The Reckoning by Mickayla Jones

The Reckoning by Mickayla Jones

A gust of frigid wind slaps Sam’s face and she winces in pain. Her hand instinctively reaches towards her face, but she demands it fall back at her side. She can’t risk smearing the heavy globs of foundation coating every inch of her face. She averts her gaze back to the bottom left corner of the expansive brick wall of her middle school and loses herself in the repetition and predictability of counting brick by brick. By the time she reaches brick number one hundred and twelve, she no longer feels the cold or the ache that is deep in her bones. Just as Sam moves her eyes towards the next brick in line, the bell signaling the beginning of passing period surrounds her from every direction and she flinches as if gunshots fill the air.

At the sight of her history teacher holding a door open, Sam tugs the zipped collar of her jacket as high as it can go. She raises her shoulders and drops her chin so that it’s nestled just barely within the worn fleece. Mr. Johnson has dark, heavy bags beneath his eyes and a glazed look that suggests he’s looking through the students rather than at them. Sam could be painted Pepto Bismol pink from head to toe and he wouldn’t look twice. Regardless, for good measure, Sam offers a “hello” and a forced smile. She figures Mr. Johnson could use it as much as she does.

The halls are lined with rowdy preteens slapping each other in the back of the head and playing leapfrog. Their mere presence reminds Sam that she is not one of them. She feels older, and not because she has an August birthday. She weaves in and out of hordes of kids, trying not to respond to the twinge of pain accompanying each step. She knows she is nothing more than a ghost haunting the halls unnoticed.

With five minutes left until the bell, Sam enters the girl’s restroom. She bends over to check for feet in the stalls and when she motions to return upright, it feels like her ribs are trying to stab their way out of her. Her hands hold her up against the cool porcelain of the sink. Beneath the layers of makeup that doesn’t quite match her pale skin tone, she notices the bruising is deeper, more pronounced than when she blindly caked on the foundation. Sam drags the zipper of her jacket down slowly and observes the deep purple covering the entirety of her neck.

She inches her shirt up above her ribs. The contours of her ribs are red and swollen, accentuated with a black bruising that hurts to look at. Sam pokes at her inner thighs, the pain confirming what she already knows. With a minute until the bell, a trio of seventh graders stride into the bathroom. Before Sam has time to react, the leader of the trio, Jaimie, shoots Sam a look of reproach. Sam immediately burrows back into her jacket, her head hanging. She thinks that Jaimie must have noticed and her stomach twists and turns at the thought of her peers knowing and more importantly, not caring. Sam listens to their whispers from the handicap stall, working to make out their topic of conversation, but the tardy bell rings before she comprehends their muffled words.

Ms. Lester stands outside of her classroom door, a forced smile spread across her aging face. Her dim eyes don’t crinkle at the corners the way they’re supposed to when someone smiles. Sam keeps her head down, shoulders raised, chin tucked while Ms. Lester’s smile diminishes altogether. Sam nearly dives into her assigned seat, then tugs a library book from her backpack. She relishes in the momentary peace found between inked lines and feels that she is finally doing something right.

Throughout class, Sam can feel Ms. Lester’s gaze drifting towards her every few minutes. Sam remains working diligently as she always does while the class erupts in shouting and laughter. She peaks over her shoulder and sees Ms. Lester staring intently off in the distance, her thoughtful gaze only interrupted when she cracks her neck, what Sam assumes to be her nervous tic.

The period comes to a close and Sam sighs in relief and smiles down at the inferences she wrote in response to today’s short story. Minutes before the bell is due to ring, the intercom dings twice and a woman’s voice booms from the speaker, announcing, “Sam Hanson. Please report to the office.”

Sam’s eyes. She doesn’t move an inch, even with the class staring at her. Ms. Lester walks up from behind and gently rests her hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam flinches and falls out of her chair. She can’t help but clutch her side with a grimace. Ms. Lester holds her hands up and backs away. Sam rises, though not easily, and Ms. Lester motions her to the door as she says, “Hey, Sam. It’s okay. I’m sure you aren’t in trouble or anything. The bell is about to ring. How about we walk down to the office together?” She offers a real smile this time.

