The first time I was called a nigger, I was ten years old. I can still remember standing in the middle of the small playground, my arm still in motion from pitching the soft, round kickball and my legs still in mid-stride when he spoke; his small eyes glistened at me with disdain and disapproval and I remember wondering what I had done to possibly offend him.

“Nigger.” The offense was repeated again, but only loud enough for my ears. His small face contracted into a sneer, which revealed all of his horsy teeth.

I remember not knowing what the word meant, but still feeling as if my insides had fallen onto the ground, and as if the air had turned to ash.

I couldn’t breath while I watched my classmate walk towards me, intent on teaching me my place in society.

He had his arm raised and I remember wondering if he was going to try to beat the “nigger” out of me. Maybe then I would be good enough? But, he never had a chance. The whistle blew announcing the end to recess, and suspicious questions from our teacher.

I was only ten, but already I had the feeling that I was not adequate enough. Already, I was being placed into marginalized boxes. Already, being me was not good enough.

Rejection comes in 3 different phases: Humiliation, exclusion and invisibility. The first phase is painful, but manageable. I have dealt with the glares, and questions about my hair, and my lips and my skin color, and I have continued to hold my head high when a peer spat in my face because of my race, but the exclusion is the worst.

One would wonder why I would still want to be friends with the antagonists. Haven’t they already caused me enough pain? Or, maybe I really am stupid and that is why I still want to believe in the idea of community and respect. But having to walk, alone while your peers openly mock and tease you everyday can make even the strongest soon contemplate a million different ways of ending one’s life.

Exclusion is the silent killer that chokes all of its victims.

I wonder how many people I unknowingly propagate into committing such horrific audacities.

I hope the answer is none.




I swore I’d get a 4.0 this year but things aren’t looking that great; not even with the gleaming five-dollar incentive my brother promised me if I could maintain it.

It’s not that I’m indolent, just… busy. Last night I had to spend 3 hours on Facebook so I could harvest my crops on Farmville and then complain to my best guy friend Mike…and that doesn’t even count the costume party or the lecture I gave to Anya.

In all fairness, I’m taking 3 AP classes, and I really feel like my teachers should offer some pity, but all they care about is my test grades and what Scantron bubble I slide my pencil over: A, B, C, D or E. As if some automated test will show my true merit and ability.

Whatever.

It seems like every day I’m failing something, or someone. I try so hard to be liked or to maintain an image that everybody will like, but I always fail. Always. I fail at keeping my grades up, at keeping my best friends happy, and at keeping my family together.

If this would’ve happened a year ago I would’ve freaked, like seriously freaked…but now I’m simply numb, not caring as long as I get a somewhat decent grade. I’m just not able to get into this bull like I used to, and every time I try to change my ways I sink further into them.

I guess when I sometimes pull myself together I do it for my parents, for college, for the simple pride of being able to say, “I have an A…” but I don’t really care anymore. In a way this stuff seems frivolous to me now. I need the crap to get into college yes, but I think my sanity, freedom and the true utilization of my brainpower is more important.

Somewhere along the way the bulb burnt out…and I’ve never really felt the need to replace it.

I want to be a writer. It’s all I’ve dreamed of since I was little, and all I like to do with my spare time. Father says it’s dumb, and that it will get me nowhere, and mother just titters that there is a reason they say artists are starving…as if I need another reason about why writing is a bad idea. Mother says I should get a “nice job and make money.”

Emphasis on the “make money” part.

Mother’s opinion of what a “nice job” consists of: 1) getting married and, 2) having kids.

I said I didn’t care if I had to live in a one-room apartment and eat ramen noodles and macaroni-and-cheese for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At least I’ll feel better than my peers who’ll be in medical school, law school, and dentistry school because I’ll be the only one who had the guts to do what I wanted to do. Right? Right. Making money is for people who can’t do anything else and don’t want to be a burden to society.

When I told my mother that, she frowned. I am used to receiving frowns. Father frowns when I am not at supper fast enough, Mother frowns whenever I get a B on my report card, and my brother Mark frowns whenever I end up doing something he considers stupid. Apparently I do a lot of stupid things.

However, how can writing be stupid when it makes me happy? Mother said that doing what makes a person happy isn’t always the best thing to do. She is always telling me to consider the costs…the costs of doing what I love for practically nothing, the costs of writing until I get arthritis, the cost of slacking off in school. I don’t understand why no one takes the time to think that maybe I don’t want to be the kind of person they want me to be.

I don’t want to make lots of money and end up perfectly miserable in a gloomy mansion. I don’t want to be a lawyer like my father. I don’t want to live the rest of my life following their perfectly dictated words. Of course I want success, but I don’t want it under the exact same terms of my parents. What if I decide to pursue other interests? I just wish that people would think about what I want to do rather than what they want me to do for once.

I am convinced I have what it takes to become a writer; all I need is a person who can help me flourish.



I don't remember not being able to write. My room is covered in different poems from my favorite authors: Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes and Martin Luther King Jr. I feed off of their energies, off of their prose and candor. When I write I feel like I am flying for a few seconds, like I am completely invincible.

When I write I feel strong.

On the wall above my bed is a poem entitled,” Still I Will Rise,” by Maya Angelou. I like the way she gets straight to the point and leaves the reader feeling emboldened

. I admire her courage and strength.

She makes me jealous.

Growing up, I have often carried a notebook by my side so that whenever inspiration hits I can immediately begin to write. I have three notebooks on a stack by my bed and scrapbooks filled with poems I have written.

Mother critiques everything I write. Sometimes I wonder if she will ever stop and appreciate my work, or if everything I do will never fit her narrow expectations. She prints other people’s poems off of the computer and pastes them to the refrigerator. And when I put my poems up on the fridge too, they magically disappear or end up in the trashcan, as if to remind me that I will never be good enough.

I wonder if she knows that I still cry myself to sleep because of her discouraging words. I wonder if she even cares.

Failure

Today,
When you brazenly told me that I can't write,
That I need to watch my weight,
That my face needs to find some pro-active and that I dress
Like a harlot,
I almost cried.

You probably would have displayed sympathetic pretenses
While spewing abuses.

You probably would have laughed at my weakness.

I wonder why you thrive in
Weaving your insecurities around my
Small self-esteem.

Today,
When you read my story
And were silent:
No encouragement, no comments,
Not even a smart remark,
I wondered how I had somehow gotten to be so lucky
To be so ridiculously non-supported.

I wonder why you like to spill your
Decadent lies down my skinny ear tubes,
While whispering that my hair will
Never be silky and smooth,
And that my skin will never be clear.

I think you like to make me
Cry.

I think you like to watch my slippery tears
Cascade down my face and drip onto
My skinny hands.

I wonder if you know that I am
Starvedforaffection,

Or that I have tried 4 different diets in hopes
To pull myself from a size 4 into a size 2,
0r are you too busy content in making remarks about the
Size of my butt?

Today,
When you told me that I will never
Make it to your standards,
I cried, because all of my life reaching your standards was my only goal.

