After Class
by Anna Bankston
Unlike most kids, Rosalie loved school. She’d wake up eagerly every morning to brush her hair, pick her outfit, and pack her bag. She’d arrive at the bus stop fourteen minutes early and sit quietly, listening to the soothing ballads of the mourning doves. When the battered yellow bus would finally pull up onto her street, she’d hop on and find her usual seat in the fourth row, right side, next to the window. Then the doors would screech shut and the long bumpy ride would begin.
In class, Rosalie always willed the clock to go slower. She wished the school day was longer and the hot summer months were shorter. She’d spend every minute of her time in the old brick school building if she could. In the beginning, her teachers were confused. Rosalie was an oddity. She would arrive to class before the bell and line up her sharpened yellow pencils at the corner of her desk. She would take pages upon pages of notes during lessons, showing the attentiveness of a well-rounded student. But she never answered questions. She never raised her hand. She never did well on her exams. Rosalie would come to school with her straight blond hair laying neatly on her back. Her outfits were a combination of strange, patterned clothing, often a size too big or too small. She seemed to be both put together while also a disjointed mess. Eventually, her teachers stopped speculating over her strange behavior. They figured it was just a variation of the typical angsty attitude they’d witnessed in other teenage girls. Rosalie was left to her own unusual routine.
For many years she continued to go unnoticed at school. She blended in with the crowd, a faceless figure amongst the masses. However, at the start of her sophomore year, she encountered an individual who would be even more baffled by her.
Mr. Barnes was a first-year teacher. This, of course, meant he was doing everything in his power to win over the hearts of the students he taught. He would show up in his wire-rimmed glasses and skinny striped tie and try to make sophomore English as fun as it could be. He would greet all of his students by name when they walked through the door, and for sixty minutes his attention was devoted to each and every one of them. As the school year went on, Mr. Barnes prided himself on the relationships he developed with his students. It seemed they were all becoming fond of him. All except for one.
Despite her early arrival in class every day, Rosalie didn't engage in conversation with Mr. Barnes. He would inquire about how her new assignments were coming along or ask about how her day was going, but she'd only greet him with nods or one-word responses. She was resistant to his attempts to win her favor. One day, fed up with his many failed attempts, Mr. Barnes requested she stay after class.
Rosalie observed how different the classroom felt when she was sitting there alone. The halls were filled with noise from students packing their bags with textbooks while discussing the latest gossip. Rosalie’s foot tapped anxiously against the floor. English was her last period of the day. Her bus was going to leave in five minutes, and she couldn't miss it. Mr. Barnes stood up from his desk and moved over to Rosalie, squatting to meet her at eye-level.
“Rosalie,” he said in a calm, pleasant voice. “I wanted to speak with you to see if everything is okay. How’s the school year been going for you?”
She studied Mr. Barnes carefully. Behind his glasses and tie, she could tell he was a fairly young man, just a few years under thirty. His eyes were the same muddy brown color as his tousled hair and there was a small circular scar above his left eyebrow. She wondered what it was from.
“Fine,” she finally responded, shifting her gaze down to her sweaty palms. “I need to go.”
Mr. Barnes shook his head, biting his tongue to control his temper. He’d had enough of her disinterest. “Now, Rosalie, I’m asking for just a couple minutes of your time—”
“I’m not staying. The bus leaves in three minutes.”
He opened his mouth to reprimand her for interrupting when he looked at the expression in her eyes. They were terrified. The large, ghostly blue orbs stared at him, sending shivers up his spine. He’d had no intention of frightening her and felt an overwhelming sense of dread at the notion that he might have done so. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to check in with you,” he said in a soft voice.
She nodded twice, showing she understood. But the fear remained. “I have to go.”
"Alright.” Mr. Barnes turned around with a shake of his head. He reached for a red pen and post-it note from his desk drawer. Scratching down his number he said, “If you ever need anything you can always call me,” but by the time he turned back around there was no trace of the blue-eyed girl.
The next day, Rosalie was late to English. She slipped quietly into the room and slid into her desk. Mr. Barnes, who was in the middle of a lesson about symbolism, stopped for a moment and frowned at the unusual occurrence. Studying Rosalie, he noticed that in addition to her late arrival her appearance was rather strange. She wore a black jacket many sizes too large for her and zipped all the way up her neck. Her straw blonde hair stuck out at odd angles, sitting loosely just above her shoulders in a disheveled tangle. A pair of large, tinted glasses rested on the tip of her nose, and she sank so far down into her chair that she almost disappeared altogether.
