Darla's Games Day 13

"It has a mind of its own." Brad chuckled. "Sorry."

"Well, we can't be seen with that." I gestured to the bulge in his pants. "Where are my clothes?"

"In my locker, I'll go get them. Everyone should be in class anyway. You want to come with? See the boy's locker room? It's disgusting, but pretty much the same."

I laughed. "I'll pass, but I do feel covered enough to go to my locker. I'll come get them from you in the entry in a minute?" I asked.

"Sure." Brad smiled and kissed my forehead. "You know I can't keep Rebecca off you. You did kind of make an effort to steal me away after all."

I cringed, about to remind him of his own participation.

"Of course, you wouldn't have gotten me if I didn't want to go." He smiled. "Sex is probably overrated, but it sure as hell doesn't feel that way." He laughed.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, I wouldn't really know."

He looked about ready to say something, then changed his mind and opened the door and walked away with a final "See ya in a few."

I walked out to my locker and grabbed my bag and headed to the entry to the girl's locker room. Brad met me there with my clothes and I gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks".

Brad smiled at me and said, "Yeah, stay you." Stay me? Weird thing to say as he turned and left and I hauled through the empty hallways to art class. I got a frown from Miss King, but she didn't say anything more as I started drafting. It's weird how differently everyone treats you when you dress like a slut.

I don't really mention it often, but I notice it. The leers in the hallways. The infantile gestures. The lewd comments. I certainly understand the inclination. I know when I used to have a choice in my wardrobe, I would whisper and acknowledge the girls wearing mini skirts and tight tops with Julie. We would make our snide comments about girls who we thought were dressing for the kind of attention that we didn't necessary want pointed in our direction.

Now, I was one of those people. I was a girl dressing barely within the confines of the school dress code. I was flaunting my body in front of my peers. I was showing my body beneath a thin veil of clothing for their scrutiny and appreciation. As I entered this, my favorite class, I noticed the eyes of every one of my classmates, not just acknowledging my late entry into the room, but judging me, as if the clothes I wore was a statement of who I am.

And who am I to judge them, for surely if the roles were reversed and it were me dressing like a normal person, I would look at the grand entrance of a slut with condemnation in my eyes. It was mostly the girls who were condemning.

I know we, or should I say society, looks upon a woman or girl as an inferior species to men or boys. They are stronger. They are masculine. They are superior in many ways. They are the controllers of a relationship. They decide where we are going, because they are usually expected to pay for a date. They are constantly pushing for the next obstacle, pressing us to the deeper kiss, the advancements in fondling, the baring of more flesh. They press for the hand job, the blow job, and the pinnacle of the relationship, intercourse.

That is not to say that we, the inferior females, do not like this ride. We are the opposing force and we enjoy our role. That is not to say that we do not enjoy the game every bit as much as guys do. We simply have to be very careful in our timing and balance of activities, as we are the ones who earn a reputation, a reputation that never seems to be shed in a good light. We are a slut or a tease. There seems to be very little middle ground. The only escape from a reputation is to date one guy for your entire school life. By being someone's girlfriend, exclusively, you have some freedom to be a slut or a tease, for if you are a slut, you are his slut and if you are a tease, you are his tease.

On the other side of this coin are the guys, who for their efforts are rewarded with terms like stud for their inability or unwillingness to enter a continuous relationship. At least a stud is an earned term, one that comes from acknowledged sexual prowess, not necessarily in skill, but in quantity of lovers. A slut is an easily earned and negative name for a girl. In my case, it has been earned based on my current state of dress. I'm a virgin, but I have heard the whispers, the ones that call me a slut, more often in the past two weeks than ever before, even addressing some of those who have truly earned the term by their willingness to spread their legs. I could go on and on about the inequity. Perhaps I can use that for my English paper. Not a bad idea really. But, back in the here and now, every boy is eyeing me up, looking at my bared skin and imagining what the covered parts will look like. Dressing like I have had to do makes me seem more approachable and accessible. I have been asked out more in the past two weeks than ever in my life. I have been contacted by all walks of life, even by some of the nerds who would never have dared to approach me when I was dressed like the person I am.