My family isn’t very close. Growing up, my brother Mark and Leah were best friends, but that all changed a few years ago when Leah left for California and modeling school. I think Mark felt betrayed because Leah was always the one who would look out for him, and vice-versa. When Mark needed help with schoolwork, Leah would spend hours with him at night helping him figure out Algebra and then eventually, Calculus. When Leah needed help with soccer, Mark would coach her on how to get the perfect kick.

But now that Leah is gone, Mark and I have been forced to become friends. Growing up, I was usually just the annoying little sister. But now that we are both in High School, Mark as a senior, me as a Junior, we relate differently, and we have learned to respect one another.

Of course, Mark is also everything I am not. When he asks my parents to borrow the car, there is no hesitation, but when I ask it is always, “wait until I can take you.”

Mark comes home with B’s and C’s, practically a sin in my house, but it’s okay because he has basketball and soccer, his niches. Ever since he was a freshman, colleges have been trying to recruit him, and so no matter what is academics look like, he can still go to whatever college he wants.

However, it’s not just sports that make Mark the perfect son. He also doesn’t do drugs or alcohol, and he hasn’t gotten any girls pregnant. He’s dated the same girl, Vanessa Leane, since middle school. What gets my mom is that Mark offered to take her to his senior prom. Nobody asks his or her mother to senior prom, but Mark did. He sucks-up without even knowing it, which is what makes him so perfect.

Mark is also a clean freak. He likes everything to be compartmentalized and in it’s place. Thus, my not so subtle fascination with rebellion has not come in handy with him. We don’t always see eye-to-eye. He has to be on time, I like to sleep; he likes ridiculously scary action-movies, I’m content with Titanic and dance movies; he likes to get B’s, I’m driven to get A’s…or, I used to be.

When we argue, my mother usually sides with my brother, her lips pursing in exasperation as I voice my concerns. She calls them my “trivial distresses.” Although, my brother and I don’t agree on much, we do agree on my career choice: writing. This positively flabbergasts my parents. If he can be so perfectly compliant with their wishes, why can’t he convince me to do the same?

It’s as if I am intended to follow in his perfect steps.

Most of the time I am amazed that Mark wants me to write, in fact he blatantly encourages me to do so; however, my parents are not about to change their minds. To them, my goals in life are trivial and not worth pursuing. I am an imperfection; a mere blemish on my parent’s perfect faces.

I think my parent’s baby me too much. I have 10pm curfews and have to wear my shorts below my knees and my shirt one size bigger than what actually fits. My parents say it is to keep me from becoming a slut-which is what I suddenly become when I wear clothes that fit. Tank tops are the making of the devil, and I know that I can instantly have my mother praying for my soul whenever I attempt to roll my sleeves up. Showing skin is the mark of the prostitute.




Unlike my brother, I am not willing to do everything it takes to suck up to my parents. Unlike my brother, I still scream/shout/yell to get my way. Unlike my brother, I still have scars that I am dealing with. He sees the world through a magical kaleidoscope, he sees the magentas and oranges and lavenders. He sees the world as an innocent. He hasn’t been confronted and polluted with the horrors and terrors that I have experienced. He doesn’t know that the world can break him into a million different pieces.

He doesn’t know that the world will regurgitate him into a thousand different splinters of what he used to be.

He doesn’t know what I do.

On the worst day of my life I was wearing a blue dress. Not dark blue, not navy, polluted blue but cloudy sky blue. I was wearing blue because it was he-who-must-not-be-named birthday, and his favorite color was blue. I hate dresses! Hate them! But I wore a dress for him; I wore it to be celebratory. He was turning 16 after all.

Primarily, he was my brother’s friend. Someone he knew from school, someone who would occasionally come over to our house. He had always smiled strangely at me, as if wanting something from me that I didn’t quite understand even though I was 13.

I understand it now.

I hadn’t expected an innocent game of hide and seek to be interrupted so rudely. He didn’t even knock; he wasn’t even playing the game but he found me: a quiet statue in the bed. He found me and didn’t care that I was thirteen and too young/sheltered to recognize the lust in his eyes. All he cared about was getting what he wanted, about getting what I didn’t want him to have.

His hands were all over my spindly frame. He touched me in places I had never cared/wanted/hoped to let a guy touch, and he let/made me touch him. He told me it was a game, and I believed him.

Absurdly, I believed him.

He told me to kiss him, to pucker up my innocent thirteen-year-old-lips and touch them to his lips, to his cheeks, to “whatever I wanted honey.” But I screamed and told him to “stop, just please stop.” He pretended he didn’t hear; he didn’t care what I wanted.

From under the folds of the sheets, I could hear the creak of the stairs, announcing another’s arrival. My assailant kicked me out of the bed onto the floor, his dark eyes flashing as he zippered up his sagging, brand name jeans.

“Sometimes I just don’t what is wrong with you,” he said sardonically, as I stumbled my way out of the navy blackness of the room. “Any other girl would be happy to be you.”

I wanted to tell him that I am not just any other girl.

Over the next couple of months I began to think the assault was my fault. So I wrote him notes about the incident.

I don’t know why.

I guess I wanted to apologize for my part of it, wanted to make the nightmares go away. Nevertheless, he ignored me and treated me like I was dirt whenever I was around. He acted like it was my fault, he made me feel like I had no reason to live because I was useless; I was tainted and somehow it was entirely my problem.

Two weeks later he was screwing another girl. Another girl who didn’t scream, and didn’t care that he was selfish. Another girl that is probably more popular than I will ever hope to be.

I try not to scream anymore.

I hate the way he, my glorious ex-word, Chase, leaks into my dreams. I’m so good at avoiding him at school, and yet I can’t escape him at night in my own bedroom.

I hate when I dream about him. They’re always the same. He’s forever popping up into some place he doesn’t belong and bothering the crap out of me. However, last night was a bit strange.

“Sara,” he had said, just that: my name over and over again, as if he was the ghost of Christmas past. His topaz eyes widening and narrowing like an eclipse as he spoke; and then he laughed, a hollow sort of laugh, as if to mock all of my troubles, all of my ambitions.

I wanted to ask him what had happened between us, why he said we would never work. Why he had dissipated all of my dreams and left me a broken, empty shell. But then he was disappearing: flickering and sparkling into muted colors until he vanished, leaving me alone in my dark bedroom with my myriad of broken, ephemeral dreams.

My eyes struggle open, fighting against the small grains of sand that glue my eyes and lashes shut. Ineptly, I turn and glance at the clock, trying to read the small iridescent numbers with my sleep-saturated mind. Dangit.

I hate when I do this: wake up before the alarm clock goes off. I can never fall back asleep again, some sort of weird sleep issue I guess. I don’t really know for sure. I don’t know very much of anything anymore. And the weird thing is, I’m beginning to not care about not knowing things. Sometimes I pretend I am invisible, lulling into the ebb and flow of everyday life, floating into oblivion.

Forcing myself to crawl out of my cocoon, my eyes slowly adjust to the dim light streaming in through my window. White lace borders the top of my window; and I stare languidly out at the dark night sky. The paling moon and stars have not quite yet faded into the morning; instead the stars twinkle and shimmer, casting their brightness through the fog and smog of the early morning.

