The weight of a thousand scarfs by Anon

 

 

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It was a long way to walk home; some days it was even further. The weather was not theatrical today, being a warm and sunny afternoon Coco would usually delight in. Now, at least she wouldn’t be trudging home in soul-matching rain. A twinge raced across her welted bottom; she rubbed it almost automatically as the school bus that she just COULDN’T take – not today – rumbled past. SHE was at one of the windows. Laughing. At least she didn’t see Coco. This time.

A last mercy from the sky; given the way today had gone, the puddle that wasn’t there couldn’t splash her.

 

The new designs in Prim Hemline’s window were – of course – magnificent. A true inspiration. A window to another world, an escape from … an escape. The assistant putting up the display only accentuated it all. Her pale skin almost shimmered under the lighting, moving with poise, confidence, power. A study in complements, from her perfect heels to the scarf tied with deceptive casualness around her neck. The scarf looked like one of Hemline’s Paysan Nouveau line, the design she’d tried to adapt for herself, the scarf that…

 

The sudden movement caught the assistant’s attention. She was sure someone had been at the window. A perfectly rehearsed and elegant shrug. No matter.

 

“Coco?” asked the elegant woman in the car park.

Coco’s rueful smile was carefully embroidered on.

“Did you miss the bus again?” Nod. “Oh you really must pay more attention to the time, dear. Come on then, let’s get home.”

 

Cars are quicker than walking. The journey can feel just as long.

“SUCH a day, you wouldn’t BELIEVE some of the people I have to deal with. It’s been a real pain in the butt!” her mother laughed. “Some days I wish I was back at Crystal, everything was easier than I thought then! How was yours?”

A one-shoulder shrug while looking out of the window. The shouting can wait.

Mom’s eyes roll. Her daughter really IS becoming a teenager. Can’t (won’t) articulate. Cultivating grumpy indifference. You Just Don’t Get Me Mom.

She doesn’t know how right she is.

 

They must have hit every single stop light. As soft as the car’s leather seats were, sitting down was still uncomfortable. The odd bump didn’t help.

“Coco, are you alright?” her mother asked. “You’re so fidgety, is something bothering you?”

A deep breath came from the passenger side.

“Did something happen at school today?”

Her daughter turned suddenly, her eyes shimmering, blinking a bit more quickly than she should.

“Mom, I….” Coco faded away.

“You didn’t get in trouble again, did you?”

(Detention for drawing silly doodles of silly actors in silly dresses in chemistry class? She had to think about her future. Her bedroom door opening. Laying across her bed. The vile, wicked belt lashing away. Her face buried in the pillow. Alone until sleep)

She turned back to the window. Mom sighed.

“Oh Coco. Well, we can talk more when we all get home.”

 

Dinner was nice, at least.

She’d tried a final, futile gambit. Dad read everything, it was part of his job, but he was looking tired.

“I just need this signing for school tomorrow.”

Mom was an alumna. Sometimes Coco forgot that.

“That’s a Principal’s Office slip! Coco, what have you-“

“Fighting, apparently.” Dad looked over the rims of his glasses. “Well?”

“It, it wasn’t my fault! I-“

“There’s another Coco Pommel at Crystal Prep?”

“W-well, no, but-“

“So why do we have this?”

“She stole my scarf!” howled Coco.

“Who? What scarf?” her mother asked.

“I-I made one,” came the reply, missing a glance of exasperation shared between her parents. “And then Su-Suri said she’d show it off for Knitting Club and then we’d be friends, but she wouldn’t give it back, and…”

“Suri?” interrupted Dad.

“Some older girl, part of this” (airquotes) “’fashion scene’ running there now. Wasn’t in my day,” her mother conveniently forgot as parents are prone to, “that’s the whole point of the uniform code.”

Dad nodded, his mouth pinched.

“This again. And fighting?”

“She, she wouldn’t give it back,” his daughter stuttered, “she said it was s-so popular, th-they’d voted she could join immediately, a-and when I asked w-when the next m-meeting was…”

“So all over a silly club? Instead of asking a teacher for help,” Mom sneered, forgetting once more, “you thought it was a good idea to get sent to the Principal’s Office?”

“N-no, I-“

“Do you realise how much your father and I sacrifice to send you there? Do you realise how many children would LOVE to have the chance we’re trying to give you?”

Coco’s mouth flapped. Her eyes prickled.

“And you want to risk being EXPELLED over a stupid piece of cloth?”

“N-no mom…”

“We send you there to learn, to make appropriate friends, to prepare you for life, and instead you want to play dress-up! And start a brawl over something you have thousands of in your wardrobe anyway!”

“I made…”

“Not even as if it was one of the Polo Mallette’s!”

You know that name. The name is all you know, because you use clothes to impress your clients. Dad just uses them to keep decent. He is contracts, and machines. But I remember the premiere we went to, all the beautiful people in beautiful outfits, and when the curtain rose, oh the costumes! It burns my soul, Mom, like it’s marked on me somewhere.

And Suri, she said she, she liked the scarf, she could make me noticed, that she’d only said all those things as constructive criticism.

Instead I got marked by Mr. Agister.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Mom sighed with exasperation. “Fine. You can sulk in your room. I’ll see you once we’ve cleaned up the dishes.”

Coco turned and slunk up the stairs, the weight of a thousand scarfs on her shoulders.

Halfway up, they got heavier.