Digressing once again I suppose. The girls are the worst. Their eyes condemn me, and judge me, most often by those who have never taken the time to know me at all. The fat girls and skinny girls wish they could have a body like mine. But rather than do anything about it, rather than adjusting their eating habits or exercise regiment, they pour the lack of interest in them into hate for those who they most want to be. There is a good dissertation there somewhere.

The attractive girls note the attention of the boys. They see anyone getting more attention than they get as a threat and respond accordingly. I have been "accidentally" bumped into in the hallways more in these past weeks than I can ever remember. Before, with my fashionable, but longer skirts, tight jeans, and what I would call normal clothing, I was attractive, but I didn't command attention. Now, I was getting unwanted and unsolicited attention from most guys in school.

It made me competition and I probably had a lot of enemies now. I could see the hate in their eyes. How dare I dress like I dress? How dare I force their boyfriends or secretly desired boys to look at me with lust in their eyes? And I saw the hate, I felt it burn into my flesh. It made me want to scream to them that this was not my idea. This was not who I am. This was being forced on me.

Would I gain their sympathy? Or would I simply achieve disgust and pity that I would let bitches like Darla control me?

And thus I sat at my seat after that painful gauntlet of lust and disgust and let my mind wander to the imagery that now was taking form on my sketching pad. Time moves far too quickly when you are doing something you enjoy. Art was always my escape, my love. I could make anything I wanted take shape and form and in a way become reality. Was I gifted? My teacher thought so. Julie swore it was what I would do some day. I liked that.

And in the closing minutes of class, I gazed at the page before me. As usual, I hadn't really planned the drawing, I hadn't really even seen it as it took shape, I was letting my thoughts and emotions flow through my fingers onto the blank page. And the tears fell and I ripped the page from the pad and crumbled it up in a tight ball for the trash receptacle just as the bell rang.

I smiled. Today, I had completed six tasks and gotten to class on time five times. I had gotten back eleven days and lost two for being late to art class. Nine days of the remaining thirty-one. I laughed and punched the air. I had only twenty-two days left now. I couldn't believe Darla made this game. I was going to be out from under her so much sooner than I thought. There was that little devil in the back of my mind telling me this was too easy and too good to be true. I probably should have listened to that voice a little more closely, but at the moment, I was in charge. In two more days, if they went the same as this one, I would be done with Darla by Monday.

As we started packing up to leave school, Miss King dismissed everyone but me. I figured she wanted a word about why I was late. She walked up to me as everyone shuffled out and I packed my bag and stood to speak to her and explain my lateness with whatever lame excuse I could come up with.

"Late again Carrie." Miss King smiled, but her eyes looked sad.

"I know Miss King. I am so sorry, it won't happen again." Not even an explanation, kinda lame really.

"I should give you detention, but I'll settle for the crumbled ball in your hand." She said.

I looked at the thick ball of paper in my hand, the one I had intended to get rid of at home. Then I looked up into her eyes with fear in mine, which I knew she could see. "I'll take detention." I whispered.

"No, you'll give me the paper." Miss King replied and extended her hand.

I thought about tearing it up. I could surely outrun her and dispose of it where it would never be found, if I could escape. "Please?" I whispered as I angrily wiped a tear from my cheek.

She didn't move her hand or say another word, but the message was clear.

"It isn't..." I stammered, "please don't."

"Carrie, you are the best student I have ever had." Miss King smiled softly. "Hand me the paper and sit down. You have cheerleading after school if I am not mistaken, so you aren't going to miss a bus."

I squeezed my left hand tightly, wishing I could somehow crush the balled up paper into dust. "Miss King..." I whispered. "Please, I beg you, please don't do this." And the tears began to fall.

Miss King looked so sad. She turned away from me and walked to the door, and I thought she was going to let me go and I felt a wave of relief roll over me. I could hear the kids laughing and talking in the echoing halls, running back and forth towards freedom. And she closed the door and locked it.

"I'm sorry Carrie. Show me the paper and I will decide whether to call the counselor." Miss King told me.

"This isn't fair." I wept. "You know it isn't."

