1642734778_punk-57-pdf

The last door closes, and I quickly reach under my skirt and pull out the
inhaler I usually keep hidden there. Holding it to my mouth, I press down
and draw in a hard breath as the spray releases, giving me my medicine.
The bitter chemical, which always reminds me of the Lysol I caught in my
mouth when I was a kid when my mom sprayed it around the house, hits the
back of my throat and drifts down my esophagus. Leaning against the wall,
I press down once more, drawing in more spray, and I close my eyes,
already feeling the weight lifting from my chest.
Breathing in and out, I hear my pulse throb in my ears and feel my
lungs expand wider and wider, the invisible hands that were squeezing
them, slowly releasing.
This one came quick.
Usually it happens while I’m outside or exerting myself. Whenever the
air gets thick, I excuse myself to the restroom and do what I need to do. I
hate when it happens all of sudden like this. Too many people around, even
in the bathrooms. Now I’m late for class.
Slipping the inhaler up under the hem of my spandex shorts again, I
take in a welcome deep breath and release it, readjusting the books in my
arm.
Spinning back around, I turn right and take the next hallway, climbing
the stairs up to Art. It’s the only class I have every day that I enjoy, but I let
my friends think I hate it. Art, band, theater…they’re all targets for ridicule,
and I don’t want to hear it from them.
Gingerly opening the classroom door, I step in and look around for Ms.
Till, but I don’t see her. She must be in the supply closet.
And I don’t need another tardy, so...
I walk briskly across the room and head up the aisle, raising my eyes
and pausing when I see Trey. He lounges at my table, in the seat next to