Blinking out of his observant trance, Mr. Barnes coughed and continued on with his lesson. After he’d concluded and left the students to talk amongst themselves, he called Rosalie over to his desk in the far corner of the classroom. Reluctantly, she rose from her seat and slowly moved to meet him.
“You were late today,” Mr. Barnes stated.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I was in the restroom.” Her feet shifted back and forth as if she was counting out seconds.
The final bell of the day rang, and the students all rose to leave. In his excitement to escape, one young boy bumped into Rosalie, knocking her tinted glasses to the floor. Mr. Barnes bent down and picked them up. As he extended his hand, her blue eyes struck him once again.
Her left eye was surrounded by a halo of purple and black; the white was tinted pink like sprouting azaleas. It was so swollen only a small sliver of blue met his gaze.
Mr. Barnes observed everything in just a fraction of a second before Rosalie snatched the glasses from him. “I missed the bus yesterday. I can’t miss it again.” She turned and was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving the poor teacher with feelings of confusion and dread.
Rosalie had worked hard all her life to keep to herself. Her mother had always told her to keep her head down and mind her own business. So, when Rosalie discovered her mother was having an affair, she did exactly that. In fact, she became quite good at it. So good that the affair continued for months before her father came home early and was enlightened to his wife’s infidelity. Then there was the yelling and screaming that seemed to last for hours, days, years. Rosalie prayed it would stop, and it did. Her mother walked out of their house and took all of the yelling with her.
That was the beginning of her father’s drinking. He downed bottle after bottle and with every sip his temper grew. She wasn’t surprised when he started hitting her. She wanted to plead that she wasn’t her mother, that she wasn’t going to leave him. But all he could see when he looked at her were those pale blue eyes. Her mother’s eyes. For that reason, she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. So, she continued to keep to herself.
But now, her father had gone too far. Rosalie had missed the bus and was home twenty minutes late. When she arrived, he was furious. He accused her of trying to leave him, of trying to get away like her mother. In the midst of her hurried explanation, he lost his patience. She couldn’t cover up these bruises with long sleeves or high necklines like she had the others. Now someone knew.
Rosalie stepped off the bus and the brake release squeaked as the vehicle left her lonely figure on the corner of the street. When she entered the house, she found her father passed out on the living room couch, dead asleep. Careful not to disturb him, she crept upstairs to enjoy a brief moment of peace. Throwing herself onto her bed, she closed her eyes and drifted into nothingness.
She woke to the sound of her door being thrown against the wall. “Rosie!” her father roared, red-faced and fuming with anger. “Why didn’t you tell me you were home?” His words slurred as if they were all forcibly connected by an invisible string. He rushed toward her, the smell of alcohol making her dizzy.
“You were asleep,” she whispered softly. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
He scoffed. “Really? Excuses? Even if that’s true, look at you now! It’s almost eight and you haven’t even started dinner!”
“I’m sorry—” she began to stutter but her apology was interrupted by a quick slap. She grimaced but kept quiet.
Her father gripped her arm to pull her roughly to her feet. “I left groceries in the trunk of my car. It’s probably spoiled now, thanks to you. Take care of it; maybe we can eat before nine.” He huffed and turned, disappearing into the blackness of the hallway.
Rosalie stood numbly in place as a small silver tear rolled down her cheek. With a shaky breath, she wiped it away and forced her heavy feet out of the room and down to the driveway.
The produce in the back of the rusted, red Toyota was emitting a pungent smell and made her nose crinkle. As she gathered the plastic bag handles into her sweaty palms and slammed the trunk shut, she heard the murmur of a distant voice. “Rosalie.”
Her heart raced, fearing her father was upset about some other inconvenience. She heard it again: “Rosalie, come here.” The sound wasn’t coming from the house. It was coming from the street. She squinted out into the dim evening light and spotted a car parked down the curb. Its engine hummed silently as it sat idle. Rosalie set the bags down slowly and felt herself moving, drawn forward by an unseen force.
Nearing the open window of the car, she stopped in her tracks. “Who is it?”
The engine continued to hum. “Come closer, Rosalie.” She took a couple more steps and the figure in the driver's seat was visible at last.
Mr. Barnes looked different. He wasn’t wearing his collared shirt or his skinny tie or his toothy grin. He was wrapped up in a large navy coat with his hair laying loosely over his forehead. His familiar wire-rimmed glasses framed his dimly lit eyes. The heat from the vehicle seeped out into the cool evening air, sending shivers through her body as it touched her bare skin. “Rosalie, I’m here to help.”
She shook her head in confusion. “How do you know where I live?”
“I’m here to get you out of this. To help you.”