The wonders of the sky never cease to amaze me. The giant orbs of gas, the puffy clouds and the immeasurable, splendor of the heavens always quiets me. This morning though, the moon hangs in the sky, a ghostly half smile, as if mocking me for waking up early, and attempting to organize myself for another day.

Ding! My alarm goes off, and I struggle to find the “off” button. I hate alarm clocks. I hate waking up early. And, as contradictory as it sounds, I hate hating things.

My room is a wreck. Irritated, I stare at the piles of books on the floor. Their lifeless leather cases beg to be devoured, and I can’t help but sigh as I stare at the mounds of grubby clothes and undone homework that litters the carpet.

I don’t like wrecks, don’t like the way junk clutters the symmetry of cleanliness. I don’t like the wads of paper, the scads of forgotten pencils, the yellowing books lying on skewed piles of dust and grime. I don’t like wrecks, or the cobalt and slate feeling of chaos and disorder.

However, lately I feel like the more I try to do something I enjoy, the more my life ends up in a wreck. Take Farmville for example: somehow Farmville has a way of taking my perfectly good homework intentions and construing that into a farming addiction, forcing me to fritter away evenings click-harvesting crops. That’s what happened last night anyways, thus my room is a wreck.

Clumsily, I grab at some clothes, pulling denim and plaid out from random drawers while running a hand through my unkempt hair. Running out of my room, I trip down the narrow, wooden stairs and land on my butt at the bottom with a loud “harrumph.” I can tell I’m going to have a bruise, and I get to my feet gingerly, testing my weight on my legs to make sure I am not seriously hurt. Checking the time on my watch, I bite my lip to keep from cursing. I missed the bus.




Stepping outside, I slam the door shut and breathe in the fresh air of lilacs and wet grass while expelling from my lungs the pallid stench of my house. Birds chirp happily from hedges and morning doves coo out their greetings from nearby arbors and trees.

My feet slow across the pristine sidewalks as I trudge down the street. I love mornings, love the fresh smells of the flowers and unpolluted air. I love the cherry blossoms that litter the sides of the sidewalks; pink frosting on an asphalt cake. Cherry blossoms always put me in a thoughtful mood. I always feel like I can put the entire world into perspective when I smell their sweet yet distinctive aroma.

My street is quiet and predictable. Every front lawn is properly manicured and every hedge is in its intended shape. My house, a simple brick frame with high windows and enigmatic looking tresses, looks completely lovely and conventional on the outside, even though a broken family lives inside it. Trees, marigolds, poppies and a giant flowering lilac bush surround our house. My parents and I had planted the bush a few years ago, during a brief time when it seemed like my parents could tolerate each other. Of course, those good times are long gone.

Dissension in my family, like in most families, was gradual. Nobody goes to bed expecting to wake up angry; nobody gets married expecting a divorce; and nobody starts a relationship anticipating a breakup. A couple of years ago, my family seemed to be all right. We could talk and behave decently, laughter wasn’t strained, and my parents didn’t have so many wrinkles.

I don’t know if I can pinpoint an exact point where everything just seemed to go downhill, they just did. My father began to spend more and more time away, and my mother began to get bogged down with her work. Home wasn’t a sanctuary anymore; instead it became a venting room. My mother would traipse in through the rooms with her briefcase filled with files from work; my dad would infuse himself with more work on his laptop.

My parents no longer communicated or expostulated “I love you’s.” Instead, they began to fall apart, their lives draining into convoluted nothingness. And as they fell, so did the rest of the family. They created a domino effect.

My feet shuffle across the cold cement; and I hitch my backpack over my shoulders. Mark probably left for school a good forty minutes ago. He is such a good boy. Sometimes I wish I could be “good” like him.
If only life wasn’t so complicated.

Nervously, I run my fingers through my hair as I trudge through the neighborhood. I wish I could pinpoint where everything suddenly seemed to slip through my fingers. I simply don’t care about anything anymore, don’t care about what people think, don’t care about grades, don’t care about family and I certainly don’t care about myself anymore.

A sigh escapes my lips, and I glance around, my eyes lighting on familiar landmarks: Crazy Ed’s hedge where Mike and I used to find baby bunnies; the now, dilapidated swimming pool we would frequent as elementary school kids; Anya’s house. She’s so mad at me that she refuses to talk to me.

Normally, I would be fretting about this, trying to make it right so that we would be best friends again, but this time I’m not. I’m sick of the bad choices she makes, of having to rescue her all the time and of listening to her whines.

Frankly, I don’t care anymore.

“Sara, I can’t believe you dragged me into doing this.”

“Michael, smile. You’re going to scare the little kids.”

I smile as he glares at me, and lead him into the brightly colored room, where little kids sit scribbling their hearts out on colored paper.

Michael and I know everything about each other, just like Anya and I know everything about each other, except my relationship with Michael is different, not better, but different.

Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to be his girlfriend, to be able to stay in his hugs a little longer, to be able to hold his hand around school. However, I already know it would never work out between us. Or at least, that is what I force myself to believe.

“Yeah but I suck with little kids,” Michael grabs me by the hands and gives me puppy dog eyes, and I can almost feel myself caving. Almost.

“Michael, you suck at everything-but the kids are little, so they won’t even notice…much.” I smile up at him, letting myself drift into his liquid topaz eyes. He drops my hands and looks like he’s going to stick his tongue out at me, but he sees people watching and reconsiders.

“I bet you couldn’t stop yourself from insulting me all day even if you tried.”

“Hmm, probably not.”

Originally, I had started mentoring last year, at first for no other reason than to fluff my college applications with, and as a way to do community service for National Honors Society. But now, I honestly enjoy it. It’s a great way to spend Wednesday afternoons.

Laura, my little novice, approaches me, waving her lollipop and giving me a wide 3rd-grade toothy grin. I envelope her in a hug while she rattles off how her week went; bellowing her off key mantra into my ears, while I suppress a grimace.

“I wonder if people know who’s the mentor and the mentee out of the two of you. You guys are practically the same size.” Michael’s whisper tickles my ear, and I frown at him.

“Haha, very funny.”

“Four feet, zero inches of funny.” He grins at me and wiggles his eyebrows.

Sometimes I don’t know why I think I’m in love with Michael Carter.




On the second worst day of my life I wore overalls with a small, strappy black shirt underneath and silver earrings.

It was two weeks before the end of freshman year. Two weeks before summer and beaches and glorious freedom. Two weeks of pure torture.

School had never been a menace before to me, I had never been afraid to walk down the hallways; I had never been shoved into a locker or physically hurt. I had no reason to be afraid.

Running to eighth period, I stopped for a drink at the water fountain, hoping to quench my thirst with the foul, tepid water. But someone was there first. He was there first: the enigmatic boy, the one everyone thought was a killer because of his eye color: slate gray. I recognized his long brown hair and usual gothic attire: Black combat boots, black pants, black button up long sleeve shirt, and a black cape.

He called my name, “Sara,” and unconsciously I walked forward. I don’t know what I expected, for him to move away and let me get a drink, I guess. But he didn’t; he just laughed at me and reached out his arms, as if expecting me to embrace him. Suddenly his thick, meaty hands were crawling up my spine, and around my neck until they shut off my flow of oxygen. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t.

