Gingerly, I patted my tender skin dry, then stood before the full-length mirror just long enough to assess the damage. Jeans and a sweatshirt, I reasoned, would conceal the welts, but my face was another story.
"You're hideous," I whispered through clenched teeth. "And I hate you."
It was time.
Fueled by equal parts anger and fear, I moved with lightning speed, dumping the contents of my backpack onto the bed. No need for math or history books, I thought bitterly, stuffing clothes into the ragged canvas bag instead. For a fleeting moment, I reached for Mama's photograph.
Then I stopped.
My sister should have it.
The thought of leaving her sickened me, but what choice did I have? There was no time to think. No time for regrets.
The frigid air tore at the fragile flesh of my bruised cheek—a silent warning of what lay ahead. Refusing to acknowledge the premonition, I fixed my eyes on the only thing that mattered now: the promise of the rising sun.
I trudged through the slushy mess of our driveway, quietly closing the gate behind me. Careful not to look back, I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. I knew that if I saw the house one last time, I'd lose the courage to keep walking. My eyes stung. My toes were already numb, and with every step, the worn straps of my backpack bit deeper into my aching shoulders, intensifying the pain radiating through my bruised body.
I tried to tell myself there was nothing to fear. I had hours; everyone at home would assume I was safely at school. But panic struck the moment I realized I was walking in the exact opposite direction of the bus stop.
I had to be at school before first-period attendance. If the school called home because I was absent, I'd really be dead. There was no choice. I was going to have to run.
School was a grueling trek on the best of days, and today was the worst of days. Every approaching set of headlights made my stomach churn and my pulse quicken. Every passing car sounded as though it might slow beside me. I shivered at the thought.
Thankfully, the streets remained nearly empty, the eastern sky just beginning to surrender to the hopeful light of dawn. Though every step carried me farther from everything I had ever known, the brightening sky somehow strengthened my resolve. I had no plan beyond getting away. No idea where I would go from there. Only one certainty remained: I had to leave, and once I did, I could never return.
Despite the harsh wind slicing through my threadbare jacket, sweat trickled down my back. Slipping and stumbling at full speed, I did my best to dodge the jagged chunks of frozen ice determined to trip me, gulping mouthfuls of arctic air. My throat was raw, my lungs burned, and my spindly legs began to falter.
But I was getting close. Just across the road, my school stood tall, bathed in the light of a deep magenta sky. I was utterly spent.
Dear God, I prayed earnestly, please, please help me. I'm so scared. I don't think I can do this alone.
I burst into tears the moment I stepped into the warmth of the building.
"Thank You, God," I whispered.
I knew I looked a mess as I collapsed into the desk behind my best friend, Sue, but I didn't care. Relief washed over me in a massive wave. I had made it in time for attendance.
Mr. Turner glanced at his clipboard and began calling roll, never bothering to look up. I wondered if he even knew—or cared—that I was really there. He didn't, I decided sadly. But at least he marked me present, ensuring no automated warning calls would be sent to my house.
Sue turned around, her blue-green eyes sparkling with mischief, and dropped one of her neatly folded triangular notes onto my desk.
"Where have you been?" she whispered a little too loudly.
"Is there something you ladies would care to share with the rest of the class?" Mr. Turner grumbled, eyeing the tiny note lying in front of me.
I wanted to scream, Leave me alone! Instead, I slid lower in my seat and timidly shook my head.
The note itself was nothing important—just the usual complaint that class was boring. Then she scribbled another question:
What are you doing after school?
When she read my scrawled answer, her long hair whooshed dramatically as she spun around to face me. Her eyes grew wide with disbelief. She was wearing mascara, I noticed, maybe even a little eye shadow. I couldn't help thinking how lucky she was. At sixteen, I wasn't allowed to wear any makeup—not even the sheerest lip gloss.
"Are you really?" she blurted, once again a little too loudly.
This time, everyone in the classroom turned to look at us.
I simply nodded.
"Well then," she announced without a shred of hesitation, "I'm going with you."
