The Passed Note Issue 8 October 2018 - Page 11

I told her I was fine. What else would I say? Then I turned off the water, tried to pry a paper towel from the broken thing on the wall and walked out. Ms. K never asked me about it – why would she? Teachers can only handle so much.

Today there’s no water.

Just a tiny trickle, and a little soap. I stand at the sink anyway and put one finger under the faucet. The mirror in here is all scratched and nasty – but I can still see the way my hair twists and curls because of the rain. I like it this way – long with some body. It hangs over my shoulders like a cape, like a blanket. In class sometimes I cover my face with my hair, and it’s like I’m invisible.

I don’t really mind school, but I would rather be somewhere else. Like the mall. Or, you know, home in bed. When I was younger, I would picture my cousin’s backyard when I wanted to be someplace else. I love it there, with the apricot tree and the jasmine and the brick pathways. My uncle’s dark woodsheds and that creek just on the other side of the back fence, sunk in between two oak trees, covered with glittery moss.

I imagine the trickle from the faucet is the trickle of that creek.

You have a place like this? A place you go? Not the bathroom, I mean.