by Justin O’Neal
I sit alone, eating my middle school lunch in Mrs. McCoy’s empty classroom down the hall from the cafeteria. The clock ticks above the chalkboard, relentless but methodical. The fan in her computer hums low in the background. I notice, but pay more attention to the sounds from down the hall. The door is shut, I made sure of that the same way I made sure to sit in a desk along the same wall as the door. This way, I would be out of view of any passer’s by as they looked through the door’s the adjacent glass. Still, through the walls, I can dully hear the laughter and chatter from my fellow middle schoolers as they enjoy the community experience of lunch-time. Emotions bubble inside of me. Longing emerges, and I wish to go back to before a month ago. Then, fear chases it away, and I never want to be around my classmates again. The lights are off, but the blinds are open to the large window across from the door. The midday sun gleams through the large window allowing me to read the clock.
1:30 p.m.
30 minutes had gone already? I ask myself. It would only be 30 more minutes until I have to endure once again. 30 minutes until I have to be with the rest of my class again. The events of the past month replay in my head. She said yes. I am certain of this. Her friend was there and cheered, happy to have played cupid for us. I am also certain that this began my misery You had a girlfriend, I tell myself. For the first time, you had a girlfriend. For a moment, I feel the butterfly feeling in my stomach that I had felt when she agreed. The clock continues to tick. I notice, and the butterflies scatter. I feel strapped to a train track, able to move my head and neck to see the freight on its way towards me, but unable to free myself from my fate.
Tick, tick, tick.
I grab my apple juice. The straw is glued to the side of the box. The plastic wrapper rustles as I rip it off and puncture the silver hole atop the box. I sip and reminisce further on where things went wrong. I’m too ugly for her, I decide. My classmates certainly believe so. The insults began shortly after she said yes, and have yet to cease. Crunchbar, pizza face, Lego man. I rub my forehead, feeling for the pimple that was not ready to pop yet. As I feel around, a different bump, one that was not there this morning, stops my hand. I lower my head, ashamed by my acne. Why can’t you be like them? My mind imagines the clean, unblemished faces of my classmates. The ones who could so easily SnapChat pictures of themselves to each other without feeling insecure. Envy overcomes me. I reach for the cookies on my styrofoam lunch tray, causing the tray to squeak from the movement. The clock continues to tick, and I look up at it to see how much time I have left until the train runs me over.
1:47 p.m.
13 minutes left. Lunch time moves too quickly. I try to focus on my food, but I cannot. Before our relationship, no one cared about my bumpy face. It was those pictures, I tell myself. I never took any pictures of myself until I got in a relationship. Then I downloaded SnapChat to be able to send silly photos to her. Dumbass. I take another sip from my apple juice as I remember the “Ewww” message that she responded to one of my selfies. Embarrassment floods my brain as I realize how on brand with the rest of her messages this was.
“It was a bet”. Her words from the day before echo through my brain. We were in the lunch room, and everyone at the table heard. Laughter followed. I aimlessly stare at the cold french fries on my lunch tray. One of them lies halfway on the tray, while the other half is suspended off of the plate. Somehow, it does not fall. Somehow, I actually believed I had a girlfriend. I shake my head at myself for being so naive.
The clock continues to tick, relentless but methodical.
The bell rings.
Justin O’Neal was born and raised in Dayton, Ohio, where he currently attends the University of Coastal Carolina where he is pursuing his Master’s Degree of Arts in Writing. Previously, he attended Holy Cross College in Notre Dame, Indiana, where he earned his Bachelor’s degree of Arts in English. This is his very first submission to a literary journal.