Schadenfreude

Schadenfreude is the feeling of pleasure, joy, or satisfaction derived from another person's misfortune 

I knew I would end up in the principal's office since I woke up this morning. 

I woke up from a dream I couldn’t remember, but all I knew as my alarm went off was that I wanted to go back. My head digs back into the mascara stained pillow, wishing I could drown in the rich linen sheets, but no. My dad will come in here and yell at me if I'm not up by 6:45. Trust me, I've tried before. 

My shoulders are heavy and my eyes sink into my skull. My fingers become tinted with black eyeliner and eyeshadow after rubbing my eyes. I was never the kind to do a morning routine, intense skincare, whatever, whatever. It's a trait I never inherited, I guess. 

I grab my iPod and trudge myself to the bathroom, where the bright lights dotting my mirror welcoming me a harsh good morning. “Shake It” by Metro Station bursts through my earbuds, but I just end up mumbling background vocals through my toothbrush.

My uniform has wrinkles and a small dirt stain on the sleeve. I’ve been procrastinating washing it, but it’s hardly noticeable. You see, my dad is a clean freak, a complete germaphobe, so if he didn’t notice the dirt stain, I don’t think anyone would. I shove on the stained shirt and the navy blue, basic skirt. Luckily, my school does allow us to wear bracelets, earrings, etc, so self expression isn’t completely dead.

When I poke my eye with the eyeliner pencil, it immediately wakes me up, so I rub the bottom of my eyelid as an attempt to soothe it. I added bracelets, chains, and a studded jacket I made. Time: 6:46, as I walk out to the kitchen to receive lunch for later. I hate taking the bus and my dad gets to work earlier than I get to school, so I bought a second-hand skateboard at the beginning of the year. Since then, I've gotten various bruises on my arm, stained shirts, and been yelled at by pedestrians, but it's ten times better than taking a bus. 

I twist my hair in my hand. The hot pink tips of my blond hair are fading out. I wanted to do more, maybe racoon stripes, but my dad refused to let me: “You realize how many people destroy their hair to get it blonde like yours?” As I approached the counter, a note in my dads writing greets me. 

Audrey,

I had to go in early for a meeting this morning. Make yourself lunch today. Have a good day! Love you!

Your Favorite,

-Dad

(Ps. No more Nutella Toast!)

So I grab a jar from the Nutella stash in my room. I smear it on a piece of bread, but just in case I crush an avocado. I pick up the note again, reading back the ‘Your Favorite’ line that he always left, but never made sense. I guess my stepmom, Vanessa, used to write that on notes she left in my lunch box. She was like a mom to me. Key word: was.

Finally, I head out the door. We live on the eleventh floor of the building, so it takes a second to get down. I’ve lived here since I was 2, when my dad got custody of me, so I know my way around pretty well. I fiddle with my iPod in my pocket, hoping I don’t see any unfriendly neighbors on my way down. I hold my breath until floor 5, when I’m greeted by a familiar face. “Good morning, Audrey!”

“Good morning, Mr. Sampson. How are you?” I reply cordially. 

“Well, I’m doing okay, miss…” Awkward silence falls between us. “Does your dad really let you ride that thing to school?”

“Oh, yeah. He doesn’t really mind.” He does, but I’m not telling him that.

“Your dad does seem pretty uptight. It surprises me he lets you have that much freedom…” Luckily, before I sock this guy in the mouth, the door opens to the ground floor. 

“Bye, Mr. Sampson!” I shout. He waves back, keeping his family-friendly, business mode expression on. God, I hate him. People give up their lives for cubical dreams only to be forgotten by everyone. What radicalized me, you ask? Well, when my step-mom died, she was only seen as a number used in assemblies and news broadcasts. That's not who she is though. Sure, I can go to a memorial service and ignore the tears falling from my dad’s eyes, but that still doesn’t feel like enough. A number or an engraved name can’t be what my stepmom was. That doesn’t bring her back.

I almost broke my arm, but I got to school fine. Though not being a Catholic private school, the place is built like a cathedral. Despite not really liking it here, I do have friends. I wave to people in the hallway, yet I still try to make it obvious I have my headphones in, just so I don’t have to talk to people. I stop at my locker, getting my books for 1st period when I see her. Annabel.

Who is Annabel? Jesus Christ, who isn’t Annabel! A two-faced lying bully that dropped her personality to become popular. A pathological liar and a guiltripper who made me feel bad for not being ‘gay enough’ (despite the fact she considered herself bisexual as well). She bullied everyone around her, making people only be friends with her out of fear. 

