Earning Her Stripes
Part Eight: Learning Process
[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
Taylor woke up to a headache, and something covering her face. Flailing at the
thing, trying to get free, she sat up with a rush, drawing in air for the scream building inside her. Instead, she heard a shriek that
hadn't come from her own throat, which was enough to bring her up short. Pausing, she blinked to try to focus.
She wasn't in the locker anymore. Instead, she was half-sitting, half-crouching on the examination bed in the Winslow infirmary, having clawed an oxygen mask off her face. Across the room, pressed back against a cabinet, was the school nurse. The nurse was holding a clipboard and one of those thermometers that go in the ear.
"Uh …" said Taylor.
"You're awake," said the nurse, panting. Her name was Frances; she actually had been a nurse at some point, but she was in her sixties and unable to handle some of the heavier duties, so she was now working at Winslow. Or that was what Taylor had heard. (She'd
also heard rumours to the effect that the woman had a drug problem, but she was fully aware of how vindictive kids could get, so she took that one with a large grain of salt). "Please don't do that to me again. My heart can't take it."
Taylor pulled the oxygen mask all the way off, and breathed deeply, trying to get her racing heart under control. "Sorry, I guess. I didn't mean to." The headache was starting to fade now.
"That's okay." Frances stepped forward again, holding up the thermometer. "I just need to take your temperature."
Taylor submitted to the minor discomfort, then dropped her feet off the side of the bed and just sat there, bracing herself with her hands on her knees. Too many things were whirling around in her head to try to fix on any one of them, until the memory of the cold glass and the foul liquid came past, and she snagged onto it. "Poison," she said out loud.
Frances looked up from where she was writing on the clipboard. "Pardon?"
"Before they pushed me into the locker, they made me drink something. I think it might have been poison, or a laxative, or something." She gestured at herself. "Can you do some tests or something?"
"Uh …" This clearly wasn't something Frances was prepared for. "Are you sure? When you came in here, you were exhibiting all the signs of asphyxia, though without any indications of strangulation. We figured you'd accidentally covered the vent-holes in your locker with your back and hyperventilated until you passed out."
Taylor frowned. That didn't sound like what she remembered happening, at all.
Unless I hallucinated or something. Well, they did force-feed me that stuff. Maybe it was meant to make me go loopy. "I … I don't know. Did anyone see who did it?"
Frances shook her head as she took Taylor's wrist and expertly counted off her pulse. After the minute had passed by, she had Taylor look into a penlight; first one eye, then the other. "No, dear. Nobody knew anything about it, until a bunch of passing superheroes heard you screaming from out on the street. One of them was a Tinker with high-powered microphones in his battle armour, apparently. They came in and the Tinker tore apart the locker you were in. Then they handed you over to us and left again."
On the one hand, Taylor was pleased to have been rescued; on the other, it was a sad indictment on the school that she'd needed
superheroes to save her from her own locker. "So, have the police been called?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Say
ahhh."
"Ahhh," said Taylor obediently, allowing Frances to depress her tongue and shine the light into the back of her throat. She waited until the nurse took the depressor out of her mouth before she kept talking. "Why not? I was assaulted! They poured something down my throat! They locked me in my locker!" She felt tears starting to rise in her eyes. Didn't anyone
care?
Frances made another note on the clipboard. "Taylor—can I call you Taylor? —it's not my job to call the police with matters like this. That's the principal's call. As far as I can tell, you're in the pink of health, literally. Your colour's come all the way back, your pupillary reflex is normal, your pulse, respiration and blood pressure are all normal, there's no discolouration in your throat, and you're not even bruised from being in the locker. I'm simply not equipped to do any more tests, and every test I
have done says you're fine. Now, I suppose I could refer you on to a hospital for blood tests and the like, but your parents would have to pay for those out of their own pocket."
"That's not right," Taylor said. "Is it? I was attacked right here on school grounds. Aren't you guys responsible for things like that?"
"I … that's not my job to say," Frances hedged. "You'll have to speak to Principal Blackwell about that."
Taylor was hearing a lot of '
not my job', but she supposed that it was basically the truth. The nurse had been told it wasn't her job, so it wasn't. Fortunately, Taylor knew whose job it
was.
"Can I go and do that now?" she asked. "I mean, do you have to keep me in for observation or something?"
"I've
been observing you," Frances said with a hint of a smile. Had that been a medical joke? "You seem fine to me. How's your head?"
Taylor rubbed at her forehead. The headache she'd had when she woke up was almost gone. "It's good. So can I go see Principal Blackwell?"
