Page 10 - Pieces of Victory - Add - FlipBuilder.pdf

It’s as if her touch was fire, scarring me. I touch it gently, my anguish like a tattoo on my psyche. On the way, I pass by dorms one and two. They are dark and gloomy, perfectly matching my mood. I blink, noticing my hard contact lenses are dry, I must have cried out all of the tears I had, and strain to view the blue brick walls that are in dorm one. There are wall-to-wall bunk beds. All of the girls are fixated on me as I am forcibly pulled by Ms. Arizona. Not a soul utters a single word and the silence soon grows eery.
“Keep your eyes to yourself girls.” Ms. Arizona sternly demands.
In an instant I am sitting on the floor, confined in a pint-sized and isolated room, and begin to stare at the tiny peephole. The strong feeling that I am being watched makes me feel naked, stripping away my sense of privacy. I start banging my head against the plain white drywall, but I realize that it will not accomplish anything more than causing a headache. I start thinking about Drake. I silently ra- tionalize, He is going to find out what my parents did to me when he calls or visits my house. He will notify his parents immediately and the whole family will rescue me, including his dog Droopy! His parents are going to flip out when they realize that my parents would stick a child that is studious, works hard, is an overachiever, attends a private Christian school (by choice), and voluntarily attends church/youth group several times a week in a reform school! They know I don’t have any behavior issues with any adults other than my parents. They know my situation. Wet, salty raindrops start streaming one by one down my lifeless face. Good thing I choose the tan culottes my mother packed. They are now taking the place of Kleenex.
I have a feeling I will be in this secluded matchbox for a long time, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. It is obvious to me at this point, I am forbidden by trained soldiers to express how I really feel. This Cracker Jack box, unfortunately, seems to be the only free place where I can troubleshoot a way out of this hell-hole. I’m so good at tuning things out, that I momentarily ignore the raging lunatic, screaming on the cassette tape recorder that is my only form of companionship in the Get Right Room, other than my own thought process.
Cornerstone Christian School starts in September. In less than two months, one of my teach- ers is going to raise holy hell about where my parents took me! Someone is bound to get me out! I
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