I looked at the letter I had retrieved from the floor.
I don’t think I felt hurt or particularly sad.
But I do remember, feeling mad.
So I willed my 7th grade legs to move, one after the other and proceeded down the staircase to the ground floor, the whole time with the outstretched arm attached to the hand holding the letter, holding it as far away from my face as possible.
I passed by friends who saw me but I didn’t see them.
‘Hey are you okay?’
‘What’s that? Why are you holding it like that?’
I brushed past them and found myself standing in front of a photocopier. The smell of toner, heat wafting off the warm paper and the constant mechanical hum and roll of the machine spitting printed and stapled sets of paper out, although loud, were all strangely mesmerizing and comforting.
The lady manning the machine recognized me.
‘Hello dear! Need sumthin’?’
“I want 10 copies of this please.”
She looked at it and gave me a face, a concerned but disapproving face.
“It’s really important. Could I get them now?”
She sighed and relented and took the letter from my hand.
Within 5 minutes. I was holding the copies in both hands, or rather arms, like I was cradling a lifeless body. I approached the friends who were now in the cafeteria.
They gave me faces, concerned faces.
“Do you have blu-tack or tape?”
“You could help me. Let’s go.”
We spent the next hour sticking the copies on the mirrors of the girls’ bathrooms across 4 floors.
I couldn’t totally express and justify my reaction to the discovery of the letter.
It was only a couple years later that I could, upon having learnt the phrases:
Hell hath no fury like a woman (read – 7th grade girl) scorned.
Some men (or in this case, Charlottes) just want to watch the world burn.
And hell yeah, it burned.