Frances shrugged. "Well, I can't stop you from leaving, but she asked to be informed when you woke up, so she's probably on the way right now."
"Oh." Well, that made things a lot easier. "Thanks."
"It's really not a problem." This time, the nurse did smile. "It was a welcome change from stitching up stab wounds and telling my patients that the strongest drugs we have on hand are over the counter standard painkillers."
Right. Because Winslow. "Yeah, well, thanks anyway." Taylor slid down off the bed and looked around for her shoes. "Where's my stuff?"
Frances gestured at the outer door, which indeed had a large notice on it:
WE DO NOT STOCK ANYTHING STRONGER THAN ASPIRIN. Taylor guessed that it was intended to keep out the aspiring drug dealers of Winslow, but wondered if they even bothered to read it. Or if they
could. "Your backpack's in the waiting room. Shoes are right there, by the bed."
"Thanks." As she leaned down to collect her shoes, she looked back at Frances. "Has anyone contacted my dad?"
The nurse put her hands up in a semi-defensive manner. "Oh, ah, that's—"
"Not your job. Got it." Taylor didn't even bother trying to keep the sarcastic tone from her voice, but moderated it when she stood up again. "Thanks for taking care of me."
Frances' smile was weak, but present. "Yes, well. That part is
definitely my job."
Taylor returned the smile—it wasn't the nurse's fault, not really—and headed out into the waiting room. She knew all the hard plastic chairs were equally uncomfortable, so she picked the one next to her waiting backpack and sat down to put her shoes on. Just as she was tying her laces, the outer door opened and Principal Blackwell came in.
"Ah, Ms. Hebert," Blackwell greeted her. If Taylor was any judge, the woman's smile was as fake as a three-dollar bill; the real measure of her thoughts was the razor-sharp stare. "It's good to see you up and around. I do hope you're feeling better."
"Well, yeah. Nurse Frances said I'm totally healthy." Taylor took a deep breath. "But I really think the police should be called. And why
haven't you called my dad?"
"I
did inform your father," Blackwell replied in a condescending tone. "Once we realised he didn't have a cell-phone number, we had to find his work number. That took time."
Everyone should have a cell-phone, her tone seemed to state.
Why doesn't he?
"… oh." Taylor felt her initial outrage start to deflate. "And the police? Why haven't they been called?"
"Because there's nothing for them to
do here." The principal stated it as a given fact. "Your locker was destroyed, but that was done by the superhero who freed you from it. Incidentally, did you know it wasn't even locked?"
Taylor blinked. "I … what?"
It was locked! I know it was! "I … heard the lock click."
"Yes, but not on the door." Blackwell took a familiar-looking combination lock out of her pocket and handed it to Taylor. "We found this on the floor, entirely separate from the hasp. If you'd jiggled the door enough, it would've popped open. Ms. Hebert … you weren't even locked
in."
"But … but …" Taylor took the lock and applied the correct combination. It popped open. Numbly, she scrambled the numbers, tugged at the shackle, then keyed in the combination again. Once more, it opened perfectly. "I heard it click."
Blackwell's tone was relentless. "Nevertheless, unless you've been sharing your combination around—which, by the way, is
against school policy—that lock was never used to secure your locker. When Blockade tore it apart, and the two on either side, as well as some of the wall behind, the damage could've been easily avoided by simply popping the latch off." She sighed theatrically. "And there's no point in calling the police about the property damage, because that was done in the name of saving you. Do you understand?"
Finding herself severely on the back foot, Taylor grasped for her last straw. "Whoever shoved me in there poured something down my throat! That's assault or something, isn't it? If they tried to poison me or drug me or something, that's illegal."
"Yes …
if it happened." Blackwell tried to raise an eyebrow, and ended up half-raising the other as well.
"If? What do you mean, 'if'?" Taylor felt herself becoming outraged all over again. "It
happened! They put a bag over my head and held my arms! I couldn't stop them!"
"Ms. Hebert." Blackwell sighed. "We've already established that you weren't aware enough to know your locker wasn't secured. You wouldn't be out here if Nurse Frances thought you were under the influence of anything. So, whatever it is has already passed through your system. Which makes me wonder …" She leaned forward and eyed Taylor intently. "Did you take something before you came here? Is that why you were late?"
Taylor grasped the sides of the chair, fighting for self-control. She knew damn well that shouting in Blackwell's face would do her zero good whatsoever, and probably screw over her chances of getting any kind of justice. But this was typical of what she'd been facing over the past twelve months and more.
In a kind of epiphany, she realised that Blackwell specifically didn't want the police involved because it would make it a lot more difficult to sweep things under the carpet, which was why the woman was pushing so hard against the idea.
