The Last Resort Kylie Francis Was it really worth it? Getting in trouble for standing up to myself like this? Maybe not, but seventh grade me thought, “Hell yes.” For once in my life I felt stronger, more confident. A mischievous little smirk formed upon my face through the tears as I sat in the vice principal’s office waiting for my fate to be sealed. The office was the crevice of a canyon, tight, dark and constructed. Hunched over, the vice principal sat in his fancy leather office chair, eyes glued to files of multiple students who had gotten in trouble before me. The blue collared shirt he wore made him appear like he could camouflage with the walls of his office. I had a wave of guilt wash over me, but the tsunami of satisfaction outgrew it. Even though my actions had cost me an after-school detention, I finally stood up for myself. That sucker had it coming, and his face was so priceless it would be hanging in a museum if someone turned it into an expressive portrait. Throughout the beginning of the year, I rode the bus to and from school. Everything seemed normal at the time, from the uncomfortable clustered seats, to the rattling and squeaking of bolts in the steel beast. The order in which we sat was the social hierarchy of the middle school: Fifth graders up front, sixth in the middle, and finally seventh graders towards the back. The kings and queens of the yellow chariot. I enjoyed the bus then, but one day, it became my least favorite method of transportation. A couple classmates started making jokes and talking bad about a few others, and I was one of their topics. I couldn’t quite remember what they said, but it ticked me off and I whipped my head around to shoot them a nasty look. Like a weak video game character to it’s bigger foe, no damage. They stared and burst out laughing. “Boys.” I muttered under my breath. After all, they were just being immature and teasing… Right? Nope. It only got worse. As days passed, they started making fun of me, throwing paper balls, and saying such words that I have never heard before. I’m glad I don’t remember most of those hurtful things, because they’d have left mental scars that would be difficult to fix. I told my bus driver, my teacher, and so many other trusted figures in
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school. Each of them did little to help, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, I entrusted the help of our “beloved” vice principal. He said he would take care of it, and told me to keep my distance from those boys. I followed his advice, but came to find out he barely lifted a finger. The boys were furious that I told on them and continued to harass me. Their words hurt me. I went home almost every day feeling like it was the worst year of my life. The last day of spring, I waited to be attacked on the bus, and of course it happened. One of the boys dropped a fatal insult to me; it had to do with my family. In that very moment, something snapped. My blood boiled, the sound of erupting laughter from other bystanders and the pop music on the radio was silenced in my mind. For a split second, the girl that I once knew to be afraid and vulnerable had vanished, and was replaced by a “leveled up” video game hero. Without hesitation, I struck him. After a minute, I regained my original self, stunned at that inner rage I had unleashed. Not a single peep was made from anyone. My hand was stung with tingles from the impact, and the boy whom I high-fived in the face was bright red. Embarrassment, shock and regret was written all over him. One final flicker of the hero emerged, and with that, I finished my fight with two words. I felt amazing, but I also felt guilt. He didn’t have to report me to the vice principal; I did it myself. The office door opened like it was going to fall off. Creaking on the hinges, loose doorknobs and fingerprint infested glass pane. Curiously, I turned to see my father in the frame, wearing his police uniform with his sporty sunglasses perched on his head. To me, he was another version of Dwayne Johnson, just slightly smaller and more friendly looking. A whiff of cologne filled the space. Old Spice, the only kind of men’s cologne that I tolerated. Other than that, I didn’t really like a lot of them. I expected a face of frustration, but instead he was smiling. He wasn’t mad, it seemed more like he was… proud. I couldn’t put the pieces together. I slapped a boy in the face. Why did he look like he wanted to congratulate me? Normally, a kid would get in serious trouble for this kind of stunt. “Come in Mr. Francis, have a seat,” The vice principal
