackler and his twitching mustache glaring at me.

"I was going to——" I began.

But he didn't let me finish. "Aurora, please take your seat."

"They were——" I spluttered, feeling defensive and hurt.

"Take your seat," he repeated, "Class is about to start."

No one dared to say a single word. I sighed in exasperation and ire and glumly trod back to my seat. I knew how Tess had felt on that barren turnip farm, digging out puny tubers in the harsh winter climes—deserted, misunderstood, reneged, and so very, very miserable about where things were heading.