"Carrie, I want to help you." Miss King said. "Sit down." n I fell into my chair and held the crumpled page for dear life. I could not let her see it. Especially now. My God, they would put me in therapy.

Miss King walked to the other door and turned the lock so we would be uninterrupted. She pulled a chair up next to me and held her hand out expectantly again.

I saw no way out, so I handed her the crumpled page. I turned away from her immediately, staring at the wall and waiting for the words of disgust. Miss King unraveled the page and spread it out on the desk. I refused to look at it, I had seen it once and the image would be in my mind forever.

"Okay Carrie." Miss King said softly. "Let's go downstairs and see Mrs. Lane. I'll stay with you if you want?"

I turned to her, this teacher who I respected and adored, this, my favorite teacher ever in my favorite class ever and I glared at her. "I hate you."

She looked genuinely hurt, and I immediately felt horrible, but the anger in me, that red spot was there now. I have cried too much, and when my tears ducts are dried out, it seems I convert to anger. And so, here I was in the anger zone.

"You probably already regret saying that Carrie." Miss King offered softly. "And when you are ready to apologize, you are already forgiven, you don't need to tell me." She smiled sadly. "Let's go. I know it isn't fair that I get pieces of you that you would never disclose. And even if it wasn't my responsibility as a teacher, I would do this anyway Carrie. I like you very much. You are very special and I hate seeing you in this much pain."

"Let's wait a few minutes for the hallway to clear out. Do you want me to stay with you?" She asked it again.

"Whatever." I mumbled. Isn't Whatever the coolest word? It means, you are making me do this shit and you have authority over me and I don't want to do it at all and you are making me do it and fuck you, but yeah, I'm going to do it because I have to. Well, maybe that is a lot of interpretation for three syllables.

A few weak attempts at conversation by Miss King later and we were walking down to see Mrs Lane again. I had stopped crying by now and gone fully into the anger stage, where I intended to be emotionless and as withdrawn as possible the second we set foot in that room. As we made the final approach to the offices where the counselor would try to get me to go to some group therapy on being a lesbian, I tried one last thing.

"What if..." I tried to phrase this in a way to sell it. "Couldn't I just talk to you about it and leave her out of it?"

Miss King took my hand and squeezed it gently and I was thinking how easy that was. Then she shook her head no and I went back into withdrawn mode again. "Sorry Carrie, I'm not qualified to help you. I wish it were that simple."

And of course, I answered with the most intelligent thing I could come up with at the moment, "Whatever."

We entered the office and it seems Mrs. Lane was expecting us, though I hadn't seen Miss King call her and I kind of wondered when this had been set up. It obviously had nothing to do with that disgusting drawing I had made. No, this was probably about coming to class late and dressing like a slut.

Mrs Lane stood up and smiled at me. "Carrie, it's good to see you again."

Good to see me again. I almost laughed. I certainly did not share the sentiment. I plummeted into a chair and gave her the silent treatment.

"Do you mind if I stay?" Miss King asked. I assumed she was asking Mrs Lane. I had already given my non-committal "whatever".

"For the moment." Mrs. Lane replied and I heard Miss King take a seat behind me as Mrs. Lane circled her desk and pulled a chair up right in front of mine.

"Would you like to start Carrie or shall I?" Mrs Lane said as I stared at my shoes.

"Whatever." I answered.

"Okay. I'll start. I have gotten reports from several of your teachers that you have been distracted in class. You have been showing up late. You have been disorganized and your grades have been suffering. If it were not out of character for you, we wouldn't have a problem. But, it is and your teachers care about you. I care about you. We want to help you."

Silence. Did she expect a response?

"Carrie, if you don't talk to me, I will have no choice but to spend time with you every day until you do. I know that seems harsh, but you are obviously going through a great deal right now and we need to find a solution. It is not something we can or want to ignore. I know you are eighteen and an adult and probably think we can't make you do anything. And I don't want to make you do anything. I want you to work with me to help you out of whatever the problem is that is causing you so much distress. Or at least help you to find tools to deal with it on your own." "Whatever." I replied.

