Permanent Scars

Please Help Me, I Don't Know Who I Am Anymore

October 28, Monday. 11:57 a.m.

"Amber. C'mere for a sec. Come on, don't be shy. Get over here!" Victoria waves wildly at me as Brii stands beside her, nodding her smug approval. Behind them a ways, the other girls huddled around her phone, Meryl smirks evilly at her screen.

   I don't have time to deal with them right now—chemistry begins in twelve minutes, and I really don't want to be late. I was late to most of my classes because I've been sick to my stomach all morning. By now I think I've finally got it under control, and I don't want to be late for anything else if I can help it.

   Opening my locker, I reach for my chemistry textbook—but turning my back on the girls is a major mistake. Something wet slaps against the back of my head, followed by an obnoxious arousal of high-pitched giggles and jeers.

   The wetness accumulates in my hair and seeps its way into my scalp in the same manner the insults sink into my mind.

Spitballs. Oldest gag in the history of school, and yet people still make use of it. Pathetic.

   Trying to ignore the awful feeling of somebody's spit seeping into my head—which is easier than ignoring the insults—I stiffly shut my locker and begin walking in the direction of the chemistry room.

   However, it seems the girls have other plans.

   They must want something from me—otherwise they wouldn't waste so much of what could be their precious gossip time on me rather than giggling about their crushes and boyfriends, or who did what yesterday, who did this thing in the girls' locker room after practice, the cutest Internet post, or that dumb thing Maddie did last week.

   I could go on, really. The list of all the stupid things these girls find to jabber incessantly about is both exhausting and extensive—possibly endless.

   Brii stands before me while Vickie's recruits—other girls who enjoy "getting in on the fun" on occasion—close in, forming a malevolent circle. Each glance I dare send upon them is met by crudeness and utter hatred. I'm not sure what I did to make them despise me so much, for I have never done anything of ill repute, much to their chagrin.

   "So," Vickie begins in that overly high, sweet, mocking tone that she gets when she tells lies about people. "What's this I hear about you and Adam taking off the remainder of a school day so you could spend some time alone?"

   "It doesn't matter," I mumble, annoyed. "I need to get to the chemistry room."

   Speaking up has never done anything for me—they just act like I don't know what I'm saying, or like I never spoke at all. This is why I have never told anyone about the bullying.

   "Ooh!!" Meryl squeals, finally looking up from her dumb phone. All the girls follow her movement. "Is Adam waiting for you in there? Got some chemistry going on?" She rubs her hands together and bounces her perfectly arched eyebrows. Actually, make that stupid drawn-on eyebrows. I don't understand who would be dumb enough to strip themselves of their natural eyebrows and replace them with makeup.

   The other girls snigger and drop more than a handful of dirty remarks, which I try my best to shield my ears from. But their words plunge deep, and all I feel is hopeless. It's like they'll never learn to leave me alone about anything. Am I seriously that detestable?

Ugh, there it is again—the feeling I've dealt with all morning; like I need to vomit explosively till my guts come out. Ever since Friday night, I've been sick to my stomach. Tris said I'd get over it, said the meds would help but I'll be honest: I don't believe her.