“I-I don’t need help,” Rosalie stuttered.
“Come on,” Mr. Barnes said, almost raising his voice. “Look at the bruises on your arms and your face and tell me you don’t need help!”
She chewed on her tongue and her heart stopped. “How did you know?”
“I know the signs. I know when someone’s in need.” Her eyes darted to the circular scar above his eyebrow again, a mark that now brought new questions to her mind. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of yelling and crashing pans coming from the house. Mr. Barnes flipped the switch from inside the car, unlocking the doors. “Get in.”
She frowned, shaking her head. “No. I’m not leaving my dad. I can’t.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Mr. Barnes said sharply, his hands tightening their grip on the steering wheel. “Now get in before he comes out here!”
Rosalie searched her teacher’s face for some explanation as to why he was doing this. Her fingers drifted up and traced the red mark on her cheek which still burned from her father’s hand. She took a long breath and forced one more glance toward her childhood home. With that, she hopped into the passenger seat. The headlights turned on and the hum of the engine turned to a roar as the two disappeared into the night.
After half an hour of uncomfortable silence, Rosalie dared to speak. “I shouldn’t have done that. I need to go back.”
“No, no you don’t. And you won’t.” Mr. Barnes was struggling to light a cigarette as his knees worked to control the steering wheel. “You had to get out of there, even if it wasn’t your first choice. It’s never anyone’s first choice.”
They fell back into silence and Rosalie watched the glow of neon diner signs and yellow street lamps blur before her vision. Her eyelids grew heavy and the colored lights outside her window turned into distant images of red and blue and green until all she could see was darkness.
When she awoke, Rosalie realized she was unfamiliar with where they were. There were no buildings or lights or landmarks anywhere to be seen. By the look of it, there weren’t any other cars either. There was only her, Mr. Barnes, and the lonely road. “Where are we?” she yawned sleepily.
“On our way.”
“To where?”
“To get help.” Mr. Barnes wasn’t meeting her eyes when he spoke. He still hadn’t smiled since she’d gotten into his car and his tone was cold and more removed than it had ever been in eighth period English.
“I want to go home.”
Mr. Barnes laughed a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. “We’re going home. Don’t you worry, Rosie.” He fumbled around in his pocket and withdrew another cigarette. He placed it between his teeth before handing Rosalie the lighter. She flipped open the cap and gazed at the flame.
In it, she saw the ruins of her old life being left on the road behind them.
In class, Rosalie always willed the clock to go slower. She wished the school day was longer and the hot summer months were shorter. She’d spend every minute of her time in the old brick school building if she could. In the beginning, her teachers were confused. Rosalie was an oddity. She would arrive to class before the bell and line up her sharpened yellow pencils at the corner of her desk. She would take pages upon pages of notes during lessons, showing the attentiveness of a well-rounded student. But she never answered questions. She never raised her hand. She never did well on her exams. Rosalie would come to school with her straight blond hair laying neatly on her back. Her outfits were a combination of strange, patterned clothing, often a size too big or too small. She seemed to be both put together while also a disjointed mess. Eventually, her teachers stopped speculating over her strange behavior. They figured it was just a variation of the typical angsty attitude they’d witnessed in other teenage girls. Rosalie was left to her own unusual routine.
For many years she continued to go unnoticed at school. She blended in with the crowd, a faceless figure amongst the masses. However, at the start of her sophomore year, she encountered an individual who would be even more baffled by her.
Mr. Barnes was a first-year teacher. This, of course, meant he was doing everything in his power to win over the hearts of the students he taught. He would show up in his wire-rimmed glasses and skinny striped tie and try to make sophomore English as fun as it could be. He would greet all of his students by name when they walked through the door, and for sixty minutes his attention was devoted to each and every one of them. As the school year went on, Mr. Barnes prided himself on the relationships he developed with his students. It seemed they were all becoming fond of him. All except for one.
Despite her early arrival in class every day, Rosalie didn't engage in conversation with Mr. Barnes. He would inquire about how her new assignments were coming along or ask about how her day was going, but she'd only greet him with nods or one-word responses. She was resistant to his attempts to win her favor. One day, fed up with his many failed attempts, Mr. Barnes requested she stay after class.
Rosalie observed how different the classroom felt when she was sitting there alone. The halls were filled with noise from students packing their bags with textbooks while discussing the latest gossip. Rosalie’s foot tapped anxiously against the floor. English was her last period of the day. Her bus was going to leave in five minutes, and she couldn't miss it. Mr. Barnes stood up from his desk and moved over to Rosalie, squatting to meet her at eye-level.
