Heart | N.H.

one - cigarettes

I feel like some stories need to be told.

I suck at telling stories. Really, ask anyone who's ever met me. I confuse everyone, including myself; I trip over my words and usually I just stop talking. But I can write. I'm primarily an artist, but I know how to paint with words.

Normally, I wouldn't write about this. I wouldn't want to relive this story for anything, not if you paid me. It's not that this is the worst story in the world. There are parts that make me smile, probably more parts that make me smile than make me cry or make me angry. It's just that... I can't. In the words of every other teenage girl ever, I can't. 

Let's just get started before I lose my nerve. Because I have to tell this story. It's important to me. The words bubble up, starting somewhere cold in the pit of my stomach and rising, warm and alive on the tip of my tongue. 

That sounded weird. That sounded like I was describing the urge to vomit. Moving on.

The story begins on a Monday morning in October, at St. Stephen's Catholic Academy, in my first block History class. Which is pretty much the crappiest place any story could begin.

I was feeling horrible that day. I hadn't slept a wink all night, and lack of sleep was probably evident on my face. My history textbook was laying open on my desk, but I was only using it as a resting place for my thermos full of coffee and my leather bag of paintbrushes. The only two things I'd brought to school. I'd sort of forgotten my backpack, which should give you an idea of the mental state I was in.

Exhaustion makes you even less inclined to care about a bunch of really stupid things really stupid people did a few hundred years ago. My History teacher, Mr. Martin, had written notes all over the board for us to copy down, but I hadn't jotted down a single thing. Not even the date. I didn't know what day it was, and I didn't care.

"Ms. Watts. Ms. Watts. MS. WATTS!"

I can honestly promise you, I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep. The only thing that made me aware of this was the fact that I woke up with a jolt, meaning I had to have been-

"Asleep? This is a new one, Ms. Watts. Usually you just settle for staring glaze-eyed at the clock and not taking a single notation. But no! Now you have upped the ante and delivered an even greater insult to my teaching! What do you have to say for yourself?"

My first instinct was to comment on Mr. Martin's excellent dramatic delivery of his angry speech. Our theater teacher, Mrs. Pibble, would absolutely love him. He should definitely sign up for our drama division. Or at least channel some of the vigor with which he yelled at me into his teaching. I was sure that, on days when I was running on more than ten minutes of sleep, I would pay more attention to his teaching if he put some sass into it.

My second thought was: I have to get out of here.

I acted before thinking, as usual. I sprang up out of my chair like a startled rabbit, banging my knee on the leg of my desk with a resounding thud. The impact brought tears to my eyes.

"Ms. Watts? What are you doing now?" asked my teacher in a resigned voice.

Poor Mr. Martin. He suddenly looked very tired. I supposed having me in his first block class for a month and a half had really taken a toll on him. 

"I hurt my knee," I explained through watering eyes. Which was true.

"Yes, I see. Why don't you sit down?" he said, not unkindly. I mean his eyes sort of spelled out that he'd dearly love to strangle me with Albert Pickenstein's striped tie (part of our school's uniform) but other than that he was quite calm.