"I don't do drugs, and you know it," she said, her fingertips mashing against the plastic.
"But I
don't know it." If Taylor hadn't known better, Blackwell's tone could've passed for concern. "You came here with such good grades, but they slipped badly over the last year. I've seen this pattern before, you know, and it's nearly always drugs. People talk, Ms. Hebert, and I must say that I've heard some very troubling rumours about how you're getting high with the other problem students, and how you're paying for it."
Taylor gritted her teeth. "But that's
just not true," she insisted. "Those stories are all lies, made up to discredit me so when I complain about the bullying—"
"Really,
this again?" Blackwell didn't quite roll her eyes, but from the tone of her voice she may as well have. "Seriously, how long do you expect me to believe a bunch of
teenage girls is going to keep bullying you for? Some of them don't keep the same
hairstyle from week to week. I suspected it was a ploy for attention then, and now I'm certain of it." She shook her head. "No, I personally think there were no other students involved. Just some kind of illicit substance that you took before you even arrived. Befuddled, you stumbled into your own locker and the door swung shut on you. In your disorientation, you panicked and screamed for help, whereupon a superhero tore the locker open to let you out." She folded her arms and gave Taylor a superior smile.
I'm on to you, it seemed to say. "I'm wondering if I shouldn't charge
you for the damage."
Taylor seethed at the sheer
injustice of Blackwell's accusations. None of what the principal was alleging was true, but every time she tried to correct matters, Blackwell utterly discounted her words or twisted them to suit her own narrative. It was infuriating, to say the least. Her hands tightened on the chair.
With a sudden
crack-crack, two pieces of plastic broke off in her hands, one on either side of the chair. She stared at them, irregular dull-orange shapes sitting in her palms.
Just how long have these chairs been sitting here, for them to get that brittle?
Blackwell frowned at her. "
Really? Ms. Hebert, you can't be satisfied with falling into your own locker? Now you have to resort to breaking
more school property? Or are you going to claim that you didn't do that
right in front of me?"
Shocked out of her anger, Taylor stared up at Principal Blackwell. "No, I—I did this, but how—"
"No. No more." Blackwell shook her head imperiously. "On your feet. When your father gets here, you're going home. You've just been suspended for a week. Maybe in that time, you can consider ways to get your life back on track. Do you understand?"
Silently, Taylor stood up. She dropped the two plastic shards back on the chair and picked up her backpack.
"Well?" Blackwell put her hands on her skinny hips. "I'm waiting for an answer, young lady."
"Why?" Taylor dredged up one last bit of defiance. "It's not like you've actually been listening to anything I've got to say." She pushed past Blackwell and headed for the door.
"Ms. Hebert!"
Taylor ignored the outraged shout.
"Ms. Hebert!
Come back here!"
Slowly, she stopped and turned around. "I'm on suspension. Make up your
fucking mind."
Blackwell looked like nothing so much as an outraged goth flamingo as she caught up with Taylor, complete with the flapping and squawking. "You are coming to the office
right now to wait for your father."
"No." Taylor put her backpack over her shoulder. "I'm going to wait on the front steps." She turned away from Blackwell and started out of the school.
"Ms. Hebert! I said you will wait in the office, and you will wait
in the office!" A hand clamped onto Taylor's shoulder.
At this point, she would normally have given up and let the annoying adult have her way. Blackwell, it seemed, was well into her little power trip, and would not give up until she'd made certain Taylor knew who was boss. And it would cost her little, except what remained of her pride, to go back to the office and sit on one of the uncomfortable chairs under the beady eye of Blackwell's secretary until her dad got there.
Normally, she would've caved.
Normally, she didn't do conflict.
This was not a normal day.
Fuck it, some tiny part of her mind decided, and the rest of her couldn't be bothered arguing.
Let's make the cow work for it. If she wants me back in the office, she's going to have to drag me.
So, she kept trudging along, doing her best to ignore Blackwell's hand on her shoulder. The principal's nails dug in, but stopped just before they got painful. Taylor kept on walking.
"Stop!" Blackwell's voice was a high-pitched shriek.
Taylor kept walking.
A sudden drag on the backpack she had slung over the other shoulder made her aware that Blackwell had latched onto that as well. Taylor's care factor was in the negative numbers already, fast-tracking toward values that could only be expressed using scientific notation. She kept walking.
"Ms. Hebert!"
It wasn't the principal's voice that got Taylor's attention, or even the tone of her voice, but the squeaking, squealing sound that overlaid it. Looking down and back, she saw that Principal Blackwell was being dragged bodily along, despite having her shoes braced against the vinyl flooring. Already, classroom doors were popping open and heads were peering out.
