Miss, Do I Know You?

05 - Friday, September 18

Every nocturnal hour that followed my ride home with Miss Martin was a journey through restlessness, haunted by the disquiet of troubled thoughts and endless contemplation. Sleep was an impossible luxury, seemingly more than ever, and my mind constantly churned over the potential consequences of her plans and how they could rattle the fragile footing of my fledgling life. I needed to reclaim control over the unfolding situation.

Time seemed to slip through my fingers. I yearned for the clock to grant me respite, to hold at bay the advancing tide of hours that would usher me to her presence. An unsettling mixture of anxiety and anticipation filled my heart, leaving me without a clear plan to face the situation. Though it might have appeared a trivial matter, it bore down on me with the weight of a mountain.

During the lunch break, after the final stragglers of students spilled out of the classroom, my resolve wavered, and I hesitated. But the sound of those familiar footsteps drawing closer from the other side of the door spurred me to muster every ounce of courage within. Knowing I simply had to voice what she wanted me to say and lay the burden to rest, I urged my feet to act.

Rounding the corner, I almost collided with her, causing a sharp intake of breath and a startled jump. "Jesus," she muttered, her eyes wide as if I had appeared out of thin air. "Don't do that."

My heart pounded, but I was determined to lay everything bare. "Sorry," I apologized meekly, trying not to let my nervousness take over. "I did some thinking yesterday."

"Kayla, I al—"

"Can I just say what I want and get it over with?" I interjected. "I know that I could've handled the situation better, and I appreciate that you were trying to do things discreetly, but it wasn't the right way to go about it, locking me in your car. So, you asked me why I do it," I continued, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. "Well, the short answer is that it makes me feel better. But the long version is that ever since I was a—"

"Kayla," she cut me off, "it doesn't matter anymore. You don't have to explain yourself."

Hope mingled with paranoia as I wondered if my fears were misplaced. "What do you mean?"

Miss Martin settled into the chair, her unwavering gaze fixed on me. "Mr. Harris is probably expecting to see you in his office by now," she said coolly, "so you better go there and sort out your mess yourself."

The flicker of guilt, embarrassment, and the sincere urge to apologize that had been so briefly kindled disappeared as swiftly as a candle robbed of its flame. Any trace of positive sentiment I had harbored toward her was ruthlessly erased, replaced instead by an unsettling suspicion that she derived some perverse delight from my distress.

In that brief moment of vulnerability, I had naively misconstrued the situation. And now, the stinging truth was revealed. My assumption of finding kindness or empathy within her heart had been not only misguided but met with a cruel rebuttal.

"You really couldn't wait a day, could you?"

"You didn't seem to understand that what you're doing is wrong. You said it yourself that you're an adult, so start acting like one."

Overwhelming annoyance swept through me. Though I acknowledged that attending school high had been a massive error in judgment, I had asked her to give me a chance to explain the reasons behind it—the chokehold anxiety had on me, the insomnia, the fact I could never focus on anything, or even the constant hum in my head—but she had dispassionately brushed aside my pleas as one might swat a bothersome fly.

"I'm the one who's acting like a child?" I spoke, trying to keep calm. "You accuse me of acting like it, but it's my personal life that you seek to control for some reason, like this weird obsession."