Chapter 1
We're running.
There’s a big field in front of me filled with dandelions, hyacinths, and lilies. Some large willow trees sway in the breeze, surrounded by the big meadow.
I’m six years old. I’m sitting on my father’s shoulders, and have my arms, strewn with charm bracelets, around his neck.
He’s running towards the big oak tree that’s at the end of the field. It’s the biggest and broadest tree on the property, which dwarfs the other trees in comparison.
We’re both laughing; my laugh coming out as a high-pitched giggle, while Dad’s comes out like a deep chuckle. I breathe in that familiar smell of my father’s hair; a soapy, grassy scent.
As soon as I begin to feel like he’s real, he disappears. I fall to the ground and land in a heap between the wheat plants. He’s gone.
The sky is light blue, with a couple puffy clouds making their way east. I stare up at the vast expanse of baby blue and begin to cry.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The old alarm clock wakes me up that morning. The loud beeping echoes through my modest, purple room. Sleepily, I reach over and press the off button.
I slowly open my eyes and checked the time. 7:16 AM. I gasp. Late again.
Pushing myself out of bed, I run to my closet and pick out a plain, bright blue t-shirt that looks oddly familiar. I also pick out a random pair of jeans, stripping out of my PJs and into my day clothes. After that, I rummage through my vanity until I find my sparkly comb, pulling it through my hair a couple times, before making a beeline down the stairs toward the kitchen.
As with every school morning, my mother has set a bowl of corn flakes, a banana, and a glass of apple juice out for me on the kitchen table. She’s sitting in a chair, reading the Corwin Report. She glances up at me before returning to her news.
I take a seat next to her and start chomping down on my corn flakes. We have no time to talk; I have to get on the bus in ten minutes, and she’s in her business tycoon zone. The whole kitchen is silent, except for my relentless chewing.
Four minutes later I finish my cereal and start on my banana. I stare at my mom, analyzing her outfit; gray pencil skirt, white blouse with a collar, and black pumps. This is what I call her bargaining outfit; after all, isn’t Marcia McAllen, Central Ohio’s best real estate agent supposed to look great?
I check the time again. 7:36 A.M. I had to get to the bus. I finished up my food, then go back upstairs and grab my backpack. I go back downstairs and encounter my mom, standing right next to the door. She’s flashing her Marcia McAllen smile, not her mom smile. I haven’t seen her mom smile in a long time. We look at each other for a while before I push open our big, wooden front door. I haven’t hugged my mom in five years. It’s too uncomfortable.
A slow breeze is blowing down our street. Ohio Octobers are usually cold, depending on the weather; it can either snow or be extremely hot. It just depends on the day.
I looked back at our house. It’s not that large but it definitely doesn’t look like a dump. The house is freshly painted in a minty green, while dark green shutters surround the windows. There’s a large porch with some white Adirondack chairs scattered on it that my mom bought in Cleveland while at a convention. The rose bush my mom had planted next to the porch steps a couple months before had started to wilt.
There’s a low groan coming from down the road, and I turn around and head towards the end of the curb. The yellow contraption pulls up to the side, and I go up the filthy steps. I settle down in a seat near the front and lower my backpack into my lap. For a moment, I’m pretty sure that everything’s going to be alright.
Then a crumpled up ball of loose-leaf paper hits my head, and bounces to the right of me. I picked the paper up and unravelll it.
Written in messy, sloppy handwriting was the following message: Hey loser, welcome to hell.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Do you know that feeling you get when you’re on a roller coaster and you’re hurtling down an incline at full speed? You’re gut usually feels like it’s on fire, you’re dizzy, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to upchuck your corn dog all over the person in front of you?
That’s the feeling I get during third period art class.
I slowly make my way towards the stool in the middle of the room. Person #1 sits right next to me. She’s supposedly my friend, but she doesn’t seem like one. She doesn’t smile when she sees me. She just stares, then turns back to the front of the room.
My nemesis sits near the back. I know she and her gang of perfectly pampered preppies will attack me sooner or later. They’re probably all watching me, but I don’t look up from the tile floor. I’ve learned over the years that the best way to ignore someone is to look at the ground.
Person #1 leans over and points to my purple pencil case. Her mouth is moving, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. It’s like listening the Charlie Brown teacher voice on a daily basis. She’s asking for a pencil. She asks for one every day, during every art class since the beginning of September. You'd think as a high school sophomore, she’d remember her own pencil. I have a secret theory that she’s brain dead.
I hand her the pencil. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just refused. If I just told her I didn’t have a pencil, though clearly one was sticking right out the pencil case. Would she still be my “friend”?
Our art teacher, Miss Rosenburg, sets up a still life with oranges, bananas, and apples at the front of the classroom. In her raspy voice, she tells us paint the still life as well as possible. She assigns us to our easels, and once again, I’m next to my nemesis. Miss Rosenburg doesn’t know how much my nemesis tortures me. Miss Rosenburg doesn’t care; all she does is crochet things for her grandson after she assigns us our project.
We all get into our places, adjust our easels and get our canvases from the cupboards. I gulp as I place my canvas on my easel, ready with my paints and brush in hand. My nemesis is surrounded by her friends over by the cupboard with the canvases, giggling about something that probably isn’t important.
I stare over at the fruit arrange and decide to draw the apple first. I put my brush into the cup of red paint and paint a small, curved streak. I reach down again for another glob of red paint.
My nemesis comes back towards her easel and flashes an evil smile towards me. Her long, blonde hair swishes side to side with each step she takes. Her gang follows behind her, caught in a trance by the silkiness of her mane. She sits down on the stool in front of her easel, then looks over at me. She whisper’s into her gang’s ears. They laugh. They snort. They stare at me in disgust. To them I am inferior, for I am not as popular, nor as hot as they are. They’re trying to talk to me. I tune them out. My nemesis’s boyfriend pushes me off my stool. They laugh again.
I’m pretty sure Miss Rosenburg is deaf, because she never hears any of the things that go on way back here. I can tell Person #1 notices. I can’t tell what she thinks, but she never tells any of the teachers or Miss Rosenburg about the gang bullying me. She returns to her painting and tries to capture the fluidity of a banana. The rest of my classmates aren’t as cool as my nemesis’s gang, but they don’t tell anyone either. If they would, they’d have to go through the same torture as I do, right? Why would they want to go through that?
After fifty minutes of pure agony, the bell rings and I finally cheer. At least the worst part of my day is over.
