RE: Trailer Trash pt 9 (Patreon)

 (pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8, pt 8a)

   In Tabitha’s first few weeks at school, she’d already begun to question her initial goals.

   I knew, in an OBJECTIVE way, that simply being thin and pretty weren’t all it took to make a bunch of friends. But, I guess it really is completely different when you’re experiencing it firsthand.

   She realized now that in her past life, she’d associated all of her high school problems with her low-self-esteem and poor body image. Subconsciously, some part of her had attributed her past life’s social estrangement and loneliness entirely to her weight and appearance—but several weeks into school, she’d only made one friend this time.

   She’d somehow thought it she would easily make friends, become more important, somehow; a component of the school’s social paradigm. People would think about her, care about her, worry about her when she wasn’t around. She recognized that it wouldn’t be that straightforward, but the actual brutal truth of just how naive her line of thinking had been was disconcerting.

   Even the positive attention was difficult to bear. It wasn’t uncommon to catch a guy guiltily looking away from her breasts, which was an awkward situation she’d failed to mentally prepare herself for. How does anyone prepare for that?

   Contrary to her expectations—or lack thereof—when her fat receded over the summer, teenage breasts emerged. This was, in some ways, Tabitha’s first ‘real’ experience as a budding young woman. Her breasts weren’t large—they were rather small B-cups, but because they stood out on her frame in a way she’d never experienced before, and it was hard not to be self-conscious about them. She’d expected them to disappear with her weight and be unnoticeable—that’s what had happened in her past life. No, they weren’t the dream boobs that could form perfect cleavage like every girl wished for. But, Tabitha thought they made pretty good shapes, and found herself a little proud of them.

  “Yeah? Well, I heard she sucks a looot of dick,” One of the nearby girls in her Biology class chuckled loud enough—purposefully so—for Tabitha to overhear. This group of gossiping teenage girls were all sitting sideways in their seats partway across the classroom, with their backs to her. One of the less bright ones kept sneaking unsubtle peeks over at Tabitha.

   “Nuh-uh, no you didn’t,” another freshman girl said—but in a goading tone, rather than a voice suggesting actual disbelief. “Who said that?”

   “Fuckin’ everybody I’ve talked to,” the first girl replied. “Hey, you know where she’s from... right?”

   Stifling a wry smile, Tabitha ignored them, continuing to halfheartedly fill out her homework in advance.

   She knew the loudly gossiping girls were inexpertly baiting her for a reaction, hoping to find a guilty conscience. A series of sexy rumors about her was making another round throughout Springton High, but she couldn’t help but regard them with more amusement than annoyance. From the bits and pieces she’d overheard, they may as well have been primitive precursors to clickbait media of the future: These girls were STUNNED when they heard these seven secrets that TABITHA MOORE doesn’t want you to know!

   As absurd and surreal as the whirlwind melodrama of high school politics seemed to her, she was involved this time, by apparent virtue of her appearance and persona alone. As the social strata among their freshman year solidified and matured, she discovered being a rogue attractive entity outside of the traditional cliques made many Springton’s upper echelon hostile by default.

   I’m impressed, more than anything, Tabitha thought to herself, resting her chin on her knuckle as she reviewed her biology questions.

   While her fellow high school girls were without a doubt petty, they were in no way simple. Rather than a straightforward teen-movie hierarchy one could label the queens of Springton High, these girls were mapping out a full-fledged geopolitical landscape based somehow on popularity. A proving-ground arena, complete with power plays, counterintelligence operations, third-party negotiations, and of course—sabotage smear campaigns. Tabitha found herself approached more than once by what she began to think of as investigatory commissions, rigidly smiling parties asking which guy she was interested in, and what she thought of Heather, or Melissa, or Cassidy.

   Tabitha’s ignorance as to exactly who any of those girls were was treated as feigned indifference at best, and open provocation at worst. Tabitha’s public stance on relationships— ‘I’m not interested in dating right now,’—was likewise treated with suspicion. Was she posturing, in attempt to inflate her own market value? Which of the Springton guys did she have her sights set on? Or, was the other buzz about her true? Was she a total lesbian?

   Tabitha was an oddity; well-known by everyone, but not ‘popular.’ Spoken to her face she was treated on friendly terms—for now—but never befriended. Because she didn’t jump to make connections and associations, she remained an unknown—there was apparently no one to vouch for her, no one who knew for sure what she was saying, or about who, or who she was after, guy-wise.

   Tabitha was, potentially, a high-value girl that all the guys want—in other words, an active threat, equal parts comparison and competition. She was an unwelcome complication for the many girls staking their claims on boys, the girls affirming their positions and affiliations—which girls they were besties with, which of them were trashy fucking whores that if she gives me any shit I’ll flip the fuck out on her, swear to God!

   As if any of it actually matters, Tabitha mused, wanting to roll her eyes.

   “Don’t you think it’s weird how nobody knows where she disappears to during lunch period?”

   “Uh, duh,” Another girl retorted. “She’s fooling around with Mr. Simmons. He gives all his other Marine Sci classes a grade curve except the one I’m in with her. He even basically came out told us she was his little beau; he waved around her test in our face for like, twenty minutes.”

   “That’s so fucking gross,” A girl said, a little more loudly this time. “What a dirty old creep. I did wonder why I never see her, around lunchtime.”

   “Pfft. Sure hope she enjoys her lunch today.”

   “Big ol’ lunch.”

   “Ewww, I hope she brushes her teeth afterwards, like, gargles soap or something. Bet you can smell it on her breath afterwards.”