“Rosalie,” he said in a calm, pleasant voice. “I wanted to speak with you to see if everything is okay. How’s the school year been going for you?”
She studied Mr. Barnes carefully. Behind his glasses and tie, she could tell he was a fairly young man, just a few years under thirty. His eyes were the same muddy brown color as his tousled hair and there was a small circular scar above his left eyebrow. She wondered what it was from.
“Fine,” she finally responded, shifting her gaze down to her sweaty palms. “I need to go.”
Mr. Barnes shook his head, biting his tongue to control his temper. He’d had enough of her disinterest. “Now, Rosalie, I’m asking for just a couple minutes of your time—”
“I’m not staying. The bus leaves in three minutes.”
He opened his mouth to reprimand her for interrupting when he looked at the expression in her eyes. They were terrified. The large, ghostly blue orbs stared at him, sending shivers up his spine. He’d had no intention of frightening her and felt an overwhelming sense of dread at the notion that he might have done so. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to check in with you,” he said in a soft voice.
She nodded twice, showing she understood. But the fear remained. “I have to go.”
"Alright.” Mr. Barnes turned around with a shake of his head. He reached for a red pen and post-it note from his desk drawer. Scratching down his number he said, “If you ever need anything you can always call me,” but by the time he turned back around there was no trace of the blue-eyed girl.
The next day, Rosalie was late to English. She slipped quietly into the room and slid into her desk. Mr. Barnes, who was in the middle of a lesson about symbolism, stopped for a moment and frowned at the unusual occurrence. Studying Rosalie, he noticed that in addition to her late arrival her appearance was rather strange. She wore a black jacket many sizes too large for her and zipped all the way up her neck. Her straw blonde hair stuck out at odd angles, sitting loosely just above her shoulders in a disheveled tangle. A pair of large, tinted glasses rested on the tip of her nose, and she sank so far down into her chair that she almost disappeared altogether.
Blinking out of his observant trance, Mr. Barnes coughed and continued on with his lesson. After he’d concluded and left the students to talk amongst themselves, he called Rosalie over to his desk in the far corner of the classroom. Reluctantly, she rose from her seat and slowly moved to meet him.
“You were late today,” Mr. Barnes stated.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I was in the restroom.” Her feet shifted back and forth as if she was counting out seconds.
The final bell of the day rang, and the students all rose to leave. In his excitement to escape, one young boy bumped into Rosalie, knocking her tinted glasses to the floor. Mr. Barnes bent down and picked them up. As he extended his hand, her blue eyes struck him once again.
Her left eye was surrounded by a halo of purple and black; the white was tinted pink like sprouting azaleas. It was so swollen only a small sliver of blue met his gaze.
Mr. Barnes observed everything in just a fraction of a second before Rosalie snatched the glasses from him. “I missed the bus yesterday. I can’t miss it again.” She turned and was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving the poor teacher with feelings of confusion and dread.
Rosalie had worked hard all her life to keep to herself. Her mother had always told her to keep her head down and mind her own business. So, when Rosalie discovered her mother was having an affair, she did exactly that. In fact, she became quite good at it. So good that the affair continued for months before her father came home early and was enlightened to his wife’s infidelity. Then there was the yelling and screaming that seemed to last for hours, days, years. Rosalie prayed it would stop, and it did. Her mother walked out of their house and took all of the yelling with her.
That was the beginning of her father’s drinking. He downed bottle after bottle and with every sip his temper grew. She wasn’t surprised when he started hitting her. She wanted to plead that she wasn’t her mother, that she wasn’t going to leave him. But all he could see when he looked at her were those pale blue eyes. Her mother’s eyes. For that reason, she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. So, she continued to keep to herself.
But now, her father had gone too far. Rosalie had missed the bus and was home twenty minutes late. When she arrived, he was furious. He accused her of trying to leave him, of trying to get away like her mother. In the midst of her hurried explanation, he lost his patience. She couldn’t cover up these bruises with long sleeves or high necklines like she had the others. Now someone knew.
Rosalie stepped off the bus and the brake release squeaked as the vehicle left her lonely figure on the corner of the street. When she entered the house, she found her father passed out on the living room couch, dead asleep. Careful not to disturb him, she crept upstairs to enjoy a brief moment of peace. Throwing herself onto her bed, she closed her eyes and drifted into nothingness.
She woke to the sound of her door being thrown against the wall. “Rosie!” her father roared, red-faced and fuming with anger. “Why didn’t you tell me you were home?” His words slurred as if they were all forcibly connected by an invisible string. He rushed toward her, the smell of alcohol making her dizzy.