Not my problem.
Taylor kept walking. It appeared Blackwell was even skinnier than she appeared; towing her down the corridor was no great effort.
Abruptly, Blackwell appeared to decide that a strategic retreat now was better than any further humiliation, so she let go and stepped back. Taylor didn't care; she kept walking.
"
Two weeks of suspension!" shouted Blackwell down the corridor. Without looking around, Taylor gave her the finger with both hands at once.
She reached the doors and opened them, and stepped outside into the sunny November morning. It was nice out here; much nicer than inside, that was for sure.
Maybe this suspension crap will actually turn out to be a blessing in disguise. This way, I get two weeks away from them. Two weeks away from that utter shithole.
A familiar car rolled into the parking lot, and Taylor shaded her eyes. Apprehension clenched at her guts just a little as she verified that yes, her father had arrived. Worse, he'd be looking for her as 'locker prank victim' and Blackwell was going to hit him with whatever bullshit story she'd concocted in the meantime. That Blackwell would lie her scrawny ass off to make Taylor look bad was no longer in doubt.
Danny parked the car and came over toward her, long-legged strides eating up the ground. Behind his glasses, his eyes were worried, and his mouth was set in a serious line. "Taylor!" he called. "Are you alright? What are you doing out here?"
She took a deep breath. "I'm out here because Principal Blackwell doesn't want any shit sticking to her precious school, so she's determined to blame me for being shoved into my own locker."
He was halfway up the stairs when the full import of her words registered on him. His foot paused halfway between one step and the next as he stared at her. "… say that again?"
Well, at least I've got his attention. Now let's see if I can keep it. She ran through what she recalled of events, finishing up with how Blackwell had basically accused her of doing drugs and refused to call the police over the incident. The part where she'd broken the bits off the chair didn't seem relevant right then—Winslow stuff was shitty, everyone knew that—so she didn't mention it.
"Drugs?" He shook his head at the end of it. "That's ridiculous. I
know what drug use looks like—we used to get a few users, back before we tightened the regulations—and you don't show any of the signs."
"Try telling
her that," Taylor suggested. "Though don't expect it to make even a little bit of difference. She'd decided what had happened before she even came to see me. According to her, I tripped and fell into my own locker, and didn't realise it wasn't locked." She rolled her eyes. "
And pressed hard enough against the door to block the vents so that I used up all my air and passed out."
He grimaced. "And these superheroes that got you out, they didn't hang around long enough for you to talk to them and maybe find out if they saw who did this?"
"No." She shook her head. "Principal Blackwell said it was some guy called Blockade who tore the locker open with his power armour. But they were long gone when I woke up."
"Blockade … yeah, I've heard that name." Danny frowned. "I think he's part of a new three-member team that's just hitting the news. They call themselves The Real Thing. The other two members are Firebird and Shadow Stalker. They're the ones who took down the Merchants for good."
"Oh, yeah, I heard about that." Taylor hadn't realised it wasn't one of the established teams who'd done that. "I'm just glad they were there. Because no matter what Blackwell says, I
was locked in my locker."
"Which reminds me." Danny looked at her with concern. "You say they forced you to drink something weird, and nobody did anything about it afterward?"
"Fetid is more like it," Taylor said with a theatrical shudder. "Think of rancid milk, month-old gym socks, rotting meat, and fresh dogshit from a really sick dog. Blend that all together into a liquid, and it still won't be one-tenth of what that stuff tasted like. And no, Blackwell decided it never happened."
"Okay, I can talk to her tomorrow," he decided. "Get in the car. I'm taking you to get checked out, right now."
"But I feel fine, and stuff like that's
expensive."
"Don't care. Get in the car."
She got in the car.
<><>
Somewhat Later
Taylor restrained her impulse to rub her wrist where the Band-Aid covered the blood-draw site. "See, Dad? I
told you I felt fine."
He shook his head as they walked back toward the car. "I once knew a guy who was in a worksite accident. Said he felt fine, got up, took two steps, dropped dead. Your body will lie to you if it can get away with it. But yes, it seems you're okay as far as they can see. The blood work will be back in a few days, and we'll know for sure. At least he was able to rule out the most common toxins."
"Could it have been a hallucinogenic? Because I felt really weird before I passed out."
Danny rubbed his thumbnail across his lips. "It's a possibility. But we'll know for sure when we get the blood work back. In the meantime, I want you staying home, close to the phone, so if
anything starts feeling off, you call me, okay?"
She sighed. "Okay, fine."
This was going to be boring as
crap.
End of Part Eight