   “Oh my God shut up, I’m going to puke!”

   “Geez, chill. Just offer her some gum or something,” a girl laughed. “Maybe a tic tac?”

   I’m… in the library every lunch period, though? Tabitha barely held herself back from turning and giving them a look of consternation. It’s not exactly a big vanishing act? There’s plenty of other kids in the library for lunch that see me there all the time. Isn’t there?

*     *     *

   Her time spent during lunch was turning a little more desperate each day, and a pressing grim feeling came down on her as she pushed open the school library’s double-doors and walked through the metal detector. As usual, the computer lab there was full of students playing primitive computer games, but today Tabitha made a point to make eye contact and compose a friendly smile for one or two of them.

   They’ll eventually notice that I’m always in here for lunch. Right?

   Her normal corner table was vacant as usual, and even untouched—none of the books she’d collected there yesterday had been removed and put back on shelves. Having exhausted all of her other ideas, Tabitha was finally assuming a worst-case scenario in her current topic of study. She was now reading up on how to field dress gunshot wounds.

   A hopefully not-too-dated ATLS—Advanced Trauma Life Support—protocol guidebook rest atop a small mountain of related material on field dressing wounds in emergencies, all heaped upon familiar library table. Springton High’s librarian, endlessly enthusiastic to help an eager young learner find sources of reference, had been sure yesterday that Tabitha was interested in prepping for medical school.

   That would be the smart move, after all, Tabitha frowned, feeling her insides churn as she found her bookmark in the medical texts. Lots of money in it, excellent career choice. It’s just so… Ugh. So GRISLY... 

   A severe bullet wound wasn’t simple, and no amount of cram-studying was giving Tabitha any optimism for the upcoming situation. It was going to be bad—of course it was going to be bad. Last time through, the man had died. Fatal gunshot wound. Death. The horrifying thought that when worst came to worse, it could be her hands desperately trying to staunch the man’s bleeding threw her into a panic.

   She didn’t remember hearing anything about a rifle, so she assumed the wound would be from a handgun—low-velocity ballistic trauma, in other words. Not that any of the knowledge related to that she was learning made things particularly any easier on her. Tabitha was supposed to very rapidly assess where the bullet penetrated and what specific dangers it posed, and then take the most correct action she could. But, even narrowing it down to assume a chest or abdominal entry wound had Tabitha’s hands shaking as she imagined actually being there and witnessing it all unfold. Because it was really going to happen, and dreadfully soon.

   There’s going to be a LOT of blood. And, I’m obviously going to have to be actively trying to stop the flow. Somehow, Tabitha grimaced, flipping into the sections of different respiratory compromise. But, what if it hits a lung? Maybe I’ll stop up the blood loss—and then he ends up drowning in his own blood, instead.

   Back then in her first life, she’d been watching TV when she heard the gunshot echo across her neighborhood. Specifics, like exact time of day, the officer’s name, and precisely where he’d been shot, however, continued to elude her. If I could just remember what freaking show I was watching at the time! Then I’d be able to match it up in the TV guide… aggh!

   Unfortunately, she didn’t remember, not for sure—and the more she tried, the less sure of anything she was, progressively becoming less and less confident in any of the details she thought she knew. The future never seems quite so nebulous as it does when you start second-guessing yourself.

   Did the bullet pass through too close to an artery? Did it fragment? The crux of the issue was that Tabitha didn’t know why the police officer had bled out. Was the call for emergency services immediate, or was there a significant delay?

   It wouldn’t be as easy as simply tapping 911 into a bracelet PC or smartphone for another few decades, and she knew for a fact that several of their neighbors in the trailer park didn’t even have landlines. IF the cop was too incapacitated to radio in, IF there was never another officer in his squad car, IF no one in the lower park called the emergency dispatcher right away, if, if, if, if...

   There was also the sobering idea that nothing Tabitha might attempt would ever save the man. Maybe he was fated to die no matter what she did, and causality was locked in certain ways beyond her understanding. Unchangeable. Would I regret getting myself involved, then, or would I once again begin to despise the hidden powers-that-be?

   I hate how much this terrifies me, Tabitha admitted to herself. I don’t want to form some sort of God complex, thinking I can do anything and save anyone. But, at the same time… I’ll hate myself a little— maybe more than a little— if I know this is going to happen and remain indifferent to it.

   “Hey,” Alicia interrupted her thoughts, giving a small wave to get Tabitha’s attention. “You alright?”

   “Alright?” Tabitha blinked, wondering when Alicia’d come in. Her only real friend at Springton usually didn’t stop by to chat with her until after she’d eaten, but this was the first time she hadn’t noticed the dark-skinned girl enter the library.

   “Yeah. You look kinda… uh. You know,” Alicia shrugged, pulling out the opposite chair and dropping her sketchbook onto the table beside the stacks of books. “Are they starting to get to you?”

   “They? No, no,” Tabitha shook her head with a chuckle. “No, fine. I’m just… stressed.”

   “Uhhh,” Alicia’s eyes went wide as she snatched an annotated military field dressing guidebook off of the pile nearest her. “...You wanna talk about it?”

(pt 10)

/// A lot of this may end up being cut--too much telling, not enough showing. It's hard deciding (at this point) which of these subplots I want to gloss over and which ones I want to linger on. Right now, obviously, I want to write on ahead to the good stuff. Also some basic reiteration as I explore different ways of expressing the idea / trying to decide which way of phrasing things I prefer for the story.