Separate But Not Equal

Chapter XIII

All heads are facing me. My legs swinging timidly against my freezing arms which are hidden behind my coat, partially because of all the hairs that have risen on them, standing up in fear and anxiety.

Ten.

Thirty.

Fifty.

One minute of disturbing silence.

Being up close to their repulsive faces, I quickly identify them as part of the school's basketball team.

Although, I'm  pretty sure that half of the boys in Our School are on the basketball team.

However only a few amount of them make their way into the actual competitions in different cities, and different schools, but that's based on how talented they are at the sport.

Specifically three this year.

David Archer.

Milo Fern.

Christopher Evans.

Concluding from the way I've seen the girls ,in all year at our school, pining themselves over Christopher's sweaty body after a tedious basketball game, he must be impressive.

Everyone who has seen him play, has given him the outstanding title of best basketball player in School.

Which is unbelievable.

Incredibly unbelievable.

"Who are you?" The tallest one asks discarding the young boy, on to the rough floor, much to my relief.

"I'm I-" I stop mid sentence.

Should I?

Should I tell them my name?

"-sobel. My name's Isobel."

They swarm closer to me, like a herd of bees.

Not bees, wasps.

Buzzing irritatingly at my ear with excitement, getting ready to sting.

"Isobel, huh?" He grabs my jaw tightly turning my head left and right, inspecting me with every forced movement, enjoying himself immensely.

His eyes suddenly drop down to my chest area, resting there for an uncomfortable amount of time, before the spine-chilling smiles light up once again on their faces.

"We could take her."

Where are the twins?

"It would be fun," another one prods my shoulder, in a similar manner of which you would prod some sort of lethal object.

They're gone, they just... left.

"Huh, what do you think, boys?" The 'leader' of the pack questions, rhetorically.

"Sounds good to me," a supportive wave of approval follows. My back being pushed aggressively past the exit, flashing white images causing me to feel unsteady.

The kind of twisted feeling you get when you turn round and round in almost endless circles, just for the pleasure of feeling the earth move beneath your feet afterwards.

Yet worse.

Parents, children, men, women, teachers, workers.

They all turned their heads the other way the moment they saw an African-American teenage girl being dragged along by a larger, buffer, taller, stronger, herd of teenage boys.

I don't fight back.

What's the point?

I stand no chance.