Losing.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
So many things seem filled with the intent
To be lost that their loss is no disaster.
— Elizabeth Bishop, ‘One Art’
You’re a fucking loser Sophie. It was my first day of Year 8 and we’d been assigned lockers along the ground floor hallway of the school in alphabetical order. One long row of lockers at floor height and one long row above. Top lockers were elite — you could grab your PE kit or throw your book bag in without the humiliating ordeal of crawling on hands and knees in a pleated skirt on the dirty carpet, going between the legs and feet of the top locker girls, plunging your arm to the elbow into the dark metal box. I’d felt smug, divine provenance blessing me with a sense that my fears of continued bullying and ostracisation were unfounded, that this might be a new start for me. This was delusional, I’ll admit: I had developed a fear of water since moving in with my Dad, I never showered, I smelled of sweat and urine and fear, my hair was matted in two bundles at the corners of my skull so dry and tight other girls would throw twigs or stick pencils in it, I was constantly catching head lice, I never brushed my teeth, I collected pictures of UFOs and listened to folk music. But I had a top locker.
I returned from Maths to find my belongings — dirty PE kit, history textbook, empty crisp packet, slowly rotting apple — strewn on the floor in front of an open, empty, bottom locker. The most popular girl in my form, Kelly, thrower of sticks, was blue tacking a a magazine clipping of Aaron Carter to the inside of my locker. Her locker. I had an angry lump in my throat. That’s my locker. It’s mine now, Kelly responded without turning around. Why, I asked, though I knew why. Because you’re a fucking loser Sophie. Get on the floor. I crawled on my knees in the dark space between Kelly’s legs.
After school I picked the stubble from my dad’s razor, stared myself down in the mirror and slash my left arm until strands of flesh caught in the razor’s teeth like steak, my face contorted in a silent scream. You’re a fucking loser Sophie. I got into bed in my dirty school uniform between dirty sheets on a mattress on the floor surrounded by two piles of my worldly belongings and listened to Joni Mitchell on my walkman. Only a dark cocoon until I get my gorgeous wings and fly away. Only a phase.
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