Humanizing
Winter had returned in full force, bringing frost covered window panes, leafless trees, and the oh-so famous pumpkin spice lattes with it. At Nightingale Bamford, where the girls in their short uniform skirts with no one in particular to impress huddled around with friends whispering about the latest dating scandals, there wasn’t much out of the ordinary. The one thing that wasn’t so ordinary was the gunman aiming his rifle at some terrified seventh graders. This is where our story begins. I was fortunately spared any bullets finding a home in my flesh. I was not, however, spared the atrocity that was my company in the restroom where I’d sought refuge.
Firstly, there was the head of the school’s nonprofit charitable organization, Alessandra, who had determined to use the other girls as body shields. As the gunshots resonated in the halls above us, Alessandra made it her priority to fix the red headband and blazer, which she later informed us was Armani, after she threatened to have her daddy murder anyone who stained them with blood. With her fixed plastic smile and influence over the teachers, she was probably the most powerful student ever to walk Nightingale Bamford’s halls. Sandy, as she insisted on being called because it “humanized her,” had gotten into every Ivy and was never shy about informing her peers of this fact.
Then, there was Rebecca with her large, gilded cross splitting the difference between her two synthetic breasts. She was holding her vape as delicately as she could between two trembling red-stained lips. Becca had come into the bathroom to Facetime her college boyfriend and was in a state of undress when the bullets began to fly. Yet, despite trembling lips and gilded cross, she made no attempt to cover up her exposed push-up bra. She looked all of 14.
On the other hand, Emmeline illustrated why girls’ chests are likened to shelves. Ever since fourth grade when high school boys began asking for her number, she walked with hunched shoulders, studying the ground. If it weren’t for the social singularity that oozed unctuously from her every pore and made everyone she touched felt anointed, her nicer peers thought she would have been a very attractive, maybe even a beautiful girl. So, during the lunch hour while she sat by herself inconspicuously in the corner, her peers analyzed what might flatter her face, hair, and frame and virtually made her over. They thought of it as akin to charity work, though they would not deign to come in direct contact with her.
Finally there was Piper who left a trail of burning sage in her wake. Nightingale Bamford’s uniform be damned, Piper was getting her Coachella rave on. Her Burning Man trips tattooed into her skin, she was in the corner doing an interpretive dance to her muse’s private inspiration. Piper looked very self-satisfied when she finally sat down glassy-eyed, her symmetrical piercings giggling through her sheer white polo.
As if oblivious to the danger that threatened from outside, Becca stared jealously at Emmeline’s generous endowments while crossing her arms tightly just beneath her sudden cleavage. “My auntie says that it’s never good to run away from your fate, maybe we’re meant to die this way.
To prevent the underhanded comment towards Emmeline about to spill from Becca’s lips, Sandy stepped up as she should to share the object of her aesthetic pleasures: currency but not of the electric kind.
“As you know, everyone, I am the head of the school’s charity, and I must tell you, my skills at garnering donations are unparalleled by anyone at the school. At the open house last month I raised over $50,000 in one night. The school has never seen a success like me.”
“Soulless vampire,” Becca muttered under her breath.
“Open your mouth wide open, why don’t you? I’m sure all the boys will love it, or are they already bored of the sight?” Sandy retorted.
“At least I won’t die a sad virgin like you,” Becca spoke truth.
“At least no one will reject the idea of me at the charity kissing booth for fear of herpes,” Sandy did not speak slanderously.
“Guys, blunt much? Here, here’s a blunt. Pass it around instead,” sighed a zen-like Piper as she pulled one out of her bra.
“Seriously? Now? Hello, there’s a gunman on the loose and you want us to get stoned?” exclaimed Sandy.
“As if I, the All-School President, the Chairwoman of the Nightingale’s Ladies with the Lamp, valedictori…” she stopped abruptly as another gunshot rang out.
“Screw it! I could die any moment,” she reconsidered. “Give it here!”
“I just hope my baby sister’s okay,” Sandy blurted between coughs from the smoke.
“When I was younger, I adored her because she’d follow me around and be my little slave. She said all she wanted was to be like me. When she was four, she didn’t quite understand the meaning of currency, so she agreed to work as my secretary for a penny a year. And every year I’d make sure I’d find her the shiniest new penny, even if it took me all night to polish it. One night she caught me polishing one after I told her that the pennies grew on the rarest tree on Earth, near Santa Claus. She cried for months afterwards. Well, it might’ve been because I also told her that Santa was a lie, but she told me never to stay up late for her. Isn’t that sweet? She didn’t want me to lose sleep on account of her. And would you believe it, she continued on as my secretary? She’s technically still my secretary after all these years. I hope she’s okay.”