“You were asleep,” she whispered softly. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
He scoffed. “Really? Excuses? Even if that’s true, look at you now! It’s almost eight and you haven’t even started dinner!”
“I’m sorry—” she began to stutter but her apology was interrupted by a quick slap. She grimaced but kept quiet.
Her father gripped her arm to pull her roughly to her feet. “I left groceries in the trunk of my car. It’s probably spoiled now, thanks to you. Take care of it; maybe we can eat before nine.” He huffed and turned, disappearing into the blackness of the hallway.
Rosalie stood numbly in place as a small silver tear rolled down her cheek. With a shaky breath, she wiped it away and forced her heavy feet out of the room and down to the driveway.
The produce in the back of the rusted, red Toyota was emitting a pungent smell and made her nose crinkle. As she gathered the plastic bag handles into her sweaty palms and slammed the trunk shut, she heard the murmur of a distant voice. “Rosalie.”
Her heart raced, fearing her father was upset about some other inconvenience. She heard it again: “Rosalie, come here.” The sound wasn’t coming from the house. It was coming from the street. She squinted out into the dim evening light and spotted a car parked down the curb. Its engine hummed silently as it sat idle. Rosalie set the bags down slowly and felt herself moving, drawn forward by an unseen force.
Nearing the open window of the car, she stopped in her tracks. “Who is it?”
The engine continued to hum. “Come closer, Rosalie.” She took a couple more steps and the figure in the driver's seat was visible at last.
Mr. Barnes looked different. He wasn’t wearing his collared shirt or his skinny tie or his toothy grin. He was wrapped up in a large navy coat with his hair laying loosely over his forehead. His familiar wire-rimmed glasses framed his dimly lit eyes. The heat from the vehicle seeped out into the cool evening air, sending shivers through her body as it touched her bare skin. “Rosalie, I’m here to help.”
She shook her head in confusion. “How do you know where I live?”
“I’m here to get you out of this. To help you.”
“I-I don’t need help,” Rosalie stuttered.
“Come on,” Mr. Barnes said, almost raising his voice. “Look at the bruises on your arms and your face and tell me you don’t need help!”
She chewed on her tongue and her heart stopped. “How did you know?”
“I know the signs. I know when someone’s in need.” Her eyes darted to the circular scar above his eyebrow again, a mark that now brought new questions to her mind. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of yelling and crashing pans coming from the house. Mr. Barnes flipped the switch from inside the car, unlocking the doors. “Get in.”
She frowned, shaking her head. “No. I’m not leaving my dad. I can’t.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Mr. Barnes said sharply, his hands tightening their grip on the steering wheel. “Now get in before he comes out here!”
Rosalie searched her teacher’s face for some explanation as to why he was doing this. Her fingers drifted up and traced the red mark on her cheek which still burned from her father’s hand. She took a long breath and forced one more glance toward her childhood home. With that, she hopped into the passenger seat. The headlights turned on and the hum of the engine turned to a roar as the two disappeared into the night.
After half an hour of uncomfortable silence, Rosalie dared to speak. “I shouldn’t have done that. I need to go back.”
“No, no you don’t. And you won’t.” Mr. Barnes was struggling to light a cigarette as his knees worked to control the steering wheel. “You had to get out of there, even if it wasn’t your first choice. It’s never anyone’s first choice.”
They fell back into silence and Rosalie watched the glow of neon diner signs and yellow street lamps blur before her vision. Her eyelids grew heavy and the colored lights outside her window turned into distant images of red and blue and green until all she could see was darkness.
When she awoke, Rosalie realized she was unfamiliar with where they were. There were no buildings or lights or landmarks anywhere to be seen. By the look of it, there weren’t any other cars either. There was only her, Mr. Barnes, and the lonely road. “Where are we?” she yawned sleepily.
“On our way.”
“To where?”
“To get help.” Mr. Barnes wasn’t meeting her eyes when he spoke. He still hadn’t smiled since she’d gotten into his car and his tone was cold and more removed than it had ever been in eighth period English.
“I want to go home.”
Mr. Barnes laughed a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. “We’re going home. Don’t you worry, Rosie.” He fumbled around in his pocket and withdrew another cigarette. He placed it between his teeth before handing Rosalie the lighter. She flipped open the cap and gazed at the flame.
In it, she saw the ruins of her old life being left on the road behind them.
Anna Bankston is a sophomore studying at Washington University in St. Louis. She is currently pursing a double major in Psychology and Women & Gender Studies with a writing minor. For the last couple of years, she has been drawn to writing gothic fiction and is inspired by authors such as Joyce Carol Oates and Flannery O'Connor.