He whispered my name over and over again like a funeral dirge.

“Sara, Sara, Sara, Sara.” His breath smelled like mint and hard liquor, and my skin crawled as he pulled my body closer to his and we began our dance of death: his body snaking faster and faster around mine, as I pulled and twisted away. However, I knew I wouldn’t win.

I never won.

This would be where I would die. I was sure of it.

I could sense the world going black, could feel myself dissolving into oblivion and I tried to prepare myself for the end, for whatever came next, but all I could think was “I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not ready.”

Nobody prepares you for the end. I remember thinking that if I had a choice; I would want to die in my sleep. I had never thought I would die like this, with my eyes snapping a million Kodak pictures while my breath constricted into nothingness.

In a final effort to save myself, I rammed him with my fists, snapping back my arm and then thrusting my tightly squeezed fingers into his groin. Instantly, the pressure around my neck was released and I was gasping in the stuffy, compressed air as I stumbled to class.

I didn’t tell anyone about the incident. Having lost my trust in authority long ago, I suffered quietly until I got home. Alarmed by my complacency, my brother elicited the truth out of me. My mother called the school and I had to sit down and talk to the principle and my attacker as well as multiple policemen.

The police said what he did to me was one number short of a felony. They charged him on three accounts: Possession of a weapon on school property, harassment and terroristic threats. That shit is going to be on his permanent record. No Ivy-league colleges for him.

And yet, sometimes at night when I am sleeping, I can still feel his fingers constricting around my throat, and I wonder if maybe some people aren’t better off dead.

I like to drift. I’m always drifting; my teachers call it daydreaming. I have this tendency to forget lectures, tests and other extraneous things, but I figure, if they weren’t so boring I wouldn’t be doing it, so it really is not my problem. Right? Right.

Time seems to drag as I sit in Spanish class. Closing my eyes, I try to block out the monotone voice of my teacher explaining the differences between the subjunctive and the indicative. I don’t even know what the subjunctive and indicative forms are in English, so how the heck should I know what they are in Spanish?

Sleep folds into the corners of my eyelids, and I can feel myself sinking into dreamland, when she hisses my name.
“Sara.”

I don’t open my eyes, and Anya taps my shoulder. I know it’s her because, besides the fact that she is my best friend and I would recognize her voice anywhere, she is the only one who bothers to talk to me in this class.

“What?” I whisper back, sleep still sticking to my eyelids and lashes, as I noncommittally pry them open.

She passes me a note; chicken scratch emblazoned on crumpled notepaper.

I hate crumpled paper.

I open it when Mr. I-Know-it-all-and-hate-when-kids-pass-notes turns back to the board.

“Sara,” her note reads, “I have something BIG to tell you!”

A sigh escapes my lips as I scan the note. “Did Devonte look in your direction? Oooh wait, did he smile? Oh my gosh, I hear wedding bells?” I whisper.

“Sara, don’t be an ass. I’m serious, this is HUGE,” she hisses.

I wait until the teacher turns around again, before I write, “Okay, what is it?”

The bell rings, and everybody jumps out of their seats and runs for the door; as if one more second in the classroom would kill them

“Devonte asked me out.”


You don’t understand. Devonte McConahay is the biggest idiotic jerk in the whole word. I call him King Jerk because of all of the things he has done.

Freshman year, he screwed over Kirsten Lance by “accidentally” leaking a nude photo of her onto Facebook. She’s never been the same since.

Sophomore year he screwed over Katy Roberts by claiming she was a lesbian, and sent pictures all over school of her and her supposed girlfriend. She transferred schools; couldn’t deal with the smirks and whispers sent her way. And Junior Year he wanted Anya.

I told Anya that she was crazy if she took him seriously. He says the same thing to every girl; that he’s in love with her; that she’d look pretty without any makeup on, and then somehow he convinces her to do things not even most pinups would do.

She says he’s “misunderstood.” A different guy who is the “King Jerk” spread Kirsten Lance’s photo. And the reason Katy Roberts left school was because her dad switched jobs and they had to move.

Bullshit: Emphasis on the shit.

But Anya doesn’t believe me. When we were eight, and sitting on her roof, I told her she wouldn’t be able to fly if she jumped off the roof. She didn’t believe me then, but luckily there was a trampoline to catch her.

What safety net does she have now?

I want to tell her that Devonte never changes. He likes to chase girls only to mess them up indefinitely. He lives on ruining their souls, and he has always loved to harass me. Michael usually comes in time before the harrasment gets too bad, but sometimes he doesn’t.

Devonte likes it when the girls scream and yell at him. It excites him.

He likes to touch my hair and to whisper indecencies to me in the hallway.

I. Hate. Him.

A few months ago, Anya and I promised never to be like those girls: Girls like Missy and Amanda with their lustrous long blonde tresses and group of blundering sycophants.
A couple of months ago, Anya and I decided that we were done with petty squabbles and trivial disagreements.

A couple of months ago we decided that if it ended up just being us against the world, than that was okay. Somehow, as long as we had each other we knew we would be okay.

It’s kind of weird how everything can change in a matter of seconds.

I don’t know what to do about Anya. I guess it’s not really my problem what she decides to do, but in a way it is; she’s my best friend. Because my next class is with Michael I vent to him as we stretch for PE.

“She won’t listen to me Michael,” I complain, gasping slightly between every other sit up. His knees press into my feet, holding my small frame in place against the yellowing floor tiles.

“Then it’s not your problem. Just forget about it.”

Boys, I grumble. They wouldn’t recognize a crisis if it killed them.

“But she’s my best friend and is about to make the worst decision of her life, seriously, it’s Devonte!”

He rolls his eyes. “Then deck her or something.”

“I can’t just hit her…and I still can’t believe he asked her out.”

“Sara, honestly, he did. She likes him. Get over it.”

Glaring at him, I sit up, breathing in his oxygen as our faces nearly touch. He smells like mint and newly washed clothes, pressed and freshly starched.

“You’re not helping. What if it was me?” I bemoan, “You’d say something wouldn’t you?”

He smirks at me, and I can’t help but notice his dimples: Two adorable little indents on the upper parts of his cheeks.

“Are you serious? Don’t you remember that time with Chase, or what about Josh? And I definitely told you ‘no’ about Dan. I practically had to shake you silly just to hear me, and even then you didn’t care…” his voice drifts off, and I swear I’m blushing. Those were…situations I don’t want to think about.

“I wasn’t thinking,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

“Oh really? I thought it was love.” He mimics my voice perfectly, and I force a smile for him. “See. Exactly.” He beams at me, misinterpreting my grin as his success.
“But Devonte’s different,” I manage. Mike smirks, “really, he is. He’s a jerk, an idiot, a liar, and…”

“So you’re saying the others weren’t? I mean; you don’t exactly have to be a rocket scientist to know that they were first class dicks. I mean, I even think your exes classify as jerks. Dan was completely over-protective so much that it was scary, and he walked over you and even hurt you physically sometimes. Josh always had nasty peanut butter breath and looked like a girl. I mean, I know chicks dig long hair, but that was like “Pantene model” hair, and…”

“We are so not talking about me right now!” I interrupt, stomping my foot in frustration.

