This is a story I've been trying to write since my sophomore year. I think writing it in small chapters like this will help me get it all out. Here's Chapter 1.
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Marcus keeps looking at me. What does he want?
"Casey, you have ketchup on your chin." I smirk at him and wipe the ketchup away with my sleeve. I know he hates how I do that. But today I want to piss people off.
He drops me off at the school's back entrance, just next to the library, so I can slip in without being noticed. I know I shouldn't have left campus for lunch, especially since I have a meeting with my teachers, members of the administration, and my mom, but they already know I left and McDonald's was basically calling my name. So what?
I charge straight through the library and walk into the main building. I make a sharp left and head for the main office, past the secretary's desk and into a meeting room. I take a seat at the end of a long table.
They're all sitting now, besides McCarthey. Of course. My fingers are drumming. My mind is humming. I have Norah Jones playing now, and my mom gives me a kind smile, as if to say, "Thank you, Casey, for not playing Blink-182 at a time like this."
Mr. McCarthey, the school principal, takes a seat at the chair opposite to mine, across the table. I smile at him. He grunts. I send a small wisp of red colors at him. That'll show him. My mom turns purple.
The school guidance counselor, Ms. Mikah, speaks first.
"Casey has been making some progress." I can imagine all the newspeople 500 yards away from school furiously typing now. Idiots. Ms. Mikah is looking around at all of us expectantly. I sigh loudly. I remember a letter I read a few weeks ago. It was from a 60-something year old woman from Arkansas. She was chastising me for being so rude all the time. "You know you could have it much worse, Casey! We're all in this with you. I can't get my granddaughter asleep at night because of that terrible music you listen to, sometimes. And the way you talk to your elders! As if you think you're better. Stop being such a brat." Yeah, right. I'm the brat.
They're not the ones whose mind is being broadcasted 24/7 to the entire universe. They can all fuck off.
I guess my thinking made the words "fuck off" float in front of us all. My mom, sitting next to me, places her hand on mine and gives me a severe look. I give her a face that says, "I can't help it."
"Well, well. I'm not sure if the school board agrees. We've been getting complaints from almost every school board in the country, the whole world, for that matter. They all think this is a bad idea. They want her to be home-schooled," Mr. McCarthey says. I roll my eyes. This again.
Ms. Mikah jumps in. "I don't think that will be necessary. She's nearly finished with her first semester of senior year. And she's managed to control her temper in the classroom. Most of the time the ear buds work. She can concentrate and her classmates can, too." Mr. McCarthey breathes loudly.
"We already had a vote about this last month," my mom says quietly. Ms. Mikah nods her head. The other administrators seated with us all turn towards Mr. McCarthey expectantly. He clears his throat.
"If you all think that's best, then we need to do something about the colors and visuals. She's driving our teachers mad," Mr. McCarthey booms. I suppress a laugh. My mom, noticing, tightens her grip on my hand.
I start playing the Jaws theme song. Mr. McCarthey looks like he's ready to expel me.
"Casey, we understand" - he clears his throat again - "that you can't help what your mind does, sometimes. We're just asking you to turn it down a notch." He stresses the word notch. He wants to strangle me. Images of Homer strangling Bart on the Simpsons float in front of us. My mom sighs. Mr. McCarthey shoots me a "don't test me" look.
Ms. Mikah clears the tension. "Casey could try the butterfly method we discussed." Oh, this again. This is their master plan to cure me. Whenever I start creating the visuals, I'm supposed to think of butterflies, to make the disturbing visual go away. Do they know how hard it is to make some of my visuals change from unpleasant to pleasant things? How hard is it to stop playing the same song over and over? Idiots. All of them.
Ms. Mikah tries again. "Listen, Casey. We really appreciate you making the efforts you have lately." I smirk slightly. They don't appreciate anything I do. They want me gone. But I just wanted to finish my stinking senior year like any normal person and move away to Switzerland. They turned it into this huge production - "Oh, but she'll create such a distraction!" "Her mind is so loud!" "I won't have her, not in my classroom!" - and now we have these weekly meetings. To discuss my plans. "But we think you can practice more outside of school. Maybe, as homework." Ms. Mikah smiles weakly at me.
The meeting ended at that. Every night for at least fifteen minutes I have to practice the butterfly method. Like I said, they can all fuck off.
