A Year of Winter

three

September 19th, 2012

Already two weeks had passed so far since the first day of school, and still, almost nothing had changed.

Situations between Noelle and Andrew remained as they’d been for years, and they continued to walk around like they were as in love as they’d ever been. I felt quite the same every day walking into school, and I left feeling the same. My workload in classes was not tremendous as was my junior year, but it definitely wasn’t easy. Overall, my entire life remained average, as it’d always been.

But about a week before that very Wednesday, Ms. Calloway had already assigned us to write a creative writing piece about anything we wanted; she said she wanted to see our writing skills “shine through,” and see what we were capable of. In simplest terms, it could be about literally whatever we wanted; just so long as it wasn’t about something creepy or sociopathic, like a crazy murderer with five wives.

Unfortunately, that was an example of exactly what someone wrote.

“Winter, I think I need to send this to guidance.”

As I was picking up my textbooks, I could overhear Ms. Calloway’s conversation with our new student. Winter leaned over the desk, begrudgingly listening to every word our teacher said with a look on her face that pleaded to leave.

As I slowly packed up my things, I reflected on how over the past two weeks I’d been observing Winter from a distance, she’d seemed almost exiled from society. She’d made no friends, talked to no one, and never raised her hand in class. I had this image in my mind of her after school, walking to an empty home, locking herself in her room and drowning herself in a book, or music. Sort of like what I did.

So because of that, it was the first time since the first day of school that I’d heard her speak, as she replied defiantly to Ms. Calloway.

Winter frowned, crossing her arms. “Well, with all due respect, Ms. C, I don’t see why you need to do that.”

She looked at Winter with wide eyes, the story on her desk, under her protective watch. “Well, Winter, it’s rather disturbing. And you completely disregarded my directions.”

“You told us to write about whatever we felt like,” Winter protested.

Ms. Calloway sighed, “I told you that you could write whatever you felt like, with restrictions.” She said, adjusting her spectacles, “Now, I don’t want to harass you or make you feel bad about your writing, but it’s just…too…disturbing.”

“It’s what I like to write.”

Ms. Calloway narrowed her eyes cynically, “…You like to write about polygamist serial killers?”

Winter shrugged, crossing her arms across her chest despondently. “People have done worse.”

“I just think it’s inappropriate for school.”

Winter licked her lips, looking like she was pondering something over. “Well, I don’t think that’s any reason to give me a D.” She said, pointing to the low grade that would send my mother into a cardiac arrest if she saw it.

Ms. Calloway, stumped, looked back at her short story and sighed. After a moment had passed, I’d collected all my things and tried to quietly leave the room without a trace when I heard my name being called.

“Um, Henry? Could you come here for a moment, please?”

Wincing, I turned around to see Ms. Calloway beckoning me over to her desk. My eyes met Winter’s for a third time, and I quickly averted her icy gaze in the fear that it’d freeze me solid. I looked at my teacher nervously and nodded, “Um, yes, ma’am?”