Page 4 of That Pucking New Girl

“Great,” I mutter, keeping back my honest thoughts on this. “I hope you told these people about the hospitalizations I’ve had for my mental health and the multiple suicide attempts. I’m sure they’ll think I’m a delight.”

“Don’t be self-deprecating, Noor,” she sighs. “Yes, they know all about you, and still want to meet. You’ll see what I mean tomorrow. Your ice skull cap is in the freezer in a plastic bag with your name on it. Let me get it.”

“Thank…you,” I gasp. Hot tears escape past my closed eyes from the agony tearing me apart. I can’t help it, and I won’t apologize for them.

My entire life is sadness, pain, and loss. I’ve been at Wilder for the past year after being passed from one foster home to another. None of them last because of mental, sexual, or physical abuse. Once I turned fifteen, I lost my filter. I loudly shouted about the issues and reported them, to the point that no one else wanted to take me because I was “difficult.”

Wanting a safe place where some asshole wouldn’t break into my room to touch me isn’t wrong. I’ve lost my innocence in too many ways to count. STD tests after being removed from a home is now par for the course.

It’s disgusting, especially when the tests come up positive. Disassociating, I lose myself to the memory of all the invasive questions I didn’t even understand at eleven years old.

“Noor?” Miss Martin asks as I sniffle.

“Yeah?” I ask, not even pretending to have it together.

“Let me help you get to your room, please?” she asks.

“Okay,” I breathe, wincing inside as I open my eyes. My caseworker hands me tissues to sop up the tears and then more to blow my nose. I meant it when I said I was a shit show.

Tossing the tissues in the garbage, I force myself to get up as slowly as possible. I refuse to allow my body to make me a liar. I haven’t passed out in a month and a half. I feel like a workplace commercial with a clock that states how many days since there’s been an incident.

“Shit,” I wheeze, weaving on my feet.

“Stay strong,” Miss Martin mutters, holding me up. She says this as if I have any willpower to sway things in either direction.

I don’t. If I could will myself into not passing out, I swear to anything and everything that I would. Gritting my teeth as I force myself to take a step forward, I ignore the white sparkly lights exploding from behind my eyes. If I haven’t fainted by now, it’s not going to happen.

I need to get moving. I say nothing as she walks me to my room, turning off the bright lights in the hall as we move. This woman really is an angel, I’m simply a surly teenager who hates my life.

“Are you going to be okay?” Miss Martin asks doubtfully as she pushes open the door to the room I share.

“Mmhmm,” I say. My jaw feels tight, which means I’m in for the long haul with this migraine.

“Do you think you’ll skip dinner?” she asks. Miss Martin already knows the score when it comes to my migraines. I can’t convince a doctor to prescribe me anything at the onset of these things, which means I have to white knuckle my way through them.

“Uh-huh,” I rasp, whining softly at the bright sunlight as it shines into the room, blissfully unaware that it’s slicing through my brain and hurting me.

“Okay,” she says, leaning my body against the wall as she leaves me to pull the blinds closed.

“My roommates will be annoyed that you did that,” I mumble.

“No they won’t,” Miss Martin says. “People here are only mad at you in your head, Noor. Tell your brain to be nicer.”

Hmm. If only it was that easy. Not everyone with POTS has anxiety, but I do. Guess I’m one of the lucky ones. Life shit in my shoes for extra spice.

“‘Kay,” I say, taking the skull cap from her and yanking it over my head. I like that there’s a place for me to still see or I can pull down the eye mask for days where I’d rather try to sleep it off.

Homework doesn’t care if your head is threatening to split down the middle. I still have to do it. I’ve figured out how to work through intense pain. It doesn’t mean it’s enjoyable.

Pushing off the wall, I keep my hand on it as I move toward the closet. That’s the safest place for me in case someone comes in and turns on the light.

“I’ll let your roommates know you’re in here,” Miss Martin says before watching me open the closet door and walk inside. “If you need something, hit the button, please.”

I shut the door behind myself with a grunt of pain, before dropping to my knees and crawling into a corner. I vaguely hear my case manager leave before closing my eyes. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I try to sleep, hoping that will help my head.

Sometimes, it does help. Unfortunately, one of the kids who shares a wall with the closet is listening to heavy metal loudly.

“I hope you go deaf,” I whisper, knowing that’s mean. I hate how petty I get when my brain is leaking out my ears.