Page 7 of The Venom We Bleed

“I’ll be fine,” I tell Cory as I head towards the cubby holes for members to leave any extra shit they brought with them. Yanking my hoodie from the uppermost corner hole, I slip it on and flip the fabric over my head.

My hair hangs around my face, a mass of different shades of azure waves. The color is an uneven cheap box dye because if there’s anything a girl knows—regardless of which side of the tracks she’s from—control starts with the hair. Coloring it, chopping it, or giving yourself bangs, it doesn’t matter.

When the world is out of your control, you find something to latch on to and make yours.

For so long, I’d let my mom convince me that blonde was the perfect color. My one attempt at something different—a pretty sunrise red—she’d locked herself in her bedroom until I’d agreed to go back to her stylist and get it changed. Even then, her complaints hadn’t ceased, but now she’s not here. Neither of my parents are. My hair is my own.

Cory waves me off as I head towards the front of the gym with the only other item that’d been in my cubby—a ratty gym bag. Through the glass windows that frame the front of the gym, the sky is beginning to lighten. It’s usually a thirty-minute walk from Cory’s gym to the apartment complex I moved to after the authorities confiscated my parents’ assets and I’d refused to live with Dad’s best friend, Morpheus Calloway. I take a shortcut, though, jogging through an old junkyard sitting behind an abandoned grocery store. Still, I keep my hood up despite the warm August air in case someone spots me.

Hopefully most people haven’t caught on yet about the changed hair, but eventually it’ll get out. When I have to apply for jobs. When I go to school. There’s no point hiding who I am long term, but for just a little while, I want to cling to my anonymity even if it’s only a facade.

I hurry through a shower, the hot water running out quickly so I spend a good amount of time under icy spray just to get the sweat out of my hair.

When I hop out, I swipe a hand across the grimy, chipped mirror and take in my reflection. Dark circles underscore my eyes, and for a brief moment, the old me comes back and I wonder if I should try to cover it up with makeup. Almost assoon as that thought occurs though, I wave it away. There’s no point in wasting what little money I have left on my looks.

Finished with my shower, I throw on a pair of jeans and an oversized t-shirt. At least the one good thing about switching from Silverwood Prep to Silverwood Public is the lack of uniform. I check the microwave clock and scramble to yank on a pair of sneakers, snatching up my backpack, before sprinting out the door.

I spy the big yellow bus rattling up the street from the outside upper deck of the two-story apartment building and bolt for the stairs. A collection of other students wait on the road to be picked up. I draw my hoodie back on and perform the same ritual that has become so normal over the last several weeks, flipping the hood up to mask my features.

The bus comes to a slow halt, brakes squealing in protest as red lights flash, and the stop sign swings out from the opposite side. I jog up the sidewalk and watch the others get on first before following their lead. I haven’t ridden a bus since well before middle school, and even then, it was infrequent.

I hop up the steps into the bus, ducking my head lower when the driver looks at me curiously. Either my hood is doing its job or everyone is too tired from the first early morning they’ve had in months, but no one else spares me a glance as I move to the back of the bus and take a seat by a window.

Leaning back, I stare at the passing scenery as the bus speeds up and slows down to stop at frequent intervals. We pass by dilapidated brick buildings, millhouses with large patches on their roofs, and trailer parks as the vehicle begins to fill to overflowing. The bus even stops in front of a motel where one student hops on, their face turned down as they slide onto a seat towards the front since there’s certainly no more room in the back. I sink lower in my seat and turn away from the two who have taken up residence on my row with me.

Perhaps it’s the early morning, but few people bother to make conversation on the way to school. Instead, the sound of the bus’s engine and someone’s soft snores are all that linger in the air. By the time we roll up to Silverwood Public, I’m hopeful that I can get through the rest of this day as unseen as possible. Keeping my hood up, I exit the bus and follow the crowd toward the glass double doors leading into the school’s cafeteria. I’ve never entered Silverwood Public as anything more than a rival cheerleader—and those days are long behind me now. The double doors open and I find myself hovering in place as students line up and begin moving in a restricted single-file line through the metal detectors directed by tired-looking teachers. That’s something new to me. I don’t comment and quietly follow the rest even as my heart rate increases. On the other side is the cafeteria where several students are already seated.

Keep your head down and keep your guard up.Cory’s advice slides through my mind and I repeat it like a mantra.Head down. Guard up.

The ripe scent of stale weed and body odor slaps me in the face as I make it through and stride into the cafeteria. It’s louder in here as students greet each other. Despite the early hour, a few boisterous guys are already passing a football back and forth across one of the tables. The teachers linger about, ignoring it all in favor of gossiping amongst each other. I scan the room before directing myself towards an empty table at the far corner, stopping only when a voice calls out.

“Hey, no hoods!” I stop and glance back, spotting a tall older man with graying sideburns glaring my way. “You know the rules,” he barks.

I don’t, but he doesn’t know that. It’s obvious he doesn’t recognize me, but I know the second I take off the hood, he will, as will every fucking body else. I debate my choices. Take off thehood without a fight and hope I’ve changed enough for him not to realize who I am ... or ignore him.

I take route number two and start to walk away, moving faster than before.

Wrong decision, I realize a split second later as the sound of stomping footsteps follows me. “Hey, didn’t you hear me? I said—” A hard hand grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop and my hood flies off my head. The teacher stops talking abruptly and releases my arm like I’m a snake ready to bite. Who knows? Maybe I am.

Several gazes fall on me and a hush falls across the cafeteria.Mother fucker.Just what I wanted to avoid. I want to pull my hood back up, but it’s pointless now. “Got it,” I say. “I’ll keep my hood down.”

The teacher glares at me with barely repressed disgust, as if trying to maintain a professional expression is too much for him. He nods towards the tables. “Take a seat.”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I spin away from him and finish my journey to the corner table, turning away from the crowd and facing the wall as I slide my backpack onto the seat next to me. It’s quiet behind me for several seconds, and I can feel the burn of people’s attention boring into the back of my skull. It only takes a few minutes for people to start talking again and once they do, their words penetrate me.

“—can’t believe she actually showed up.”

“The fucking nerve.”

“I heard her dad got beat up in jail and is in isolation.”

“Why is she here? I thought she’d have killed herself by now. I would’ve if I were her.”

“Wasn’t she supposed to be staying with Mr. Calloway?”

“He’s too nice. I wouldn’t trust her not to make off with whatever he has left after what her dad put him through.”

Hold it in,I warn myself.Do not react. It’ll only give them more fuel.

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