________________________________________________________________
Marcus keeps looking at me. What does he want?
"Casey, you have ketchup on your chin." I smirk at him and wipe the ketchup away with my sleeve. I know he hates how I do that. But today I want to piss people off.
He drops me off at the school's back entrance, just next to the library, so I can slip in without being noticed. I know I shouldn't have left campus for lunch, especially since I have a meeting with my teachers, members of the administration, and my mom, but they already know I left and McDonald's was basically calling my name. So what?
I charge straight through the library and walk into the main building. I make a sharp left and head for the main office, past the secretary's desk and into a meeting room. I take a seat at the end of a long table.
They're all sitting now, besides McCarthey. Of course. My fingers are drumming. My mind is humming. I have Norah Jones playing now, and my mom gives me a kind smile, as if to say, "Thank you, Casey, for not playing Blink-182 at a time like this."
Mr. McCarthey, the school principal, takes a seat at the chair opposite to mine, across the table. I smile at him. He grunts. I send a small wisp of red colors at him. That'll show him. My mom turns purple.
The school guidance counselor, Ms. Mikah, speaks first.
"Casey has been making some progress." I can imagine all the newspeople 500 yards away from school furiously typing now. Idiots. Ms. Mikah is looking around at all of us expectantly. I sigh loudly. I remember a letter I read a few weeks ago. It was from a 60-something year old woman from Arkansas. She was chastising me for being so rude all the time. "You know you could have it much worse, Casey! We're all in this with you. I can't get my granddaughter asleep at night because of that terrible music you listen to, sometimes. And the way you talk to your elders! As if you think you're better. Stop being such a brat." Yeah, right. I'm the brat.
They're not the ones whose mind is being broadcasted 24/7 to the entire universe. They can all fuck off.
I guess my thinking made the words "fuck off" float in front of us all. My mom, sitting next to me, places her hand on mine and gives me a severe look. I give her a face that says, "I can't help it."
"Well, well. I'm not sure if the school board agrees. We've been getting complaints from almost every school board in the country, the whole world, for that matter. They all think this is a bad idea. They want her to be home-schooled," Mr. McCarthey says. I roll my eyes. This again.
Ms. Mikah jumps in. "I don't think that will be necessary. She's nearly finished with her first semester of senior year. And she's managed to control her temper in the classroom. Most of the time the ear buds work. She can concentrate and her classmates can, too." Mr. McCarthey breathes loudly.
"We already had a vote about this last month," my mom says quietly. Ms. Mikah nods her head. The other administrators seated with us all turn towards Mr. McCarthey expectantly. He clears his throat.
"If you all think that's best, then we need to do something about the colors and visuals. She's driving our teachers mad," Mr. McCarthey booms. I suppress a laugh. My mom, noticing, tightens her grip on my hand.
I start playing the Jaws theme song. Mr. McCarthey looks like he's ready to expel me.
"Casey, we understand" - he clears his throat again - "that you can't help what your mind does, sometimes. We're just asking you to turn it down a notch." He stresses the word notch. He wants to strangle me. Images of Homer strangling Bart on the Simpsons float in front of us. My mom sighs. Mr. McCarthey shoots me a "don't test me" look.
Ms. Mikah clears the tension. "Casey could try the butterfly method we discussed." Oh, this again. This is their master plan to cure me. Whenever I start creating the visuals, I'm supposed to think of butterflies, to make the disturbing visual go away. Do they know how hard it is to make some of my visuals change from unpleasant to pleasant things? How hard is it to stop playing the same song over and over? Idiots. All of them.
Ms. Mikah tries again. "Listen, Casey. We really appreciate you making the efforts you have lately." I smirk slightly. They don't appreciate anything I do. They want me gone. But I just wanted to finish my stinking senior year like any normal person and move away to Switzerland. They turned it into this huge production - "Oh, but she'll create such a distraction!" "Her mind is so loud!" "I won't have her, not in my classroom!" - and now we have these weekly meetings. To discuss my plans. "But we think you can practice more outside of school. Maybe, as homework." Ms. Mikah smiles weakly at me.
The meeting ended at that. Every night for at least fifteen minutes I have to practice the butterfly method. Like I said, they can all fuck off.