Sam takes slow steps in Ms. Lester’s direction and looks up, her eyes glossy with unfallen tears, her bottom lip pierced between her teeth. They exit the classroom and walk down the empty halls. Sam works to remain collected, but she can’t help but draw in shallow, gasping breaths. As they near the office, Ms. Lester stops and turns towards Sam. “It’s okay. You have nothing to be afraid of. I’ll stay with you through this if you want me to. I’m sorry.”

Sam hesitates; unspoken words catch in her throat. Finally, she chokes out, “Sit with me through what? Why are you sorry?”

Ms. Lester drops her head. Nods. All she can get out is, “I’m sorry. I had my suspicions, but there was only so much I could do. Until today.”

Ms. Lester leads the way, stealing glances back at Sam every few steps, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed. Sam follows, her legs propelling her forward against her will. Just beyond the interior office door, two women stand behind the secretary’s desk. When they turn, catching sight of Sam, the school counselor Ms. Daisy gasps, then immediately apologizes. The other woman offers a knowing nod without looking away. The woman’s jaw shifts left to right.

Ms. Daisy and the unfamiliar woman usher Sam towards a private conference room crammed with folding chairs and a splintering table. The guidance counselor reaches to place a hand on Sam, and act of gentle guidance, but the other woman bats it away and shakes her head. They seem to be having a full conversation with only their eyes. They enter the conference room, closing the door behind them before Ms. Lester has a chance to enter. Ms. Lester stands just beyond the glass window. Sam looks over her shoulder and watches Ms. Lester rest her forehead against the window frame for a moment before turning away.

Ms. Daisy begins with, “Have a seat wherever you’re comfortable kiddo.”

Sam rolls her eyes the moment the word “kiddo” leaves Ms. Daisy’s mouth. She reaches for the chair closest to the exit. The woman pulls out a legal pad and a pen without breaking eye contact and says, “Hi, Sam. My name is Jane and I’m just here to talk to you a bit and get a feel for what’s going on. I’m a social worker and my job is to keep kids safe.”

Sam picks a scratch on the wood table and focuses on it, rubbing her thumb against the impression. She makes a concerted effort to not offer Jane even a hint of recognition. They sit in silence until Jane continues. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here talking to you today. When you came into school today, some adults in your life-”

“Ms. Lester?”

“-Are concerned for your safety. Do you know why that might be?”

Sam doesn’t look up or respond. They sit in silence for some time and Sam only responds when she realizes she has no escape plan. In a flat, monotone voice, Sam responds, “Well I guess I might look hurt. But I’m not. I’m fine.”

Jane nods and watches, then says, “Right. I’m just going to make an observation here and you can help me connect the dots some. When you walked into the office, I could see the bruises on your face beneath all that make up. I also see that your jacket is zipped all the way up. The way you walked might have suggested you are in some pain.”

“I feel just fine, really. If you read my inferences from class, you’d know I’m okay. It was my best work.”

Jane shifts in her seat. She places her hands palm down on the table, leans in slightly, and says, “Okay. Fair enough. Maybe you do feel fine and I’m sure you wrote some wonderful inferences for Ms. Lester today. Do you want to talk about what you wrote for your assignment?”

Sam’s eyes light up and she sits up straight before saying, “Ms. Lester asked us to read ‘All Summer In a Day” by Ray Bradbury. I wrote about how when the kids opened the closet and saw Margot, they knew they did something really bad and that’s why they didn’t say anything. They just looked at her and didn’t say a word.”

Jane nods and smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She responds, “That’s really insightful, Sam. Everyone says you are a really smart kid. So maybe let’s think about us right now compared to the short story. We are the ones who can see that something bad has happened, but the difference is that we are talking about it, which is a good thing. You look hurt and we have to talk about it. Can you explain where all those bruises came from?”