“Did you seriously just stomp your foot Sara? I thought girls only did that in the movies.”

“Mike.” I glare at him until his smirk fades and he raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Fine,” He sighs, and adds, “Okay, Devonte is a dick. I know this; you know this…” he sighs and stares at me. “But like I was going to say, you don’t need to convince me. You’ve done your part as a friend by warning her, so now all you can do is just watch from the sidelines and wait for her to come back.” He’s sitting beside me now, stretching his arms across his chest as he speaks.

“Is that what you did for me?” I ask, the words slipping off my tongue unchecked.

He looks at me for a moment and then smirks. “I thought we weren’t talking about you, remember?”

“Fine,” I retort and hope my disappointment doesn’t show. I lie down to complete my sit-ups when he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“But if you must know Sara, yeah, that’s what I did.”

I can feel myself flushing, but then he adds,

“Just don’t ever do it again, okay? I mean, by now you should know that I’m always right, so if you just listen to me, you’ll never get hurt.” His eyes twinkle as he says this, and I suppress another glare and finish my sit-ups in silence.

Another fact about Mike: He always thinks that he’s right, and obnoxiously he usually is.




When Chase dumped me I didn’t know how to handle it. We had been walking hand in hand through the hallways, the envy of the entire school, when he unceremoniously dumped me as we entered the cafeteria. It wasn’t even a dump, it was more of an, “oh yeah, meet my girlfriend on the side…”

His hands had dropped like lead weight from mine when we entered the cafeteria, and this girl came running at him. She was a visitor, some girl that lived in Texas.

I can still remember the ridiculous pink outfit she had on: A too-tight shirt that exposed an obviously fake tanned strip of midriff and a pair of ridiculously bright pink tights that showed her butt crack when she bent over.

She ran up to him and kissed him in front of everyone. Their tongues danced and tangled together, and I remember thinking they looked like frogs fishing for flies.

Disgusting.

He didn’t even apologize or try to explain their behavior. Not that I would have believed his attempt to lie his way out of it anyways. Instead, he looked at me and said I deserved because she would do more things anyways. He said she was beautiful.

Beautiful.

Apparently, I don’t know the first thing about being beautiful. I don’t think he knows too much about being beautiful either. He was/is too busy telling everyone that I was/am too worthlessdumbuglyclingy to be valuable.

He doesn’t know what valuable is. He loves everylittlething about himself. He is incapable of loving anything or anyone because he is always too busy trying to get ahead.

I hate everysinglething about him, and what makes it worse is that he doesn’t care.

When Josh dumped me, I was prepared. I knew it was coming, I just hadn’t figured out how to abandon him first. I had never been taught how to break-up.

However, he, at least, had the decency to wait until we were alone to tell me. He, at least, said that we could still be friends and that he would still like to hang out with me. He, at least, had never cheated on me.

Josh and I don’t talk much. All of our conversations seemed compulsory, like one who is forced to draw a picture they don’t really feel like drawing, and so they smear the ink on purpose, and tell the teacher that they tried. We don’t hate each other; we just don’t have anything in common anymore but old hugs and forgotten kisses.

Dan was acceptable at the time. He was more of a person to fill-the-time-with, than somebody I imagined who would be permanent. He was more of a rebound, I guess. I dumped him two weeks after we first starting being official. He was too verbally abusive and close-minded.

Anya said he was/is a “pathetic excuse of a boy.”

Dan is now dating some tramp from a different school. She is probably someone who doesn’t mind his pathetic attempt at relationships, or his verbal battering, someone with lower self-esteem than me.
Michael had hated all of them. He said they were all using me to gain status. He said I was making myself look like a fool by parading myself around with them. He said I deserved better.

I hate when people tell me that, and then I never can find anyone “better” that wants me. Nobody “better” wants me. And I don’t blame them because most of the time I don't want myself.

When I was in that depressed sort of stage, all I had to do to start crying was repeat their words over and over in my head, “you are worthlessstupiddumbugly. Worthlessstupiddumbugly.
Worthlessstupiddumbugly.”

Anya said that I should ceremonially burn all of the things they had given me: The rings, the charm bracelets, the Valentines cards and notes and chocolates. Anya said that I should regurgitate their words and throw them into roaring fires.

Anya said that I was/am better than them.

I didn’t/don’t believe her.

(Dedicated to Chase Woods)

There are not enough
Mirrors


Mirrors




Mirrors
For him to see his reflection 3002 times.

His fingers are not strong enough
To run through his hair as many times
As he would like
And I get tired of him talking about
Everylittlething about himself.

Sometimes,
I am surprised he even remembers my name.

I can tell you
Everylittlething about him.

I know his favorite color/book/car/food/clothing store and type of shoe.

He can barely remember my name,
And when he does he never spells it correctly: Sarah, Sarai, Sarra.

He drives me
INSANE.

There are too many
Girls that would rather pine over him
Than notice his flaws,
And he is content to let them
Bat their eyelashes at him
Because they love him almost as much as he loves himself.

Silly narcissist.

There are not enough
Mirrors


Mirrors




Mirrors
For him to see his reflection 3002 times,
But I have enough sense to realize that I am
Wasting my time by pretending that we are
Friends.

My mind is in overload the rest of the day, and I can’t help but wonder if the teachers think it’s funny to give extra homework over breaks. I sure don’t. They hate grading papers and I hate doing busywork, so you would think we would be able to work something out. But no, schools don’t believe in compromising.

Trudging slowly through the halls of aluminum and linoleum, I count the numbers to my locker, and jam my fingers again while trying to open it.

Why doesn’t the school invest in new lockers? Oh wait, because we’re too cheap: Too cheap for regular lockers, but not for big expensive ‘green’ buildings that can supposedly help save the world by helping to stop global warming…Oh wait, global warming is a scam.

A curse slips out through my lips, but loses itself in the cacophony of voices and metallic locker doors slamming shut. Somebody pushes me hard, and I slam my already jammed fingers back into my locker.

“Watch yourself jerk!”

I turn around, ready to deck somebody, but find myself glaring up into Michael’s smiling face. He smells like mint and old spice.

“Somebody’s having a bad day.”

Wow. You are such a genius. NOT.

I can’t help but glare at him. Why is he always in such a freaking good mood?

You jammed my fingers,” I mumble, as I try to grab the rest of my bazillion pound books. “And I need to catch the bus, so please get out of my way.”

“Come home with me.”

“That sounds like a bad idea on a number of different accounts,” I mutter, and continue jamming loose papers and wrinkled books into my already overstuffed messenger bag.

“No, I’m serious. We can hang out and I’ll be on my best behavior.”

I roll my eyes. Michael’s idea of “best behavior” isn’t really mine. Besides, the fact that he still thinks it is funny to burp, hilarious to tickle me and humorous to watch me stumble, I’m not exactly inclined to go anywhere with him.

“I gotta…” My voice cuts off in the middle of my sentence at the undeniable rip, and scattering of papers as my bag falls out of my grasp. “DANGIT!” I hurry to pick up the books and papers as Mike smiles mischievously, and murmurs,

“Sooo, now that you missed the bus…”

“I’ll call my mom to pick me…”

“Up?” Mike looks at me smugly, as if he knows I’m going to end up at his house whether I like it or not. After all, we’ve been best friends since diaper days, and our moms have been best friends since they were in high school.

