own private cocoon of unimaginable pain. It was the worst she had ever felt.
Up until then.
Instinctively, she covered her face, being careful not to touch her nose. She felt blood dripping down off her chin, staining her white jersey in bright red blotches.
“Abby? Abby, are you all right?” Her teacher spoke in a calm tone, like she had seen this before, giving Abby the reassurance she needed that she would be all right.
She tried to regulate her breathing, but her staggered breaths seemed to take an eternity to get under control. Someone brought her tissues. She held them under her nose, forcing her head up to keep from choking.
“Abby?” the teacher said again as she sat up.
“I—” She interrupted herself to listen to her body. She’d fallen once while trying to learn skateboarding. Another time she felt dizzy after a ride her mom took her on at Canada’s Wonderland. But nothing like this. She’d never given any thought to how fortunate she was to have been free of injuries this long. But now that it was here, it was hard to remember what it was like not to be hurting.
“I never saw it coming,” Abby said.
“It’s all right, Abby. Just take your time.”
“One second I’m fine, and the next she’s like right in my face.”
“Abby, you okay?” the defender asked. Abby nodded. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Abby replied in a muffled voice, her nose stuffed full. She breathed in and out through her mouth in slow, measured breaths. When her head began to clear she saw the extent of the red staining on her shirt. All that blood caused her to feel woozy and nauseous. The teacher helped her to her feet. Abby heard the faint sound of applause and a cheer from her teammates behind her.
Sitting down on the bench, Abby watched as the game restarted. It felt surreal. As if she were looking through a pane of glass at a world she could no longer access. Strange to be so close and yet so impossibly far away.
She stuffed increasing amounts of tissue under her nose until the teacher blew the final whistle. She stood up, the ground felt firm beneath her, and she nodded to her teacher when asked how she felt. The class walked back to the school building. Abby was last.
She walked alone.
Using a wetted paper towel, Abby cleaned up her face in the girls’ washroom. She looked at a reflection of herself in the mirror.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” her friend Kedisha said.
“Yeah, not until it turns colours,” Abby replied.
They both laughed. Abby tilted her head slightly from side to side. Looked at the soft light blues of her eyes, then the whites around them to see if there was any damage. She tried to take a short breath in through her nose, felt the sting of what would surely become a bruise, exhaled, then threw the paper towel in the garbage.
“You should try hockey next,” Kedisha said. “It might be easier on your body.” She gave Abby a playful jab in the shoulder. “See ya. Gotta head off to chem lab.”
“Have fun.”
Abby looked back in the mirror as Kedisha walked out the door.
Abby spun her combination and opened her locker. She reached in for her brown paper bag lunch. The moment her fingers made contact she was reminded of the argument she and her mother had that morning as Abby took her lunch bag from the kitchen counter. It was a silly argument—as arguments sometimes seem after you’ve had time to reflect on them and you realize there was nothing to get upset about.
The cafeteria proved to be every bit as loud and full as always. And, as always, Abby felt a sting of nervousness inside her, wondering who she’d be able to sit with. Towards the back she saw a group of classmates sitting together. She tried to convince herself that they were friends. Wanted to believe they were friends. But when you don’t have the solid confidence that people have your back, when you feel you need a bit of a performance to get them to take interest, you begin to wonder if you have what it takes to be accepted by them.
She forced herself to walk towards them, hoping this would not get awkward, and passed a younger girl with fire-red hair walking the other way. She sat down and said hello.
“How’s your nose?” the girl who accidentally smashed into her asked.
“I’m still alive.”
That drew a chuckle from the group. Success.
“I’m really sorry,” the girl repeated.
Abby shrugged it off. “It’s not your fault. Besides, there could be a lot worse things in life, right?”
The discussion shifted to an upcoming concert. Abby indicated she liked the punk band, though if the group could have seen into her heart they would have realized she hated that group. She smiled, nodded and said the kinds of things people say when they essentially repeat back what they’ve heard and mimic the behaviours, unique words and mannerism of others in an attempt at being accepted by them.
“Hey, you guys want to drive over to the mall?” the girl beside Abby asked. Designer jeans, perfect makeup, flawless skin, easy confidence.
Money.
The group agreed. Then the rich girl realized her mistake. “Sorry, Abby, we only have enough room in the car for—”
“Hey, that’s cool. I have to eat lunch anyways,” Abby said, trying to sound nonchalant but knowing full well she would have rather gone without food for a week if it meant hanging out with them. “Have fun.”
The rest of the group left. Abby touched the bridge of her nose. Yeah, that was going to leave a mark. She opened her brown paper bag, unwrapped her sandwich and felt what it was like to be in loud, crowded room all alone.
As she bit into her turkey sandwich, she thought it strange that her having to sit there by herself came down to a lottery of how many girls were at the table a moment ago and how many seats were in that rich girl’s car.
Abby stepped off the school property onto the sidewalk and immediately felt the relief that came with knowing she could be herself. Why was it so difficult to just walk into school, say what you thought, be accepted by your friends, have an interesting day—without getting your face smashed in—and then come home? Why was this walk always the best part of the day?
She walked the four blocks to her home. Every step took her farther away from the memories of the day, save for the throbbing in her nose. She walked up the driveway of her red-bricked house. She entered the garage code on the keypad and glanced up at the basketball hoop. It had been underused since her dad started the habit of working later and later each evening. For a moment she remembered the fun times they used to have playing ball. When she was young she could barely get the ball up to the basket. Then she grew taller, but he was around less, and that hoop just stood there as a testimony to what was, instead of what should be.
Opening the door she heard her mother call out from the kitchen. “Hi, Abby!”
“Hi, Mom,” Abby replied, forgetting the reason for the argument they had that morning. What had it been about again?
She turned the corner. Saw her mother, Talia. Spunky smile. A true older version of Abby.
“You were right. I was wrong,” Talia said.
“No problem.”
“I’m off to help at the shelter tonight. Have a great time—” She stopped. Stepped into better light. Saw Abby’s nose. Her mouth dropped open. “What happened to you?”
Is it that obvious?
“Soccer.”
“Is it broken?” her mom asked, putting her hand on Abby’s shoulder to get a better look.
“It’s not broken, Mom.”
“It