Short_Story

Disaster Day They started five days ago. The dreams I mean. And they stopped me on my tracks and made me think... Believe me, they’re awful. Shadowy sullen faces, shapes colliding in crowded corridors, bells clanging like my alarm clock trying to shake the spider of it, only worse. Some members of my family think I should see a therapist, but of course I keep my nightmares to myself. I can just imagine the scene in his office and it isn’t attractive. ‘Well, Elena...’ the therapist would say in his pastiest, whitest, I am only here to help voice, ‘what seems to be the problem' How can I assist you'’ At this point, if I don’t puke, which unfortunately happens when I’m mega stressed, I might say something like this: ‘Ummm I’ve been having bad dreams...nightmares actually...about going back to school this year. You know...starting at a new school...with new students...I just keep having these dreams...’ Here I would give my sickly sweet ‘I am really not an insane hypochondriac’ smile and look trustingly into his eyes. I can already see the notes on his script pad. Yeah...right! Like am going to let that happen! As if I’m going to spill my fluctuating stomach contents onto some therapist’s couch so his ‘perfectly ‘ perfect daughter (who naturally attends my school) can find out and turn me into a freak with the other kids! That would be a great way to start a new school year. Not!!! So I’m on my own with this one. That’s okay though. Every year it’s pretty much the same and that’s the annoying part. Of course, I don’t change schools every year. But the way my life has been lately a new school seems to sneak insidiously into the Christmas plans every three years or so. It would be easier if I had some control over these decisions, but I am just a pawn...a small player in the game of people much wise and older than me. (I tell myself this as a comfort, to increase or even gain some self-confidence, but I truthfully I think the whole thing stinks.) The beginning of last year was the best so far because I felt I was gaining some self-control. After two years at Robitussin state school I knew all of the kids in my grade. I had a reasonable relationship with the headmaster and I was definitely not seen as a geek, freak or a nerd. Because I was fairly quiet I wasn’t ever the centre of attention at concerts or camps, but that suited me fine. I had a forte and I snuggled into it like I snuggle into the warm cosy blankets on a cold breezy winter night, warm, safe and outside that...who cared' I was happy. Facing a new year there would not have been a drama. Then as usual, the dreadful part of the day came knocking on my doorstep. I had to make another shift. This time the news was couched in exaggerated sweetness even sugar would be ashamed of. I was told my new school would bring ‘wonderful opportunities for growth’. The staffs are ‘incredibly dedicated’ and the curriculum is ‘excellent.’ If all this is true, then why do I feel so sick' Why is every night cursed with sweaty dreams and marish apparition' I don’t know if ‘marish’ is a word, but it evokes the right atmosphere. A marish apparition has a certain dark murky feeling that fits the tear churning in my gut. It’s a tear that swills like salt water in the bottom of a rolling boat an comes whenever I think of class bullies, wads of paper held together with spit and compasses already initiated with blood. As I said at the beginning, I’ve had five nights of this torture, but today the trauma stops. It’s D-Day. Disaster day. Day one at Cadbury State School. Today I either survive or become blithering, sobbing heap in the Principal’s office. Today I either stake my claim as a leader or wind up cowering to acne-invested twelve year olds who think they invented every four letter word they know. Today I am either greeted by my real name or the student will invent some horrendous nickname that exaggerates my nose like ‘Hi, ski-Jump. Is there lift to reach the ride'’ I only have one prayer and I don’t think it’s too much to ask for. When I walk into the room, with my legs shaking and a smile glued idiotically one my face like Jim Carrey in a dismal attempt at looking normal, please, please , please can they just sit in their places and intone is unison: ‘Good morning, Miss. Mckenzie’ ----------------------- 1