I dropped her silently. I decided that was the best choice, out of fear of torment, maybe even physical violence, if I dared to confront her about it. This school was a new start and if we were still attached by the hip, I don’t think I would have any friends at all. Do I feel guilty about it? Yes and no. I see the way she acts with her friends as if she's trying to change, but I'd know that facade anywhere. My voice chants in my head: liar, bully, guiltripper. Liar, bully, guiltripper. 

“Audrey? Did you sign up for AP Language next year?” Liar, bully, guiltripper.

“Yeah, did you?”

“Yeah… I'm trying out for it, but I'll probably just cheat, y’know?” God, screw her.

“Ah, cheating your way in, huh? That seems like the way you’d do it.” What? There's no rule that says I can't be just a little bit mean. 

“You're a rich white girl, aren’t you cheating in life?” says the girl who comes from more wealth than me.

“Says the one who went to Japan for 3 weeks for winter break.” And she shut her mouth. I get my stuff and head to my next class-

“At least I'm able to go on planes.” Oh? “You're still too scared after what happened to your mom.” 

Oh!

“Not even your mom, so I don’t get why you care so much. She probably wasn’t even thinking about you when she got killed in that damn building.” 

I charge for her. My fist hits her cheek like a sweet note of freedom. Yet, I'm still not smiling when her tooth falls on the hallway floor. This isn’t for me. This isn’t me. After she punches me in the ribs, I hit back with a knee to the abdomen. She falls on the ground as a teacher holds me back. I see the look in her eyes. Sadness? Guilt? To me? Victory.

So that's how I ended up in the principal's office. I have no clue how I won. To be fair, I think my dad would be upset with me if I got in a fight and lost. I have no clue on how he’s gonna react this time, but hey, I think I'm in the right. She's holding an ice pack to her face, with her bloody tooth sitting on the desk. Gross, but I've seen worse. Her mom sits next to her, casually giving me a side eye. The guidance counselor sits in the corner, supposed to be helping, but she looks more terrified of the students before her.

“Ms. Baker… look you know what I’m gonna say…” The principal says, “This is the 3rd incident this year.”

“I was defending myself!” I interrupt. Principal Dellett looks at me through her glasses, giving me a look that says that she saw me beat her up. “What? She was… assaulting me! Verbally!”

“Nothing can be rude enough to knock my daughter's tooth out!” Her mom exclaims.

“Ms. Mezzina,” I addressed the guidance counselor, “You gave both Jake and Alex detention for talking during the 9/11 survivor presentation. What makes her making fun of my dead mom okay now?”

“Well, I uhh… It’s not okay for her to say that… but uhh…”

“I bet you're mad he survived over your mother!” Annabel snaps to me, but before I can consider 2nd degree murder, my dad walks in. He’s in the basic blazer and dress shoes he wears to work, hair slowly coming apart from the gel he used. Think about when a villain bursts through the door in a movie and ominous music plays: that's how it feels when he walks in. DUN DUN DUN!!!!

“Mr. Baker,” Mrs. Dellett says through her teeth, sitting up. 

“Mrs. Dellet,” my dad sits next to me, giving me a quick glance that asks ‘you okay?’ so I nod back. “What's the damage?”

“Suspention. Your daughter knocked out Annabel’s tooth-”

“Why?”

“Scuse me?” The principal asks, like this isn’t what my dad asks every time. 

“Well, I can only bet she had a reason.

“She made a comment about Vanessa. She said I couldn’t care so much about what happened.” I explain, under my breath.

“Now, Mr. Baker, we’re not defending Annabel-”

“So then shouldn’t she get a punishment too?” My dad questions. It's surprising how much he questions the system, despite working in an office all day. 

“Jonathan, maybe get your child some anger management therapy, then we’ll talk about punishing my daughter.” Annabel's mom yells, but my dad doesn’t really care.

“Look,” Ms. Mezzina says. “We get you’re upset about your child's actions, but this is the 3rd time this year.”

“The first two were self defense.” I respond, but my dad looks at me in a way that tells me to shut up so we can just get the hell out of here.

“How long is the suspension?”

“3 days. She can come back on Monday.” Mrs. Dellett nods. 

My dad looks at me, “You should be very disappointed in yourself.” Oh God, maybe he is mad at me. Wait no, he’s not mad,  just disappointed. “C’mon. Thank you, and I’m sorry Annabel, it won’t happen again.” Though he apologizes for my actions, he doesn’t feel sorry. 

“Yeah, if you're lucky!” I say as I walk out of the principal's office. My dad has his Blank Expression™ as we walk out of the building. I get the feeling he’s not too mad at me for defending his dead girlfriend. We finally get off campus and walk towards home, where I suppose he is dropping me off. 

“Well?” He asks. I look up at him, and he’s smiling like the cat who ate the canary, “Did you win?”

Siobhan Corrigan, Grade 9

Creative Writing Major