“She’s gonna be home late,” I mutter, remembering the vague note she left on the refrigerator that morning.

I hate not having a license.
I kick my locker closed, and struggle under the stack of books.

“Here, need a hand?” His hand sneaks around my waist and grabs a book off the stack.

“Back off, Michael. Where’s your car?”

“Umm…” He pretends to think about it as I stand there struggling under the load of books, pain throbbing in my fingers.

“Can you just help me out here and take these? Or, you know, drive the car up here.”

“Oh, so now you need my assistance, but I have to help you however you want me to. Well, I just remembered that I have a doctor appointment, and I really don’t cater to girls who treat me with insolence.”

Fighting the urge to curse at him, I bite my tongue and glare up at him. “Mike!” Slowly he turns around and looks at me, waiting for my inevitable question. Seething, I grit my teeth and try not to gag as I ask him nicely for a ride.

“You forgot the please, your highness.” He turns on his heel and begins walking away again.

Stomping my foot impatiently, I grind my teeth together and bellow, “Dangit! Mike, fine! Please your highness may I have a ride in your car?”

Glancing around, I watch the meandering crowds of high school students freeze for a second and stare at me as I stand there, yelling at Mike across the parking lot. Part of me wants to flick them off, while the other part of me just wants to melt into the asphalt.

Stupid, nosey busybodies.

“Sure, but hurry up, I don’t want to be late.” He turns back around, his hands in his pockets and begins to whistle.

Sometimes, I almost hate him.

Hurrying, I struggle to catch up with him. Loose papers fly out of my hands and sail across the parking lot, landing on cars and on bits of grass and pebbles. Cursing, I ignore them, and hurry to his car, not wanting to make him late to his stupid doctor appointment. Opening the car door, I sit down heavily and slam the door.

“I hope you’re not late,” I mumble, glancing at the clock. Even if he will be late, I won’t be sorry. But I don’t tell him this.

He stares at me for a second and then smiles, his eyes dancing. “Oh, I really don’t have a Dr. appointment, I just said that because I knew you would look really funny running with all of those books.”

I let out a long sigh, and glare at him. Who needs enemies with friends like him?





The first memory I have is of Michael. I remember sloshing in a washbasin, and him splashing the water with his little palms, and then dunking his head.

He would always pee in the washbasin, and then I would cry. But every time I cried, he would always put his little hand on my wrist, as if to comfort me. Even from the very beginning, he was always there for me.

He’s really not a good driver, I think as we lurch around another curve and my stomach thinks about declaring this fact across his brand new black leather interior.

“Are you okay? You’re looking a little green.” His voice is soft, and I refuse to look at him.

He is such an idiot sometimes. His “I have a doctor’s appointment” rings in my ears as I glare at the floor.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so instead I nod an enthusiastic “no” and mime puking. Instantly he pulls off the road, whip lashing to a stop, and I silently swear to never go with him anywhere again.

“Better?” He cracks my window, and gazes at me intently.

“I almost died,” I croak. I rotate my head slowly to make sure that there are no broken bones, and open the door, only to be frozen by the wind.

“You know the wind chill is like, 15 degrees,” he murmurs, and I slam the door indignantly. “Be careful, this is a brand new Chevy,” he warns, and coasts back onto the freeway.

“Could’ve fooled me. Seriously, 65 miles per hour in a 35 zone? You drive this like a maniac. ”

“Why thanks.”

“You’re not welcome, and if you ever think I’m riding with you again you’re crazy.”

“Well, then I guess you won’t mind if I drop you and your ungrateful little ass off. Right. Here.” He lurches off the road again into a ditch and I hit my head on the dashboard.

“What are you doing? It was your idea I come along,” I demand, furious with him for his erratic driving, for the headache and sure bruise that is growing, for missing the bus, and for Anya making yet another stupid mistake.

“It was my idea because I thought we would have fun, not that you would grouch the whole time. What the hell is wrong with you, Sara?” His eyes burn into mine, and instantly I’m on my guard. He’s never been this direct with me. “Is it the fact that Anya has a boyfriend and you don’t? Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re stuck with me in a car. Did somebody piss you off today? Or are you just having one of those girly days? You’ve been biting my head off, and I’m rather sick of it, so if something is wrong, tell me! I mean, I think I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s wrong, so why all the crap?”

“What the hell is wrong with me? You’re the one trying to kill me with your horrible driving, and I have the bruises to show for it!” I point to my head, and he continues to stare at me.

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. It won’t happen again, but like I said, I think I’ve known you long enough to tell when something is wrong with you.” His voice trails off, and I watch his fingers encircle around each other as he waits for an answer.

I close my eyes and sigh. I don’t want to tell him anything. Don’t want to tell him about waking up late, about my awful dream, or about my problems going on at home. I don’t want him to know that my dad has been staying away longer than usual, that my parents spend more time arguing when they are together than anything else, or that I’m constantly wishing I was someone else. I blink back tears. Why did he have to bring this up? Tears fill my eyes, and anxiously I wipe them away.

“Sara,” he murmurs. His voice is gentle and beckoning.
“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Sara, please?”

I glance over at him, his eyes stare into mine, and I can feel myself losing my resolve.

“Is it your family?” His words catch me off guard, am I that transparent? How did he know? “Look, your mom called my mom this morning on her way to work. She was worried about you.” His words gently fill the cracks and spaces of my apprehension, but I still don’t want to talk about this because I don’t want him to see me as just another troubled girl.

She was worried about me, huh? Worried so much that she called his mom, and yet she didn’t talk to me about it. Worried so much that she continues to fight and argue with dad, but not care to try and change.

Worried, huh. I’ll bet.

The sarcasm is thick in my thoughts, and silently, I shake my head. I don’t want to deal with this today.

“So, your parents fight?” His eyes are filled with blue question marks, and curiosity.

I can feel myself coming to a wall. “That is not really any of your business.” My voice is crisp and succinct, and I wonder when I was able to sound so cold, so matter-of-fact.

I can take care of myself. I’m a big girl.

“Fine. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want, I just thought I could try and help.”

I can feel myself losing myself in the warmth and sincerity of his words. Nobody ever cared this much about me. Nobody ever wanted to help me sort out my feelings. Suddenly, I’m crying, and his perfect face is blurring with the blue rain and sky outside.

“You can’t fix this.” My words pop out, and suddenly I’m babbling, my words flying out of my mouth uncontrollably. “You can’t fix my life. You have a perfect house, and a perfect life, and perfect parents, and you can’t fix this; you can’t fix me. Whenever my parents are together they fight, and you know what I do? I cower in my room with my pillows across my face and I cry…” My voice stops, and I wipe a hand across my face to stop my tears and to stop the truth I don’t want to have to face.

Somehow, voicing the pain just makes the pain more real. It makes me disbelieve the lies I’ve told myself a million times.

“Sara, it’s okay.” He hesitates, as if not knowing what else to say, as if trying to reassure me. I don’t want him to; he doesn’t owe me anything, and I certainly do not want his pity.

