Confessions Of A Parochial School Student.

Part Two.

"You know, Althea," the voice behind me startled me so that I jumped a little. I had been brushing my shoulder-length light brown hair from my face with my fingers and attempting to secure a barrette I'd borrowed from Lydia Manchester to hold my too-long-and-in-my-eyes bangs to one side.

My eyes, which have been called hazel in the right light but looked brown to me, rounded a bit in the mirror of the girls' lavatory and then narrowed at the recognition of the voice's owner as she went on, "Just because you're Mr. Lismore's little pet project now, doesn't mean you can lord it over us."

I could see Vanity Sinclaire's perfectly pouty fire-engine red lips reflected in the mirror next to my own lightly tinted with a peachy flavoured ones. Her skin was pale beneath the heavy rouge and coal-black eye makeup.

If she could have gotten away with it, she would have come to school dressed in black leather and ripped lace with several hundred peircings. I could clearly see more than the allowed one hole each in the ear closest to me.

"I have no intention of doing any such thing, Vanity," I said, not allowing her to bait me into a fight. I knew that was exactly what she wanted. She wanted to upset me enough to make me take a swing at her, making her look like the poor, innocent, and me the bully who brawls in girls' bathrooms.

There was always a risk to a school bully when they've grown up with their favourite victim. Said victim eventually learns all said bully's tricks. I smiled and picked up my backpack from the floor next to me, "And besides, you're wrong about Mr. Lismore. We can't stand each other. Can't you feel it?"

I shrugged and opened the door, on my way out, "Oh," I paused and looked back. She was whispering to a mousy-looking girl who seemed to have materialised next to her by the sinks. But that was the way with Vanity Sinclaire; her lackeys were always coming out of the woodwork when she needed an audience or someone to fetch something for her.

"But you probably have a difficult time feeling anything past your nine-thirty Ritilin dosage. Ta!"

That was a low blow. I inwardly cringed as I closed the door. And not because of something hard, most likely a book, hitting it hard from the other side followed by Vanity's high-pitched shrill that she was going to "get" whoever leaked out that bit of information.

Little Miss Priss had to be perfect at all times and having to take medication for any reason was seen as a weakness in her eyes. I knew it was the lowest thing I could have brought up as parting shot. I mentally kicked myself. Now who's starting fights? It's not like she didn't have it coming, though, I thought with a snide little snort of self-satisfaction.

Ever since she flushed Georgie down the toilet in fourth grade. Yes, I've know her all through grade school. Vanity's family used to live next door to mine. Our mother's were even friends once. Until my mother caught Vanity's mother gossiping about our family at a church function.

My mother cut off ties to the Sinclaires right after. The only ones I felt sorry for were our fathers. They'd actually gotten along and had planned a fishing outing the next weekend. I suspected they still snuck off on the sly together now and then. Especially when my Dad comes home smelling like an overripe tuna sandwich.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Georgie. He was the class mascot. A gerbil. Without a tail. It had been cut off in some kind of accident before we, Mrs. Bickery's class, gained custody of him. Georgie the tail-less gerbil. He hated just about everyone but Lydia Manchester and I.

For hours he'd sit curled up in my hair as I worked on some word-problem Mrs. Bickery had given up, chewing absently on tendrils and scratching my scalp with his sharp little feet. I missed him. Alot.

Vanity claimed it was an accident, and with her angelic face she could convince any adult of anything whatsoever, but I knew Vanity. She was like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Beguiling, enchanting, only showing her true colours to those oh, so, lucky few. She had always been my rival.

Even when I never wanted a rival. And as rival's are wont to do, she took away from me something that I loved and distroyed it. Merely because doing so would hurt me. I could have easily forgiven her for all the petty things she'd done to me throughout out lives. In fact, someday, I even might.

But, I'll never forgive her for Georgie.

Wait. What the hell did she mean "Mr. Lismore's pet project"?!

Here I was, nearly crying over a tail-less rodent that's been dead for nearly six years now in the middle of the hallway and the importance of Vanity's little speech hadn't hit me until just now. I found myself being brough up short.

I felt like a cartoon character. Any moment Scooby and the Gang would come tearing around the corner and I'd do another cartoony thing; a double-take. Too bad I drank my soda at lunch; I could have completed the semi-running gag with a spit-take.

Good God, where was my head?! Mr. Lismore's pet project? What did that mean?! Oh, it's nothing, Althea, I tried to soothe my worries, it's only Vanity running her mouth. As usual. You know how she is. She's a drama-whore. First class. She should wear a button. "Hello, My name is Vanity. I'm a drama-whore. Ask me how!"

I snickered at the thought and glanced at the clock. One more class until school was out. Until my detention with Mr. Lismore.

Mr. Lismore. Thoughts of how his hair, dark, with a curl to it, a bit long past his ears and short near the top, would feel though my fingers. Like silk? If I unwound a curl would it spring back into shape atop his brow?

I found myself daydreaming about touching every inch of his body. I wondered how I would react to him touching me? Were his hands soft? Calloused? Would he be gentle or rough? A million titilating questions and before this morning I'd only really noticed him from afar.

Why did his name pop into my head more often today than it has ever before? What the wrong with me? I fought the urge to feel my forehead in the middle of the corridor and continued walking, my bookbag swinging at my side, periodically hitting me in the leg. Was it simply because of the upcoming detention? Or maybe it was due to something more.

That little epiphany I enjoyed while observing him dressing down a fellow student in his classroom this morning, perhaps? Face it, Jacobs, you've got the hots for your teacher. I groaned a little to myself. Not because I knew it was the truth, but because I knew there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

I saw Vanity exit the lavatory and sweep a kleenex across her eyes when she thought no one was looking. My stomach tightened, but I didn't try to talk with her even when she was walking right past. Six years can form quite a rift. I thought about Mr. Lismore again and the groan took the form of a soundless sigh. As if I didn't have enough problems.

To be continued