My Champagne Problems

27: Veuve Clicquot

'Some days are bad...some are just outright crappie'

I shuffle from one to foot to the other with a mixture of anxiety, anticipation, and intimidation encapsulating me as I stand in Enrique's office awaiting his remarks on my report.

But this being Enrique it's nearly impossible for me to gain any solace from reading his expressions...because he doesn't let any pass past the barrier of impassiveness he has up.

"You can do better," he concludes once he's done scrutinizing the report that took me the entire weekend to write. I just stare at him blankly.

"I want this rewritten," he instructs authoritatively putting down the report on his desk. I bite back my whine of protest.

'There's no point in arguing anyway' I deduce before nodding stiffly in compliance.

"Wesley is dropping you off to school," he informs me in a dismissive tone.  I nod once again, before scrambling out the doors, grabbing my backpack, and heading out.

The drive to school turns out to be evidently tense. Wesley hasn't said a word to me after our exchange in his study the other day, and I haven't made any attempts at initiating conversation either.

He drops me off at the front entrance and I wordlessly exit the car. From my peripheral vision I notice he hasn't left yet, he's waiting from me to enter the building. I inwardly roll my eyes at this blatant mistrust in me.

Just as I enter the building I'm notified on the group chat that Graham, Mercy and Mason are all apart of, that neither of them are coming to school today. Their excuses range from stupid to stupider...in my opinion.

'This day just keeps getting from crappie to crappier'

The rest of the day is agonizingly slow. My eyes somehow always find their way back to my phone screen to watch as the minute's tick by.

Slouching in my seat, I pull at the sleeves of my oversized hoodie--that I may or may not have stolen from Kayden--I bury my head in my hands as the familiar feeling of pain spreads through the muscles of my back...Aunty Flow knocking at my door.

A few factors are holding me back from bursting into tears right now, one being my social anxiety and the other my utter distaste towards calling attention to myself.

I start to muster up the courage to ask Mrs. Helen--my history teacher--permission to use the restroom. I breathe in and they exhale from my mouth, thinking my words through before uttering them.

'Hey, Mrs. Helen can I use the restroom?'

'Mrs. Helen is it cool if I use the restroom?'

'Ma'am, can I be excused, I need to use the restroom?'

I hate how awkward I can make each one of them sound in my head, my social anxiety not helping the fact that I need to voice this in front of the entire class while interrupting her class.

I sigh and breathe in deep again, before sliding a tampon up my hoodie sleeve being as discreet as I can.

'I can do it. It's just one stupid sentence'  I reassure myself, and before I can overthink it again, my hand shoots up in the air calling the lesson to a halt.

All eyes move to me. I gulp. Anxiety floods my veins, as my heart rate accelerates.

"Yes, Ms. Hart?" Mrs. Helen quirks her brow pushing her thick black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"Ma'am..." I clear my throat, gulping down the anxiety that's choking me. "May I use the restroom?" I ask in a fast-paced yet hesitant tone.

She takes me a moment to analyze me, her eyes zeroing on mine. My anxiety grows.