Page 12 of Satan's Spawn
The accident doesn’t look bad at all, a typical fender bender, but the angry taxi driver climbing out of the car yelling obscenities would beg to differ.
Yikes.
Nobody gets out of the black car, and given the windows are completely tinted, the person inside is a mystery to all of us.
Especially the little old man in a black Newsboy hat gesturing toward his damaged taxi and serving out a dish of his wrath.
“Should we make sure whoever’s inside the car is okay?” I take a step toward the street, and mom grabs my arm to stop me.
“No, baby. This is very common in the city. They will sort it out, we don’t want you late for orientation.”
I look down at the ground and bite my lip, knowing she’s right. After all, I doubt the hit was hard enough to hurt anything other than the driver’s wallet.
“Yeah, true.” I lock my arm around hers and we move again, taking one last look at the scene as Mom falls right back into our conversation about the city.
“This place here makes the absolute best muffins.” She points to a corner shop labeled “Manny’s Bakery” and chef-kisses the air. “It’s been around since before I was born.”
“Long time, then.” I smirk, nudging her.
“Watch it,” she warns.
Continuing further, we pass a huge supermarket and a couple retail stores before approaching a corner. When mom points this time, I find a cul-de-sac with a humongous cathedral style building shaping the dead-end street.
“Would you look at that…” She gasps. “It’s gorgeous.”
An array of colorful flower bushes line the exterior of the school, along with benches placed out front which are seating a few waiting families.
“Let’s go, sweetie, they’ll be opening the doors soon.” Mom pulls me by the back of my arm, but my feet stay planted in the concrete.
“Bex, don’t let the lavishness intimidate you…you belong here just as much as the rest of them.”
Given we went through about three months of only Rice ‘A’ Roni for dinner after my dad died and mom quit her job at the salon, I’d beg to differ.
I start moving, heart pounding, throat tightening as I squeeze my notebook to my chest, and as I close the distance between me and the entrance, it feels as though I’m choking on sand.
I try to distract myself by examining the gray and white school shield, bypassing the pictures and going right for the latin quote at the bottom.
Imperare Sibi Maximum Imperium Est
“To rule yourself is the ultimate power.”
I’ve heard the expression many times before, yet I still find myself staring intently at the words, like they’re taunting me for some reason.
I don’t know how much time goes by before mom squeals—“Here we go!”—just as two girls push through the front doors wearing what I’m pretty sure are much shorter versions of the gray and white plaid skirt I received in the mail.
Same white shirt tucked into the waistband—although they are foregoing the top three buttons meant to actually cover our breasts—and a black blazer draped over their shoulders. They’re laughing together until they spot me looking, I’m sure, like a deer caught in headlights, and offer a cold expression before returning to their conversation.
Off to a great start, Bex. Already using the friend repellant that is your face.
“Embrace those jitters, sweetie. This is the start of the rest of your life.”
Well, let’s just hope it doesn’t include the two stuck up bitches who just daggered me with their eyes.
4
CRAYTON
I’m an asshole. A merciless one.