I stare at him. It’s okay? Is he insane? I open my mouth to protest, but he pulls me across my seat and into his arms. And suddenly I’m melting unwillingly in his reassurance.

“I’m sorry it’s so hard for you, but I’m not going to leave you.” His voice is velvet in my ears, and I cry on his shoulder, crying out the blue, and breathing in his mint-scented breath and gold-plated lies.

Even though, I know he can’t fix me, he’s hit the nail on the head: I am afraid, afraid to let anyone get close enough to hurt me. He knows this, he’s known this for a long time, and yet here is willing to try to get me to tell him about what’s wrong with me, why I always hold people at an arms length. I can’t tell him; in the end it will better off him not knowing all of my secrets. I won’t tell him; I can’t tell him.



When I was Anya’s best friend nobody else mattered. If anybody made me upset she would share in my sorrow and rub my back, cursing at the rest of the world while her hand massaged soothing circles onto my aching back.

When I was Anya’s best friend we would defy the world together, making fun of the flocks of girls and sycophants that hid behind their walls of starchy make-up and brand-name clothes.

When I was Anya’s best friend I could forget my own troubles when she would look at me with her glorious blue eyes and say, “Sara, you’re gorgeous.”

When I was Anya’s best friend I, somehow, believed I was special.

I don’t feel special anymore.

Leaves flutter anxiously against the forlorn backdrop of translucent gray tears and pale clouds. Townhouses made from aluminum siding and granite stucco line the soiled street, and dirty raindrops brush my face as I dash out of the car and run toward his house.

“The weather’s supposed to clear up later, maybe we can go stargazing and catch the meteor shower,” Mike calls from his dilapidated front porch. Rotten wood sticks out from beneath him, threatening to collapse under his slight weight. I jog the last few feet to the steps, my pale shoes skipping around gray puddles and sluggish worms.

Stargazing? What the heck? Only he would think it would be fun to look at flying balls of gas in a thunderstorm.

“Yeah maybe,” I reply languorously, and flop onto the nearest couch as he grabs a remote and shuffles through the channels.

I didn’t know I had even fallen asleep until Mike shakes me awake. His warm hands press through my thin tee shirt, and I can’t help the minute shiver of desire. Shifting uneasily on his too-soft couch, I rub the last remainders of sleep from my eyes.

“What?” I mumble, a little annoyed that I was awakened.

“It’s 7:35, your gonna be late.”

“Late for what?” I protest, but I allow him to grab my hand and lead me out the door onto the grass. It’s dark now, and I can barely see the shadowy silhouettes of the forest by his house. His yard is small and slopes steeply downwards to a split rail fence encased in shadows. Owls hoot from some nearby forest, and a dog barks.

“This.” His voice is soft as he gazes upward, and I try to pretend that being awoken to stare at the sky was completely worth it. Not.

“Wow.” I try to sound enthusiastic, but a yawn fills my mouth, catching me mid-word.

He ignores me, and pulls me down the rest of the steps. I can’t help but gaze at him. He’s sort of beautiful as the moon hits him, and my eyes linger over his face and broad chest. I still remember him being the wiry annoying neighbor boy that I wouldn’t have been caught dead second glancing at, but now…My eyes take in his face again, and I watch him smile, as if he’s sharing a secret between the heavens and himself.

“Wow,” the word slips out again, this time in a whisper, and he misinterprets it.
“See? Isn’t she lovely?” He reaches for my hand, silently slipping his warm fingers around mine. With his other hand he points at the stars, his pale fingers outlining every shape. Sprawling across the grass, he stares up at the sky, his face lit up in the starlight and I sigh. He is so attractive.

“It’s breathtaking,” I say in almost a whisper, the words slipping off my tongue like water. I glance at him and, not even minding the wet grass, I lie down beside him and my eyes can’t help but linger on how perfect he looks in the moonlight; the way his white shirt and dark denim jacket seem to make him look like a model, and the way his hair curls slightly over his forehead. I sigh, berating myself for looking at him but not being able to help myself.

I wait for him to say something, dying to know what he’s thinking, but he’s quiet in spite of my anxiety. I sigh loudly, partly to give him a hint to say something, and partly because my heart is beating so loudly, that you would have to be deaf not to hear it. With every beat I can feel it in my ears and fingertips and I have the irrational fear that Michael can hear it too. But I push this out of my mind, trying not to dwell on it.

“I think it’s something we take for granted,” he replies simply.

I roll my head to the side and look at him for a few seconds and then back up at the night sky. He’s right: The stars are unimaginably beautiful. Diamonds dot the sky, crocheting beauty through onyx colored sheets and whispering divinity through their silver tears. I can’t help but stare up at the heavens, following the feathery clouds with my eyes as they dance across the black canvas, seemingly tangoing with the stars.

I silently count the different star formations I can make out, following their patterns with a painted fingernail and breathing wishes on every falling star. They don’t get enough credit. We walk below them every night without a care or a mention of their silent grace millions of miles away.

For a long while I get lost just looking up, starting to get that feeling I get every time I look up into the vast sky; the feeling that I am just a small spec compared to the entire universe. Sounds deep, even nerdy, but it’s the thought that always comes to my mind whenever I try to grasp just how big the sky is.

I am pulled back into reality when Michael looks over at me and asks me something. It is now that I realize that lying on the cold, wet grass probably wasn’t a good idea, but nevertheless, I don’t want to get up and leave this moment.

My head sinks into the damp earth, and the icy grass creates a shadowy silhouette of the sky. I glance at him through the thick emerald blades, and our eyes meet, his perfect topaz eyes a pool of liquid syrup in the moonlight and his shaggy brown hair still falling perfectly around his head, even now when it’s smashed on the lawn.

“What are you thinking of?” He murmurs. I shrug slightly, not trusting myself to speak. Mud oozes around my bare shoulders as I move, branding me with its slop and I suppress a groan. I hate mud.

“Nothing really,” I reply, a complete lie.

“Yeah, I don’t know, looking at the stars is just so…relaxing,” he replies as he looks back up at the heavens. I keep my gaze on him, my mind swirling. I want to kiss him, to just touch him even, but I know I can’t. My heart feels heavy but fluttery, as it often does when I’m with Michael. I look back up at the sky and close my eyes, the tears are coming and I can’t stop them. Maybe he won’t see, it’s kind of dark…

“Sara?” He asks, not taking his gaze away from the night sky. He doesn’t see: Phew. I sniffle and manage to muster out my most normal sounding,

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna tell Becca I’m in love with her,” he says plainly as he looks over at me. My heart sinks further than I ever think it has as I blink rapidly for a moment. Turning my head to him, I force a smile. I should win an Oscar for this.

“Really?” I ask, almost too enthusiastically, my mind still stuck on Becca. It’s not that she’s bad, that’s just it.

She’s perfect for him, almost as perfect for him as I am, and that worries me a lot. She isn’t even ugly. She’s daintily pretty, not too concerned about how she looks, but still looking fabulous everyday. She doesn’t run with the gaggle of sycophants that invade our school, and she doesn’t party or drink. She’s fine; she’s just not the best option for Michael.

