Flawed (Flawed, #1)(44)
“Ms. Dockery, Celestine’s mathematics teacher, has kindly offered to homeschool her.”
She straightens up as the attention turns to her. I look at her, surprised. I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult. Either she doesn’t want me in the school and she’s helping to get rid of me, or she’s helping me. Tears prick my eyes, and I sink lower. Each time I don’t think that’s possible, it happens again.
“I think you should strongly consider Celestine’s being educated at home,” she says. “There will be no distractions for her; she can concentrate on keeping those grades up. The sooner she begins at home, the better it is for her, for everyone all round.”
The meeting is heated in parts and ends with an agreement to not agree. The situation will be assessed as it unfolds. Mr. Browne will not teach me, nor will my French and geography teachers, and so, until Mr. Hamilton can figure out what to do with me, I am to go to the library for those classes. The one thing that everyone does agree on is that the media will back off after a few days, when my story dies down, though everyone is surprised it hasn’t already. It seems to be as strong as it was at the beginning, as they continue to find new angles. I’m not aware of anything that is being reported. I haven’t been paying attention, and my parents haven’t shared it with me. In fact, they won’t let it into our home. My home is a cocoon, where the day-to-day of my reality is lived and dealt with, not of caring what other people think. I need it to be like this so I can survive, so I can deal with my own reality before hearing other people’s twisted perceptions. However, it has been a week and a half, and it hasn’t died down, which makes me, for the first time, intrigued to know what they’re saying about me.
Because the meeting ran over, I am late to English class. When I enter, all heads turn to stare. My classmates look at me as if they don’t know me, as if they’re seeing me for the first time. Art’s seat, beside mine, is empty. He still hasn’t returned from wherever he is hiding. Tears prick at my eyes, and I quickly brush them away as all eyes follow me. I sit alone in that class and every class that follows. Marlena takes me aside where she’s sure no one can see her talking to me to tearfully tell me how let down she feels, how she placed her neck on the line and I betrayed her. She tells me what has become of her life since she stepped up to the witness stand, how she finds each day unbearable, how she feels people are viewing her as though she aided a Flawed. She was followed by a photographer one day. She worries about her safety. She hopes she won’t be in trouble for giving a positive report on my character. I try to console her as much as I can for her loss. We part with the understanding that she would like to steer clear of me forever. Not once does she ask how I’m doing.
Next class, my biology teacher refuses to teach me. As soon as I sit down, she glares at me and leaves the classroom and doesn’t return until ten minutes later, flanked by Mr. Browne and an even more hassled-looking Principal Hamilton, who calls me out of the room.
“Celestine,” he says, wiping his chubby, clammy hands on the ends of his suit jacket. “I’m going to send you to gym for this hour.” He looks me in the eye. “Sorry.”
That apology means more to me than he could ever know.
“I thought I was going to the library.”
“You will be afterward. I can’t have you sitting in the library all day.”
Ah. So the teachers are dropping out like flies.
My eyes fill. “But I don’t have my gym clothes.”
“You can use the school gear. Don’t look at me like that. Contrary to popular opinion, they’ve been cleaned. Tell Susan to give you the key to the locker.”
Gym class consists of twenty minutes swimming and twenty minutes in the gymnasium. I will not put on my swimsuit. I haven’t brought mine with me, and I refuse to wear the standard-issue school swimsuit. It is not, this time, because I don’t like the cut of it, but because now in my real world, I do not want anybody to see my body at all. And I can’t stand the thought of water hitting my scars. It has been only a week and a half, and my scars are healing well, but I am careful about plunging into hot or cold water. Realistically, I can bear the pain of my wounds, I just do not want anyone to see my body. The only people who have seen it are those who branded me, the medical team, my family, and, of course, Carrick. I won’t allow any more to see me ever again, and I wonder about Art, if I will ever be able to let him see me and touch me.
I follow everyone out into the swimming pool area. They are all dressed for the pool. The boys and girls smirk at one another, the usual reaction to seeing one another’s partly naked bodies. I intend to sit in the viewing gallery and watch.
“You there, what are you doing?” our gym teacher, Mr. Farrell, barks at me.
“I’m not swimming, sir.”
“Why not?” He comes toward me, his many whistles rattling around his chest reminding me of the Whistleblowers. I hear the others snicker.
I keep my voice down. “My scars, sir, I can’t get them in the water,” I lie.
He suddenly realizes who I am, what I am, and takes a step back from me.
“She needs a doctor’s note, sir,” one girl, Natasha, calls. “If she doesn’t have one, she has to get in.” She flashes an innocent smile at the boy beside her, Logan. I recognize him, too, from my chemistry class, though we’ve never spoken.