I am an outcast. I do all the dirty work and watch others enjoy the time of their lives.
Fridays are okay, I thought, what with every one being busy about their plans for the weekends. Thursdays are bad, Wednesdays are tough, and Tuesdays are even tougher.
Mondays are the worst.
I quietly made my way through the river of red, green and blue jackets to my locker. As I hung my jacket, some one shut the locker door on my hand. “Ooops!” he said and laughed. His friends gave him a hi-five and walked away, plotting their next move. They didn’t know, but I could hear every word they say, as the back of their shirts became smaller and smaller down the hallway.
I sighed and looked at my arm. There was a long red mark scarring my hand from the wrist to the crease near my elbow. I put my jacket back on to hide it. It was of no use, at least not here. Every one had seen every thing and they were still musing over the morning entertainment.
First class was English. No one was in the room; I was the first one in. I took the last seat in the farthest corner and fell into daydreaming.
I dreamed about some unclear memories of stealing chocolates from Mark’s school bag. Mark was my big brother and my idol. He was ten years older than me. I dreamed about standing on my dad’s toes and him waltzing me around the living room. I dreamed about holding onto every precious moments with Pico, my grand piano, as my fingers flew on his keys, gently encouraging him to sing.
Some one started throwing balled up pieces of paper at me. I kept my eyes closed and brushed them off. When I opened my eyes, I saw Myra Goodwin staring at me, her cherry-glossed lips frowning as she took in my pale face, shadowed eyes and red curls. Gavin, the guy who bruised my arm, sat next to her.
“Why can’t she just leave instead of stinking up this place?” Myra asked and Gavin said some thing that made every one laugh, but I didn’t even hear him because I was too busy thinking of a flight plan.
A new teacher came in and started writing on the board. His name is Floyd Vanderpole and he wanted to know our names too. Great. This couldn’t have gone better.
When my turn came, all five feet four inches of me stood up. Suddenly, I felt extremely bored. I knew what was coming next.
“What’s your name?”
I answered him, finding my shoelace quite interesting.
“I’m sorry could you repeat?”
I repeat.
“Louder!”
“Her name is Stutt-stutt-stutt-stutter Montez,” some one cracked and the entire room burst into hyena-type laughter. Ha ha. Very funny.
Vanderpole asked the class to be quiet, (as if they would listen!) and came to my side.
“Again?” he said.
“Abigail Montez” I said, hopefully for the last time.
* * *
My name is Abigail Carolina Montez. I was born on 30 June 1996, Dublin, Ireland.
I used to be just any other little girl—innocent, playful and carefree; except for the defect in speaking. Mom and Dad used to help me try to speak the way they did, making me repeat letters like “M”, “B”, “V” and “P” again and again till I got them right. But I could never get them right.
When I was eight, Mom and Dad split. Mom moved to America and Dad stayed in Dublin. Mom got a job as an event organizer at Cloud Nine, which meant she was usually outdoors 24/7 and came home late at night.
I guess that’s all there is to tell about myself, other than things like I’m a confirmed chocoholic and dream to get a scholarship at Julliard School of Arts. Things like how I spend my weekdays at the vet, watching over the animals and some times finding myself holding conversations with them. Some times, I feel like my screws have gone loose and fallen out, but then I remember that this is what happens when you don’t have some one to listen to you. When your words are locked within a treasure chest and waiting to be opened not with a gold key, but with a listening ear that hears every thing you say and everything you don’t say, even if they do not make any sense.
