Northern_Lights_2014

Wolves and Hyenas By Mattie Hoyle I stood there, too afraid to go near the small squares of lockers that the other girls had massed around. Instead, I was about five feet away, my school bag on the cold linoleum floor beside the strange brown bench. An island of darkness in the bright white and pale colors of the locker room, dark brown wooden boards bolted to a black metal frame that came up for another overhead shelf. I could’ve hung my bag on the hooks below that shelf, but I just wanted to get changed as quickly as possible. I was almost done, almost in the clear, when they moved towards me in various states of undress. They seemed to smell my fear, surrounding me like a pack of hungry wolves waiting to attack. The usual taunting persisted, and I rushed even faster to tie my shoes, so I could get to safety, where the coach was. One of the girls stepped out from the pack and started taunting me more and more. Suddenly, a second seemed to want to “one-up” the first, and wiggled her tiny self over to my school bag. “I’m going to pee on your school bag,” she cried gleefully as she began to wiggle her hips towards it, like it was a target. If she had been a guy it would’ve looked like she was taking aim, but it was awkward watching a girl do it. There was only a brief pause as I stood there quietly in disgusted shock, and then the rest of the girls, sensing my reaction, began to chant their approval of the idea. “Do it!” “Pee on it!” “Get closer!” another girl called as she nudged the thrusting and wiggling girl so that she was now over my backpack. When she began to crouch over my backpack like it was a toilet, I snapped into action. I dove for my bag, and clutching it close to my chest, dashed out of the room in time to hear their squeals of laughter. I had thought they were wolves, but wolves don’t laugh; they bark, growl, and howl. Wolves are majes- tic and noble creatures that sing songs of the hunt, sorrow, or wonder. These creatures were no pack of wolves. No, this was a cackle of hyenas with their sickening giggles, oily taunts, and fake smiles. I had learned about those fake smiles long before. Two years earlier, in fourth grade, there had been a split in the girls, a struggle of power between two groups. The first group was the most popular girl in class, her new best friend, and the girls that chose to side with the ones currently in power. The second was her old best friend and the girls she had convinced to join her, most likely trying to use this as a chance for power. I stood on the sidelines to a certain degree, though at the time I was curious as to what was going on. I watched as girls from one group infiltrated the other, smiling those fake smiles, and then returned to their own group with whispers of the terrible things the other girls had said, and both sides would get angry. This went back and forth for what seemed forever, but was most likely only a matter of a week or two. The teacher had found out about it, and had decided to end it. She pulled every last girl out of the class and had us stand outside the door of the classroom. Outside the classroom the groups instantly divided, and I stood quietly, not really a part of either group. The teacher closed the door behind her, and looking at the girls told them simply. 39