Bite Me

“ Y ou don’t recognize this college?”

Mr. Jenkins sighs as if I’ve asked him to cross the Mississippi on a paddle board, then puts his hands on his desk. “I don’t know how I could be any clearer, Katarina. This letter you’re describing must be some sort of childish prank. There’s no record of it in the app system and it’s not in the database. It does not exist.”

“I heard you say that the first time, but someone hand delivered it to my house and the way the Jamesons acted, it didn’t seem like it was some random kid.” I cross my arms over my chest, giving him a suspicious look. “Maybe it’s so exclusive that it’s not in your system.”

The guidance counselors at our school, much like the teachers, all wear the same tired look. Public schools post-pandemic are filled with adults who seem like they wish they could be anywhere but here. Most of the good ones left after the online year and now all we have left are unhappy people with few options. It makes finding hope for the future tough sometimes. Jenkins stands and walks around the desk, leaning against it as he looks at me seriously.

“Have you been seeing your therapist regularly? Your file says it’s a requirement and if you’ve neglected it, that could be why you’re refusing to accept the truth. Your sights were set awfully high and there are no responses in your app data, so this could be?—”

I hold my hand up. “Stop. They document my visits in the file; obviously, you didn’t read it before I came in. This letter is not some figment of my imagination, nor is it part of… the trauma.”

“The incident that held you back a year when you were a freshman wasn’t your fault, Katarina. And no one would blame you if you were still?—”

My hands grip the arms of the chair I’m sitting in and I glare at him. Only a man could say something this ridiculous and assume he understands what happened and how I feel. “My name isn’t Katarina. I go by Kat, though whomever entered it in your system put Kit , which is another problem I have to deal with.”

“Listen, Kat .” His body language and tone change immediately and I see a barely controlled rage behind his eyes. Mr. Jenkins hates his job, but he hates being corrected more. No wonder he’s stuck in a failing school that depends on its sports programs to bring in the money. “Students enter their own information into the college admissions application. You cannot continue blaming everyone for your problems.”

Ah, so he read my file. That’s a gem my therapist loves to throw at me.

“My information was pre-filled when I got into the damn thing. The instructions said ‘you may apply now’ and so I did. I assumed that was standard and did as instructed. How is that blaming someone for my error?”

That earns me a baffled expression, and his posture eases slightly. I can tell something I’ve said concerns him, but he shakes his head. “The school you asked about doesn’t exist. I suggest you Google it when you’re at lunch. Now, if that’s all, you need to get back to class, Kat.”

Great. Yet another ‘not my problem’ adult leaving me to my own devices.

“Fine. But I’ll be back.”

“I highly doubt that. Have a nice day, Kat.”

I know a brush off when I hear one.

With that, I gather my things and march out of his office, determined to come back with proof and shove it in his stupid face.

I was wrong.

All day I’ve been surreptitiously searching for this blasted university, and I can’t seem to find a single whisper of it anywhere. It’s times like these where I wish I had actual friends because I might be lucky enough to have one who knew how to do computer hacker-type shit that would help me. But I don’t; I’m not the heroine in some dystopian romance, so random NPGs aren’t popping up to make my quest easier. In truth, various idiots and my teachers made it harder, if that was possible.

My mood is even more sour than when I left Jenkins’ office this morning, so I grab everything I’ll need for homework and slam my locker shut with a low growl. I shouldn’t have expected anything to go right, but for once, I was hoping someone’s ineptitude was greater than mine. Turning on my heel, I stalk out of the hallway and through the front doors of Woodlawn High. I’m sure my frustration and anger are written all over my face, but I can’t be bothered to seem uncaring today. The universe and its bullshit won again.

“Hey, Kat! Find anything out yet?” The voice comes from across the front lawn of the school and I know exactly who it is. That spot is reserved for the jocks and cheerleaders, so my ‘brothers’ are there anytime they don’t have class or practice. I keep walking and ignore Blake, but that only eggs him on. “Looks like the answer is no, guys. My brainy sis still hasn’t gotten word about getting out of this place. Boo hoo.”