“Take that off for me, dear, I’ll be needing it.”

 

Coco sat slumped on the bed. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, head on her knees. She wasn’t crying – not now. She didn’t think she had any water left in her body.

The door pushed open. Coco looked up. Mom stood in the frame, contemptuous annoyance carved on her face. And – yes – Dad’s belt, that horrid thing, was hanging, looped, from her hand. She turned back to her knees.

“Unbelievable,” said Mom, “I just don’t know, Coco. Crystal Prep gave me what I needed to build a life like this, and you’re determined to end up barely making the rent for some rat-infested hole off Bridleway.”

Coco’s toes flexed.

“The note said you’ve been caned,” Mom continued. “Maybe that will help it all sink in for once. Consequences. Six of the best.”

Six. Ha. That would have been lucky.

“Well, now it’s my turn. I didn’t raise a little thug, Coco, I’m going to make certain I haven’t. Roll over.”

Coco did, slowly. Partly teen defiance, partly because her bottom ached again as she moved. Her pillow was sympathetically soft under her chin. For the second time that day, she felt her skirt flipped up, and –

“No, mom, please. No.”

At school, it had been a growing sense of modesty, an awareness of her changing body bared in front of a stranger. With mom? She was a little girl again, desperately wanting to believe a thin strip of cotton was a magic shield. Her pleas had the same effect; arguably, Mr. Agister had been gentler.

Suddenly aware of the air around her damaged rear, Coco hugged the pillow more tightly. She flinched as Mom stroked her marks.

“Hmm,” her mother’s voice sounded almost – content? “Whoever signed your note knows their job, at least.”

Of all things, it was that which found a new oasis deep in Coco’s heart.

Then the tell-tale deep breath, that awful sound from behind. As ever, it was soon followed by another; the resounding crack sent white-hot fire across her buttocks. There was no hope of even a show of resistance; a horrible wail came even through the pillow. Almost instantly a second stroke fell, a new blaze, a louder scream. The leather bit deeply into her lined skin, like she was being ripped apart. A third, fourth, fifth in rapid succession, Coco already trying to drill her pelvis through the mattress in search of escape. But still mom persisted, leaving fresh stripe after fresh stripe across her daughter’s behind, merging into an ugly red collage of ire. Soon there was no Coco, simply a mindless animal howling, begging wordlessly for release.

It ended. Eventually. The loud, broken noises into the pillow would not until exhausted sleep granted her mercy.

 

(CYOA: Life is suffering. I am an irredeemable tyrant. I love to steal candy from babies)

She made her own breakfast. Mom and dad had already left. She barely managed two mouthfuls.

It was a stiff limp to the bus stop. Luckily she was the only student picked up here. No witnesses.

The bus arrived. She hobbled up the aisle, sitting down very carefully.

Alone. That was better. The last thing she wanted was to hear

"Coco! Always good to see my little helper!"

Suri. Mom and dad didn't approve of bad language. If they'd been telepathic, they'd strap Coco for a week.

"Really missed you on the bus yesterday!"

A month.

"Pity we didn't get to clear up that little misunderstanding, m'kay?"

A full year.

"The creative temperament is such a drag, isn't it?"

Coco dared a mildly hostile sideways look at her seatmate.

"Oh don't be like that, we were having such a blast until old Iceberg had to stick her nose in, m'kay? You've got a really strong grip for someone so petite."

Funny she should say that; Suri was gripping Coco's arm so hard, she was sure it was going numb.

"Anyway, I've got great news", her tormentor trilled, "turns out Knitting Club has a problem, m'kay? They're arguing so much about the designs for Stage Club's big production this term, they won't be able to do it."

So what I don't care.

"But they just loved our design on the scarf," she continued, simultaneously pulling Coco closer while forcing her back into the corner. "And they said that of COURSE I, well, we would be such a lifesaver if we helped them out."

Suri pulled even closer. Her voice dropped.

"We wouldn't want to disappoint them. Would we? They'd be very upset. And I'd have to tell them whose fault it all was, who's made them the laughing stock of the school. Stage Club too. And oh, can you imagine what Principal Cinch would say? Or do?"

Something was digging into Coco's back. Her bruised bottom was grinding against the cheap seat base.

The only thing harder than Suri's grip was her stare.

"N-no Suri. Th-that would be awful."

Both slackened.

"I knew you'd agree, m'kay?" sang Suri, her voice raised again, triumphantly. "I can't wait to see our first drafts."

 

(CYOA: Coco is a pure and adorable soul who has suffered enough, you monster. And Goodbye Mr Chips is great.)

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Ah, Visual Impact. Yes, come in, boy, come in. Believe you've been having problems with this term's play?"

"Yes sir. The play is fine, but the Knitting Club said they could do the costumes and.

- well, we're two weeks behind and all we have are rough sketches. Very rough, sir."

"I may have something for you, Impact. Young girl, Mrs Facet's class. Real talent for design and sewing, she tells me."

"Sounds promising, sir."

"Mmm. Had to correct her. Fighting. Little spitfire, wouldn't think it to see her. Says one of the Knitting Club pretended to be her friend to steal her designs."

"Wouldn't surprise me, sir."

"No, no indeed. I think she could use some new companionship, don't you? Help keep her out of this office again."

"We're a friendly bunch backstage, sir."

"Always thought so, Impact. Always thought so. Hope everything goes much smoother for you now, eh?"