Princess Ashley

It was August 14, 2006 when I walked onto Wildcat country for my sophomore year of high school. Bolton Agricultural High School was not such an unfamiliar place this year. This time last year, I was a timid, little, know-nothing, easily impressionable freshmen. But this year was different. With my confidence high, I strutted in as if I expected this year to reveal me as the new “Miss High School Popularity.” I looked down upon those helpless freshmen, just as I had been look down upon my freshmen year, with no intention to help them navigate through the four buildings that composed one of the largest high school’s in the Shelby County School District.

Smiling from ear to ear, I greeted former teachers and friends that I hadn’t seen in over our 80 or so days of summer vacation. Bolton was still the same as I had left. I’m not sure what I expected to change, but as I walked through the halls, the familiarity of this place all flooded back to my memory. The sweet smell of cotton from the neighboring fields permeated through the halls and as I exhaled, I anticipated a year I would never forget.

For the most part, the teachers were back in their former rooms, and locating my classes was entirely effortless. After homeroom, I strategically mapped out the route I would take to get to each class, being sure to take the most sociable route of course. My schedule consisted of an arduous course load filled with Creative Writing, Speech, Honors English II, Honors Algebra II, Honors Spanish II, and finally ending the day with Honors Chemistry. While looking through these classes, I noticed I had one particular teacher twice, Mrs. Ashley Scott. I was scheduled to take her for first period Creative Writing followed later by third period Honors English II. Seeing as she was located across the hall from my Honors English I teacher, as a freshmen I had encountered the short, blonde-haired woman a few times. I began my walk towards the second floor of the East Building. Making my way towards the end of the hall, I felt the warm sun permeating through the window that overlooked Brunswick Road. I made it to the last classroom on the left, Room 248.

The classroom was unlike any classroom I had ever been in. The walls were covered in Winston Churchill and Shakespeare posters. On her desk set a pet rock farm on one side and a hamster on the other. String lights hung from the perimeter and across the room stood a rotating disco ball. Like most teachers, her regulations for her classroom hung on the bulletin board towards the front of the class, but unlike most teachers these “Rules of the Roost” were unique in every way. She added her personal flare to the mundane school policies with witty sayings such as, “Stay in your bubble,” “R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me,” and “Rub a dub dub; don’t bring your grub.” With these wacky rules and relaxed atmosphere, Mrs. Scott’s room was one of a kind.

Everyday I looked forward to going to Creative Writing and English. Although Mrs. Scott’s class clearly piled me up with the most work, from reading several books to writing dozens of papers, English and Creative Writing became two of my favorite classes. Quicker than a blink of an eye, Thanksgiving break was already approaching. I couldn’t believe the year had gone by so quickly. Despite the anxious, rambunctious students, all my other teachers were trying to cram in one last test, but not Mrs. Scott.

As I made my way towards her room for 3rd period English, I could hear loud roars of laughter coming from the classroom. I stepped through the door and was overwhelmed by my teacher prancing around the room in a sparkly blue former show choir dress draped over her clothes. She grabbed a feathery pink boa and wrapped it around her neck and topped it off by crowning herself with a tiara. I laughed so hard I had to wipe the tears from my eyes. After completing what our class called the “Princess Ashley” outfit, she proceeded to take the class roll. Beginning with “Awesome Austin” down to “Pearson Person,” she called each of our names aloud, using the funny alliteration and assonance nicknames she’d given us. At the end of the roll, the last name she called was Diablo. Again, the entire class burst into laughter; for Diablo was an imaginary student that our class had created earlier in the year. As a class joke, Mrs. Scott accepted our fake classmate. Adding a comical twist to our pretend friend, Diablo even took tests as well as completed all the other assignments in class. Going along with the joke, Mrs. Scott even took the time to grade these assignments. We all laughed more when she returned graded papers to him along with the rest of us.

After roll and returning of the papers, the class period had almost come to an end; for we had goofed around nearly the entire class time. To top off the ending of the most fun class period I ever had, we gathered together and took a class picture with Mrs. Scott in her dazzling “Princess Ashley” attire. Following our picture, we all said our goodbyes and departed to enjoy our Thanksgiving break. As we walked out the door, she reminded us to “Be Good. Be Safe. And Behave.”