Rage courses through me and I ball my fists at my side. I’d love to knock his teeth through the back of his head, but I have neither the skills nor the support to do it and survive. Even if I got my shot in, his crowd would eat me alive and when I got home, our parents would let me have it. I don’t need the stress of their disappointment weighing on me while I’m trying to get through the rest of this year. College might be out of the picture, but I can work in the summer and then split as soon as I have enough saved. Maybe I can even get a job now since my grades don’t fucking matter.

“Aw, did Blake hurt your feelings? What a shame!” Bryce adds.

God, I hope someone knocks them into next week at one of the playoff games this month; they deserve to know how it feels to lose.

The gaggle of admirers laugh like hyenas when I hoist my bag up on my shoulder and walk faster towards the street. I don’t have a car and I hate the bus—the boys have one because they need it for practice and games. Allison and Brett sat me down when they bought it, straining like hell to explain why they did it, but I just nodded and let it go. It wasn’t worth the fight and truthfully, besides the library, I didn’t have anywhere to go. They could have said they couldn’t justify the cost, but they pretended I’d be able to borrow the damn convertible when the boys weren’t using it. Of course, that’s never because they have it out constantly. Their parking spot in the driveway is pristine because it’s almost never used.

Walking keeps me in shape, anyway. It’s good for my heart and overall health, plus the quiet is soothing. No one bothers me once I’m away from the school grounds, so I actually enjoy it more than I’d let on. I don’t want those idiots to suggest it’s unsafe and get our parents to force me to ride the bus to fuck with me. They take a perverse pleasure in making sure that everything I love gets tarnished. I’ve never figured out why, but I’m sure it’s damage from wherever they were before their placement with the Jamesons. Blake and Bryce aren’t complete psychopaths, but they’re narcissists, and my suffering makes them happy.

Yet another reason I don’t bother with dating—who knows what lurks under pretty bows people put on themselves?

Sighing, I trudge down the main drag, considering a stop at the library. Our local branch is small, but cozy, and I can hide out there until right before dinnertime. They might even have more resources where I can try to locate this goddamn Discordia place. That would make me feel better and I’d be able to get my revenge on the asshole counselor. That thought swings my favor towards going, so I hang a right at the corner and make for the one place I used to escape outside of the basement at our house.

I walk past all the small businesses quickly, not bothering to glance at what’s in the windows as I hurry to the almost storybook looking building at the end of the road. The library is in an old converted bank building, but the town toned down the harsh stone and granite by having local artists turn it into a wonderland of color. Murals, storybook characters, and friendly plants turned a cold, impersonal structure into a magical place that delights me every time I see it. I take the steps two at a time and pull open the wooden doors with a sigh of happiness.

Nothing beats that smell, even if it is decay and most people don’t know it.

The desk has a scan station on it, so I wave my key fob to check in. A young librarian with colorful hair and funky glasses gives me a quiet wave, which I return as I head for the back of the building. I want to curl up in the reference section with my tablet and their laptops to do my research and I don’t need any help with working on the equipment. I’ve been here so many times that I’m surprised the fat cushioned armchair in the corner by the window doesn’t have my name sewn onto it.

When I get there, I’m annoyed to find a few other people on the desktops doing whatever old people do on computers. If I had to guess, it’s genealogy shit—that’s the number one thing I hear the librarians help people over sixty with. Being an orphan, I get wanting to find your roots, but I’ve never understood why they want to spend hours poring over shit just to brag about their people who lived in Ireland or Italy. What does that change for them? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. Knowing who my actual parents are wouldn’t change the fact that they abandoned me rather than live up to their responsibilities.

That’s why I’ve never bothered with looking—I know what I’ll find and I have no use for excuses.

Luckily, my chair is open, so I grab the laptop and a mouse from a table, then make a beeline for it. I drop my bag at my feet and pull out everything I need to take notes, intent on ruling out every place this fucking school could be hiding. If I don’t find it then, I’ll know Jenkins was right and I’ve been trolled. But until I rule it all out, I just can’t accept that someone who scared the shit out of my parents and disappeared without a trace was a prankster. None of it makes any sense and I’ll be damned if I give up because it’s hard.

I may not know where my blood comes from, but they aren’t fucking quitters.