Laundry Day

I sat in the bathtub, the water lapping at my waist. I’m not sure how long I’d been there; the bar of soap in my hand was softening to nothing, and the water felt cold on my skin. I blinked several times, finally snapping out of the endless loop of instant replay from this morning. 

I should have said something. I should have said anything. Anything would have been better than walking away when Clarissa tore into me. But I froze up and my mouth wouldn’t work, my brain wouldn’t work, and I’ve been rehashing it ever since. 
It wasn’t even a good insult; she laughed and me for wearing the same pants I wore to school yesterday. I wear the same pants every day, but nobody’s ever said anything before. They probably didn’t notice, by Clarissa needed someone to knock down a peg. 

Rehash, rehash, rehash. I still don’t know what I could have said. I can’t come up with anything that makes sense. 

So I sit here in the bathtub, washing my pants like I do every other night. 

Only this night I seem to have ruined the soap.