Sitting on an ancient stone bench, next to the school yard, head in hands, watching my classmates clamber all over each other in a game of capture the flag I just had one thought. I fucking hate sports days.

  Every year I came to the teacher’s thinly veiled attempt at getting a day off by having their classes burn off energy, “This year might be different.” Every single year I was severely disappointed.

  Well, disappointed was the wrong word. After ten years of this shit I’d gotten quite used to being isolated by my peers. I just wished the school would stop forcing me to ‘participate’ in these mandatory events. Forcing me to sit here and bake in the hot midday sun while constantly being reminded that none of my classmates could stand me.

  Pushing a stray lock of black hair back over my ear I checked my watch. Half an hour down, only two more to go.

  Out on the field one of the volunteer refs blew on their toy whistle, and declared the red team had scored a point. A chorus of cheers and groans arose as the man reset the game, preparing for the next round.

  Twenty minutes in and the first game had just ended. And it was a best of five.

  Shoving myself to myself to my feet I slowly wandered towards the massive oak tree in the corner of the field. I couldn’t believe that in the middle of the inner city, an area surrounded by apartment buildings, that was the only place with any shade whatsoever. If I was going to spend the day bored to death, I wanted to at least be cool while I did it.

  As soon as I stepped away from the bench I saw one of my teachers, Mrs Tores, detach herself from the school wall, where most of the faculty was lounging around, and head my way. I did my best to ignore her.

  She looked ridiculous as strode away from the shadow of the dirty five story brick building, trying to catch up to me in that frilly white blouse and pencil skirt. I’m sure she had no idea she’d be running around outside today. The woman stumbled down the small decline leading to the field, teetering in those ridiculous heels of hers, before finally rushing across the grass.

  “Tamera. Tamera, I know you can hear me, stop please. Tamara Alistar Monroe! If you don’t stop right now I’m going to give you detention young lady!” the young teacher shouted.

  Taking a deep breath in, and putting on my best fake smile, I turned towards the teacher. “Good afternoon Mrs Tores, how can I help you today?”

  My teacher took a moment to reset her rimless glasses, and fix her curly brown hair, before scowling at me. “Why aren’t you on the field with your classmates?”

  I sighed. “Because neither they nor I want me to be out there. We’re both happier with me sitting out.”

  “What? That’s crazy,” the young teacher scoffed. “Your classmates don’t hate you.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed, “they just find my presence so unbelievably uncomfortable they don’t want to interact with me for any longer than necessary.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes and started to open her mouth, so I cut off the next question before she even asked it. “Before you ask, no, I don’t have an unusually high [power] rating, I’ve been tested. Repeatedly.”

  Mrs Tores stared at me for several seconds, eyebrows furled. “So, are you being bullied?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “No Mrs Tores, I’m not,” I groaned. “In order to be bullied, someone would have to approach me.”

  “Bullying takes many different forms. If your classmates worked together to isolate you, that’s a form of bullying.”

  I felt a migraine coming on. Why does this happen every year? With every new teacher?

  “They’re not bullying me,” I declared, bringing the palm of my hand up to cover my eye. “Please let it drop.”

  “I can’t let it drop! I’m your teacher, and I’m responsible for you. Even if you deny getting bullied, I need to investigate!”

  “Mrs Tores,” I finally snapped. “I know you’re new here, and you want to be a good teacher, but let me ask you something. Before rushing out here, did any of the teachers suggest you should leave me alone today?”

  The woman paused, “They did…”

  “Including Mr Gipson, who was my junior high teacher for three years?”

  “He did…” she admitted.

  “So why didn’t you listen to any of them? They’ve all been here for years, and I’ve already had this conversation with them!” I growled.

  “But…” the woman was completely flustered now, so I pushed her.

  “Now, let me be clear about this. I know how this might look, but I’m not being bullied. I would really suggest you don’t try and report it as such.”

  “It’s my job,” the woman muttered.

  “Only if there’s evidence of bullying. The school board looks down upon teachers that make false claims about this sort of thing. That’s how your predecessor, Mr Daniels lost his job,” I patiently explained.

  Now she was really flustered.

  “Honestly, I’d like to know why I have this effect on people, but after ten years I gave up looking. The best explanation I’ve been able to find is that kids are more sensitive to certain things than adults,” I let out a long breath before continuing.

  “It’s easier for me to ignore that it’s happening, and concentrate on my school work. The only time it’s a problem is when we have forced group activity days, like this.” Now that I’d finished ranting the migraine receded slightly, so I dropped my hand. “Can I please go now?”

  Taking a deep breath, Mrs Tores looked me straight in the face. “No.”

  “No? Why not?” I asked. “I explained the situation, what more could you possibly want from me?”

  “I want to see you participate in one group activity, give it an honest try!”

  I stared at the woman in disbelief. “Even after everything we just discussed?”

  “You never know what’ll happen, maybe they’ll accept you. Maybe you’ll have fun!”

  Lowering my head back into my hand, I grumbled. “I know I’ve experienced it for years!”

  “If you don’t try, you’re not getting participation credit for today,” Mrs Tores snapped.

  She wasn’t going to let it go, I could see it on her face. “Fine, if that’s what you want. But I want your word that when this backfires you completely drop it going forward.”

  “It’s not going to backfire, you’ll see,” Mrs Tores assured me, cheerfully.

  Why did this school hire a new, idealistic teacher every year? Why couldn’t they just stick with the old jaded ones that didn’t care.

  Jogging over to the field, I stepped up behind my classmates who had apparently finished playing capture the flag, and were setting up a new game. Despite no one actually looking at me, the crowd parted slightly as I approached.

  “You’ll have to count me in for this one!” I announced loudly. Half the class turned around and looked at me, disappointed. “Don’t blame me, it’s Mrs Tores’s fault. What are we playing?”

  “Red Rover,” Andrea, the class president announced from her position on the other side of the crowd. “We were about to draft teams.”

  “Oh joy…” I grumbled. “Even or odd number of players?”

  “With you? Even.”

  I immediately went over and sat on the second team’s side. Mrs Tores raised an eyebrow, but none of my classmates even batted an eye. We’d all been through this song and dance plenty of times.

  It took a couple minutes for the captains to draft the teams, and for everyone to get lined up. I stood at the end, with Andrea to my left. I limply held out my hand, and waited for her to take it. She did manage to work up the courage, after a couple seconds. As soon as she did she went pale, and I could feel the goosebumps raise on the back of her hand. I could tell she desperately wanted to let go, but didn’t.

  The other team started. “Red Rover, Red Rover we call Andrea over!”

  She couldn’t let go fast enough, sprinting across the field before slowing down to an easily stoppable speed. Of course she was caught.

  I shifted over, moving to the next person in line and held out my hand. Jacob was nowhere near as brave as Andrea, he barely managed to touch one finger to my hand, and he still flinched away every couple seconds. I zoned out. I knew how this would end.

  “Red Rover, Red Rover we call Jacob over!”

  And he was gone. I moved over. The process repeated over and over for the next five minutes. My teammates each took turns trying to hold my hand, before disappearing into the other team, until I was the last person standing.

  Mrs Tores stopped watching about halfway through, I didn't know if it was because of horror or embarrassment. The other team hesitated, everyone knew they were supposed to call my name, but they just couldn’t bring themselves to do it.

  I just walked away, heading back towards the oak tree to wait out the rest of the event in peace.

  “I fucking hate sports day,” I grumbled.

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