On the Monday following Thanksgiving break, my mom drove me to school. She was just as afraid of my reaction as I was. We pulled into the parking lot next to East Building. It’s funny how News Channel 3 had arrived before the buses could even pull in. I got out of the car and put my book bag on my back. I stood for a moment and stared at the building. I grabbed the dozen of pink roses from the backseat along with a folded pink poster board. I began to walk towards the flag pole that stood between the North and East buildings. As I walked, I felt the warmth of my best friend whom had caught up with me and grabbed my hand. When I reached the flag pole, hundreds of students were already gathered around. I handed a rose to eleven of my surrounding classmates and watched them each one by one place it on the ground next to the flag pole. I followed. I kneeled down and placed my rose next to theirs and unfolded my bright pink poster board and read the words in bold, “RIP, WE LOVE YOU ASHLEY SCOTT.” As I laid the poster down, tears began to flood down my face. We stood at the pole as long as time would allow before the bell for class to begin rang. Usually this bell had simple meaning; it was time to go to class, but on this day, that bell meant it was time to face reality.

I walked away from the pole and headed back towards East Building. Though I had made this walk some many times before, today it seemed as if it were the longest walk of my life. I looked straight ahead out the same window that had shown so brightly on that first day of school. Today it was dull and dark, but across the clouds there was smearing pink rising of the sun as if there was a faint brightness to this doomful day. Brunswick Road wasn’t just the old country road that usually didn’t have much activity during the day, other than the occasional passing tractor; today it was the site of a million news stations; all trying to get their precious little story from our newly grief-stricken lives. The hallway never seemed so long. Returning to school never felt so wrong. Bolton was not the same as I had left it. It had changed and it wasn’t due to any reconstruction or rearranging of teacher’s classrooms; it was due to a lost presence. I walked into her room and I could no longer hear her voice and without any warning, my face was again flooded with tears. I felt the arms of my guidance counselor wrap around me as if she could shield from the inevitable pain.

I slid into my normal seat, but as soon as I did, I realized that this room would never be normal. This school would never be normal! We were advised not to speak to the media and reminded that school must still go on, but it was too late, school had already failed us. I sat with my head buried in my arms not participating in whatever grief counseling they were trying to force us to do. I caught a chilling breeze and realized I was cold. When I tried to grab my coat, I realized that my whole body hurt to move, so I sat there, cold and stiff. As the tears still rolled down my face, I imagined if this was how Ashley felt. Cold? Stiff? Helpless? No one could help. No one knew how I felt. I’m sure that’s almost precisely how she felt as she was left to lay on the cold abandoned garage floor after being beat by her once true love. I drifted off to sleep and in my dream, I imagined she was still here. I imagined I could still hear her voice. I imagined that her room was still filled with rejoice. I imagined that I had no reason cry because she really didn’t die.

Unfortunately, dreams can’t hide reality and even if they could, this dream would soon turn into a nightmare. There was no flowery, peaceful end to her life. On November 22, 2006, Jeffery Scott severely beat his 27 year old, beautiful, blond wife. After turning her body black and blue, he heartlessly forced her to sleep on the freezing garage floor. The next morning, he dragged her body back into their house. Upon noticing that she was unresponsive, instead of calling the police, he phoned a close friend whom was a doctor. When his friend arrived, he encouraged Jeffery to call the police. On November 23, 2006 at Baptist East Hospital, Ashley was produced dead. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. Ashley’s blood was on Jeffrey’s hands

The sound of the bell rang once again. As I walked out the door, my counselor hugged me again only this time she said, “You know Ashley loved you and she’ll never die in your heart.” She was right. Mrs. Scott did love us. I truly believe she carried us all in her heart. The only twisted thing about that is that she’s dead. Her heart no longer beats and as she lay on the bitter garage floor, we all died with her. I thought back to that first day of school. I got exactly what I wanted: a year I would never forget.

I was only 15 when Ashley Scott died. I was only in tenth grade. People always inquire as to why I want to be a tenth grade English. They always say, “Tenth graders are so hard. It’s such a transitional stage.” They are right. I died. I was lost. Unlike Ashley, I had someone there to resuscitate me though; those other lost and transitional tenth graders.