A glimmer of recognition sparkles in Sam’s eyes until she thinks better of it. They sit in silence for a period of time while Sam racks her brain for the most reasonable explanation. Finally, she says, “I play basketball. A lot of the girls are much bigger than me, so I get knocked around some. Happens all the time.”

Ms. Daisy motions to speak and Jane says, “Well, Sam. I’m not calling you a liar, but I know that you didn’t try out for the team this year. And you haven’t been at school much.”

Silence.

Jane shakes her head and hesitates before she says, “Okay. We will come back to that. What we have to do now is take off your jacket. You can keep your school shirt on that’s under your jacket. I also have some alcohol wipes here. All we will do is zip your jacket, pull it off, then rub these alcohol swabs on the parts of your face and neck that have make up.”

Tears well in Sam’s eyes, so she stares up at the ceiling and blinks them away, hoping they don’t notice. She remains fixed while Jane unzips her jacket. Both pause when they see the extent of the bruising on her neck. Sam loses herself in the etching on the table while cold alcohol swabs rub against her face. Without the makeup, without the collared jacket, the two women stare at her, stunned. Forehead to collar bone, blue and purple are spread across her skin and the swelling around her brow and cheekbones are more pronounced. Sam can’t help but feel exposed and a tear falls without her consent.

The women sit down again. Jane begins, “Sam. This didn’t happen on a basketball court. I know you haven’t been to school much lately, but your teachers say you’re a stellar student. Help me understand what’s going on. I can help you. I can keep you safe. Maybe tell me why you chose to come to school today even though you’re clearly hurt? Think about it like an assignment for class. We just want the true answer.”

Automatically she responds, “I had to get out-” then stops herself. She shakes her head with increasing rapidity. Jane asks her to take a deep breath and says, “It’s okay. I’m going to ask you a series of questions and I need you to be honest with me so I can help you.”

Sam offers a nearly imperceptible nod. Jane continues, “Have you ever seen your parents use substances?”

Sam can smell burnt rubber and acetone. She can see a used needle on the kitchen floor. And she answers no. Jane writes something down and covers it with her hand.

Jane proceeds. “Has anyone ever hit you? Kicked you? Pushed you too hard?”

Sam can hear her father’s words as they circle her mind, repeating, “You were asking for it. You deserve this,” and she believes him.

“Never. Not once.”

Ms. Daisy can’t help but interject. “How could this happen then?”

Jane pats Ms. Daisy’s shoulder and shakes her head. “Has anyone ever touched you inappropriately? Have you ever been forced to do something you didn’t want to do?”

Sam can feel the cold cement against her skin and can see the cracked ceiling stretching above her like a road map she travels along. She shakes her head in response.

Jane looks down. “Sam, we know what’s happening.”

The words pour from Sam’s mouth with increasing rapidity. “It’s my fault, I’m sure of it. If you have to suspend me or assign me lunch detention, that’s okay.”

Jane meets Sam’s gaze. Despite the knowledge that she is finally seen, she defends and denies, the script rolling through her mind. She knows this is the life she is made for, that she’s far beyond saving.

In a shaking whisper, Jane responds, “This isn’t your fault, hon. You can take me to the bank on that. I hope you can believe that one day.”

Jane straightens her blazer and turns away while she dots the corners of her eyes with a tissue. She turns back to Sam and fixes her gaze once again. Sam holds Jane’s eye contact for the first time since they met. Jane’s voice steadies while she says, “I’m going to ask you to trust me. We are going to the hospital to get you some help, and you won’t be going home tonight, and maybe not for a while.” A lump catches in Sam’s throat. She struggles to breathe, and she collapses in gasping sobs. She doesn’t know what she fears more: the unknown of never returning, or the terror of going back.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Mickayla Jones 2025

Image Courtesy: bobgudbran from Pixabay