The Dark World

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I PEELED AWAY the cheap, greenish-gray paint on the wall of the third-floor girls’ bathroom. Underneath the dull paint, the wall was a bright robin’s-egg-blue. I’d started picking at the chipping paint in September, in the beginning of junior year, with the intention of peeling it all away and returning the wall to its original cheery color. Instead, I’d just made a mess.

Story of my life.

“Paige, are you sure you won’t get in trouble for ditching class?” my best friend, Dottie, asked. She stood awkwardly in front of the muddy-brown-painted bathroom stalls—really, whoever picked the colors for this bathroom was in dire need of a hug or some therapy—and nervously pulled the sleeves of her baby-blue cardigan sweater over the heels of her hands.

“Don’t stress it, Dots. It’s fine,” I reassured her as I peeled a satisfyingly large piece of paint off the wall. I tossed it in the wastepaper basket and brushed the chips off my hands. “It’s just study hall on the last day of midterms. Tomorrow’s Friday. I could flip off Vice Principal Miller and still avoid detention.”

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