"Okay Carrie." Mrs Lane sighed. "Unfortunately, Art is an elective and while it is your favorite class, or so I have been led to believe, it is the one I can infringe upon the easiest. So from now on you will spend seventh period with me and you will be here on time or I will make up the time after school. Your extracurricular activities are suspended until such time as you are ready to talk to me. So, no more cheerleading."

I raised my eyes in fear at this. Would I be in trouble for getting kicked off the cheerleading squad? I better say something. "Please don't do this." I whispered.

"I'm sorry, but you give me no choice. This is my job Carrie, to look out for the mental health of the students here and while you aren't the only one I will deal with, you are one that your teachers unanimously agree needs assistance. You might not think that they care about you, but they do. In fact, I have seldom had so many concerns voiced about a single student by so many of the faculty."

"Listen, I..." I started. "Yes, I have some things going on right now that suck. It will be over soon and my life can go back to normal. I'm sorry I caused so much concern and I'll study harder. I didn't know my grades were suffering so badly. I'll do better I promise. Please, just give me some more time to work it out. It's almost over."

"Sorry Carrie, that isn't good enough." Mrs Lane replied.

"Carrie?" Miss King interrupted. "Is someone abusing you?"

I choked. "What?!" I turned to look at her.

"Talk to us Carrie. We can help you. If you need to be moved out of your house, we can do that. Is someone abusing you?" Miss King expanded.

"No!" They wanted to take me from my home? "No, oh God, no. I am fine. I am just very confused with my sexuality right now. I swear, it's nothing bad. I can work this out alone. It isn't anything to be concerned about, I promise. I'll do better. I'll stop being late and unattentive. Please, don't take me away from my mom!" I nearly screamed.

"Carrie." Mrs Lane spoke softly. "We aren't trying to take you away from your home unless you are being abused there. But if that is the case, you have to understand, this is not your fault. Nobody should be in an abusive relationship, even with their own parents."

I looked into her eyes. She thought I was being abused at home? "Okay, look. I'm in a fucked up relationship with some girls and it will be over soon. I am working hard to get it over. It has nothing to do with where I live or with my family. Please believe me."

"I believe you." Mrs Lane said softly. "Who are these girls? Girls here at school?"

Damnit. She got me talking. I screwed up. "Kind of. Look, it isn't what you think. It isn't abusive, it's just I've been doing some things that I've never done and it is all new and a little confusing. I don't want to talk about my sex life. It really is personal. Please, just let me work through it, I swear you won't hear any more complaints. I will be better."

"Carrie. It isn't about the complaints. You aren't a bad kid. You aren't acting up. You are just very different suddenly and it is people that care about you that have informed me of this. If it was a disciplinary or strictly scholastic matter, I wouldn't be involved. This is more about you, a young woman who is having a major transitional issue in her life and we want to help you get through it." Mrs Lane offered.

"Okay. I'll do your therapy. Please don't take me away from my home." I cried. "And please let me stay in Miss King's class. I ... " I sobbed. "It's the one thing I look forward to at the end of every day."

"Okay Carrie, I'll tell you what," Mrs Lane offered, "You meet me after school for a half hour every day and go to the group counseling once a week and I'll let you stay in Miss King's art class since I see how important that is to you. I'll call your mom and let her know what is happening."

My mom? Oh God no. "Please, don't call her." I whispered.

"Carrie. Your mom needs to know what is going on. Maybe you should tell her, it might help." Mrs. Lane interjected.

I looked up at her. "She'll send me to my Dad. Please, please, if you really care about me, don't call my mom. She can't handle it. Please, I'll do whatever you want. I'll skip class or stay after school or whatever, group therapy, I don't care, but please please don't call my mother." I begged.

"Carrie, I have to call your mother, it is required. I'm sorry that you think that is a bad thing. Maybe she will surprise you. If you want, I can bring her in here so the three of us can discuss it together. But I have to tell her."

"You don't understand." I wept. "She can't handle it. She can't handle issues. I'll open up, I swear, I'll tell you if you know, there is some privileged thing, like you can't tell anyone else or whatever, but if you involve my mom, I'm not telling you anything. I swear, I will not tell you anything."

Mrs Lane smiled at me sadly. "I think you should leave Miss King. Unless there is something you wanted to add before you go."