Notes in Bathroom Stalls

Mrs. Sullivan casts a final, regretful glance at me, but it’s more for her own conscience than my well-being. She could’ve fought for me, and deep down we both know she chose not to. I’m even angrier knowing I was so close to escaping the foster care system, but thanks to her refusal to even defend my character, I’m stuck in another cruel institution for five more years.

The National Development Program of Affluent Minds, bedecked in shining medals of nationally ranked excellency and home to multiple prosperous businessmen. So much sumptuous verbiage for a harsh and demanding dungeon spewing toxicity and hatred. The system might think sending “delinquents” like me into the midst of harmless sheep will reduce the “effects peer pressure has on young minds like mine,” but as usual, they’ve completely misunderstood me. 

The train has sped past the station and is well on its way to this jeweled prison, and part of me contemplates running away. However, I’m already on the government’s list of teens to rectify, and I’d be caught too soon. Defeated, I slump down in my seat and avoid eye contact with the other people in my cabin.

Hours trudge past, and I secretly observe my cabinmates. The longer I note their behaviors, the more I hope I’m not in the same dorm as them. By the end of the trip, Cabinmate A has scratched his head more than a hundred times; B has cried for at least three hours; and C has spent the trip yelling at someone on the phone. 

The train jolts to a halt; wheels screeching against iron rails. The academy reminds me of a forgotten child, all sharp, rough edges draped in a worn shade of dirty gray. It fits right in, however, with the miles of decaying weeds surrounding it. As we approach the long sidewalk leading to the front doors, small chalk drawings come into view. They pose as the happy scribbles of everyday children, but their clean lines and perfect use of hues only evokes a sort of emptiness like seeing an empty cradle. 

A line of tidy young adults greets us. Their features are all natural, most likely the choice of the academy- no dyed hair, no piercings, and no painted nails. They grin as if we’ve been sent from heaven itself, quickly separating to supervise different cabins. A conventionally attractive boy moves toward us. He’s clothed in various designer brands and smells heavily of cologne. The scent invades my nostrils, and nausea overwhelms me. 

He grins at me and teases, “Colorful outfit.” I look down at the layers of clothes I’ve bundled on to save space in my luggage and deadpan, “I’m missing a few shades of blue.” In truth, each garment is a different hand-me-down from a friend and my only way to keep good memories from my childhood. He grins, and runs us through fifty or so different procedures, promising they become “muscle-memory” very quickly. Then, he gives everyone a map and encourages us to explore all the different passageways. 

My group tries sticking together but begin arguing about which route to use, and I slip away quietly. I travel down a dim hallway, shivering from a cold wind that rushes in every now and then. The draft comes from the women’s restroom, and I grin- my sanctuary.

Sneakers squeaking against the grippy, plastic floor, I make my way to the last stall. The floor and toilet are sparkling clean, and I slump to the ground, finding comfort in the vulnerable position. All of a sudden, the mat beneath my foot shifts and I dig up the edge to find a crumpled note. 

It reads, “Dear ■■■■■, you thought no one would find out. The 'physical and mental ideal’ is ■■■■■■■■■■■. You thought you hid it so so well, and no one could read behind that dazzling smile you superglue to your hideous insides. Well I did. Yeah, that’s right- your ‘all beauty no brains’ girlfriend figured you out. I hope you suffer when it all comes to light.”

Blood flakes off from the note, and I bite back a scream. Parts of the note are scribbled out, and dried blood coats the edge of the paper. Whoever wrote this died for it. 

Shaking, I fold it back and slip it under the mat. I make sure the mat is in place and hurry out of the bathroom. I find my group arguing over a new topic and merge in as if I never left. I’ve broken into a cold sweat and the hairs on my arms prick up against the fabric of my innermost sleeve. Our guide appears at the end of the hall and beams upon seeing us. 

“Oh good, you’re all here!” he exclaims. He then leads us out to a courtyard where other groups are already waiting. 

Everyone turns to look at us, and he grimaces, “Sorry, excuse us, we got caught up for a moment.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Chase,” a burly boy calls. 

Chase leads us to an empty spot and instructs us to sit before briskly walking to join the line of students behind an uptight-looking woman glaring down at us. The woman who was interrupted by our entrance resumes her speech, booming, “In this institution, no sign of disrespect will be tolerated. You all have been given the materials of a century’s worth of hard work, and you will use it to become the best. Here, we will not tolerate mediocracy- you are given the tools to succeed, and we expect you to succeed. Take Chase, here,” she pulls our guide to the front, “He’s an outstanding player on Team USA’s water polo team; he is taking a CFO role at a leading biotechnology company in the US and he’s ranked first globally in chess. He’s our sixteenth example of a ‘physical and mental ideal.’”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. ‘Physical and mental ideal’... ‘physical and mental ideal’... I’ve seen those words before on a bloody, crumpled sheet of paper. The woman continues her speech as I fumble in my head for a possible way out. Suddenly, her voice cuts through my thoughts as she declares, “I am Mrs. Goran, and I will not tolerate any lack in proficiency.” Behind her, Chase meets my eyes and smiles encouragingly.

Each cabin leader guides them towards their assigned dorm. Chase is enthusiastically reciting the academy’s history as he bounds down the hall. The boys find their dorm first, leaving me and another girl with Chase to find the girl’s dormitory. The other girl finds her room first and quickly disappears. My heart accelerates, and I’m sure it must be audible, but Chase calmly walks towards the next set of doors. He gestures me over, and I see that he’s found my dorm for me. 

“Thanks,” I force out.

“Oh, you’re welcome. Feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions or complaints,” he winks and I shudder.

“Good night, Keena,” he smiles. I never told him my name.