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Art of Escapism

Alison Ogilvie-Holme

    Today is Friday. Last period before March Break. Mrs. Reynolds dips her sponge into the bucket and begins washing down the blackboard. You silently mouth the words before they dissolve in soapy water. Numbers are the last to go as the date disappears with a final wipe and time is erased forever. Somehow, it feels like a fresh start, as if maybe this one simple act could re-set the universe, transforming you into somebody new.
    “Hey, Laura!”
    Your name draws muted response. Loud enough to be overheard. Quiet enough to be overlooked. You follow the direction of sound to the back of the classroom where a gaggle of eighth grade girls now huddle together in menacing tableau.
    “Where did you get that outfit? I love it! It reminds me of the jogging suit my grandma bought in Florida.”

    The taste of bile burns the back of your throat. You remember the magazine crammed in your desk and retrieve it with shaking hands. Photographs whiz by in kaleidoscope colours as you flip through the pages until randomly selecting an article, ‘Night at the Oscars’. Armed with tangible diversion, you immerse yourself in Hollywood. Pretend to ignore the hateful verbiage, as one-at-a-time, each girl takes a turn swinging the bat.
    “Hey, Laura! What’s that on your face? Better buy some Oxy before you crack the mirror again.”
    And
    “Hey! Laura! What’s the name of your shampoo? Eau de grease? Your hair has that fresh from the sewer look.”
    Every “Hey, Laura” drives you further away from the moment and deeper into an alternate reality until finally a portal opens up in your mind and you cross over to the other side.
    You watch as a beautiful woman ascends the stage and accepts a golden statuette. Her face resembles yours in a flattering, if-I-were-a-movie-star kind of way. She steps up to the microphone and addresses the audience with head held high and shoulders squared.
    First of all, I would like to thank the academy for this great honour. I am extremely humbled to be included in the company of such talented women. Meryl, Glenn, your work has inspired me throughout the years and I share this award with both of you.
    Suddenly an abrupt noise makes you jump, jarring your senses – the dismissal bell.
    “Okay people, you are free to go. Bundle up and enjoy the break.” says Mrs. Reynolds.
    You wait for the classroom to empty out without turning around, even when a hand reaches over your shoulder to deposit a crumpled piece of paper, just begging to be read. A score sheet ranking appearance from one to ten. Underneath your name at the top of the page, a giant zero flanks the percent sign. Desolation creeps in. Weightless detachment, as if your spirit might break free and fly away.
    You close your eyes and willfully teleport back to the Oscars and the lovely lead actress: inhabiting her body, owning her confidence, strutting instead of cowering, apologizing to no one.
    I would also like to acknowledge all of the girls in my junior high school who paid extra special attention to me. Thank you for teaching me to rise above the superficial and for giving me the gift of empathy. The motivation that you provided is the reason why I am standing here tonight instead of sitting next to you on the couch. You made me dream big, and big dreams cannot be denied.

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