“Yeah, do you think it’s a bad idea? What if she doesn’t say it back?” he asks nervously, his eyes big and hopeful.

Do I think it’s a bad idea? I try to keep my smile in place as I deliberate. Of course it’s a bad idea, doesn’t he know I like him? I mean we’ve been best friends for ages, and sure I try to not act like I do. Dang, I try to convince myself I don’t…but I still do. Instead of telling him any of this though, I gulp and fake a giggle.

“Relax, Mike, she’ll say it back. If she doesn’t there’s other fish in the sea,” I say with a light playful punch and a wink.

“I don’t want another fish, I mean, there just aren’t girls like her anymore,” he says with a sigh as he props himself up on his elbows. I look over at him, no longer smiling. Is he trying to kill me here? He looks down at me, “I’m glad I’ve got you to talk to about this stuff, the guys wouldn’t understand,” he says sincerely.

“I’m touched,” I say sarcastically with a sigh.

What does he mean girls like her anymore? Am I suddenly a boy?

“Sara Price!” I hear my mother shout from his doorway, and I actually feel a little relieved. I need to be by myself for a while, quite possibly a long while.

“Yes?” I shout back.

“Get your butt to inside and get your stuff, we need to leave, it’s getting late!”

“She’s been telling us to ‘get inside,’ at ten o’clock since we were thirteen. You’d think she’d loosen up now that we’ve both hit seventeen,” he says as he stands up, brushing the grass off his clothes. He puts his hand out to help me up and I take it. He hoists me up with an,

“Oh god, what have you been eating?”

“Asshole,” I sputter and smack him in the chest, resisting the urge to let my hand linger on his faded denim jacket and thick chest. He has no idea, but that’s the type of thing that made me like him in the beginning. The little things: Like those corny jokes he’s used since we met back in middle-elementary school, and the way his dimples show when he smiles, and how when he’s annoyed at something he’ll chew on the side of his lip.

He walks me to my car, and starts to walk away.

“I’m gonna tell her tomorrow, so keep your phone on in case it goes horribly!” He shouts, as I close my car door and roll my eyes.

I decide to keep my phone off the next day. I know it won’t be a disaster. It never is. Rebecca is perfect, and she adores Michael, just as I do. I wished on every star in the sky tonight that she would break his heart and tell him she didn’t love him. I know it’s a horrible thing to wish, but my heart aches for it to come true.



I think the worst thing about relationships is that they scare me. I want Michael to be happy. I truly do, but I want him to be happy with me. For once, I’ve finally allowed myself to find a guy that doesn’t continually hurt me, and yet, he finds another girl.

Michael gets me. He gets that I go crazy insane sometimes, and he’s okay with that. He knows me better than I know myself. We are so in tune with each other, it is as if he wears my heartbeat.

But Michael also frightens me more than almost anyone I know. He knows everylittlething about me, and yet he hasn’t run away. I’m used to people running away. I know how to deal with people hurting me, because that is all I’ve ever known. But he has no intentions to hurt me, and what if he hurts me anyways?

I don’t know if I can deal with that.

It was a bad day. It was one of those days where no matter how long you play with your hair you still feel ugly; a kind of day where no matter how much make-up you put on, you can still see the scars.

I am all knobby knees, and brown skin, brown eyes and black silky hair that cost me two hours of straightening and sixty dollars for the perm. I am pathetic. Or at least that is what I tell myself. Right now my mind is too busy reminding me that I am “worthlessstupiddumbugly, worthlessstupiddumbugly.” I wonder if Mike thinks that when he sees me. I wonder if that is why he chose Rebecca over me.

Anya says I’m lovely, simply lovely. She tells me to look into the mirror and breathe in what I see. I see a girl that used to smile a whole lot more, a girl who used to care about grades; a girl who still had an identity instead of a façade. I see a girl who used to have an aura of bright yellow flowers, instead of blue depression, a girl who used to not care about make-up or clothes or boys, a girl that is burning out quite quickly.

When I was little I used to believe that I could do/be/become anything in the whole wide world. My father would put his hands around my small waist and whirl me up into the air, throwing me up, up, up as I laughed. He used to put the globe in my small hands, and spin it, “see, that?” He’d say, “You can go anywhere you want.” Back then, I used to believe him and the idea that I could point to any place on the globe and go there. I used to believe I could have the world on the string. That was before he decided that business was more important than family, that arguing is better than saying “I love you,” or that women in too-small clothing and overflowing bank accounts were more important than wedding vows.

I want to call Anya, want to tell her that I’m sorry I yelled at her about her current “love” no matter how pathetic I think he is. I want to tell her that my life sucks, and I want her to tell me lies and cover up my problems with ice cream and chocolate.

I want my best friend back.

However, she’s too busy with her current boy toy, too busy straightening her dark-tresses and coloring her eyelashes in Revlon black mascara that will take forever to come off. She’s too busy masking her imperfections for him; too busy listening to him lie to her, and a part of me doesn’t blame her. Isn’t that what I want her to do with me? Tell me enough lies to convince my pathetic ego that I’m special…lovely. But a part of me still wants to warn her away from the mistakes I once too believed, and am still fighting against, but she doesn’t believe me. She thinks I am jealous.

Hah.

Usually I would call Mike, but I can’t. I don’t want to invade on his priorities: Rebecca, Rebecca, and Rebecca. Actually, I do want to invade on his perfectly departmentalized reality, I really do. But that would just be a bitchy move, a move that I am quite capable of contemplating, but really too nervous to execute.

If this had happened three years ago, I wouldn’t have cared. I could’ve found someone else to complain to quite easily. But this isn’t three-years ago. I am no longer proverbially in “Kansas anymore.” I no longer care about friends, or grades, or life in general. Or, at least, that is what I keep telling myself. I guess I’m rather disillusioned. But disillusionment is better than reality; reality hurts too much at the moment.



Mother says that sometimes people you love, or think you love are the ones that will always hurt you the most. She says that every person is continually painting their own picture; some people paint masterpieces, some people create abstract collages and some people create squiggles. She says that we just need to make up our mind to what we want to do, and than make the best of what we decide.

I flop onto my bed, my body hugging the warm yellow comforter that lies under me as I speculate over today’s events and homework assignments. Normally, I would stress over homework, not falling asleep until every scrap of it is done; however, lately I just don’t care. I don’t care if I hand in my homework late, or if I don’t write a perfect paper, and I don’t care about today’s assignment.

We are supposed to write about a subject, any subject that Mrs. Mayer assigned to you and write about your feelings on it, your view of it, your advice to someone about it. Mrs. Mayer had listed the topics up on the board, her scrawling cursive titling each subject: Sex, Love, Stealing, Lies, Family, Death, War, Religion, etc.

“So today,” she had said, “we are going to share our knowledge. I am going to give you a topic, and you are going to write a 3 page paper about it, and then present an oral report to the class.” She had smiled, in that innocent way teachers have when they know they are presenting an assignment everyone will hate. My assignment had been to write about family.

At first, I had thought about protesting, but I knew that wouldn’t help. The blonde girl sitting to my left, Missy, said she would trade topics with me if I could hook her up with Ethan, the boy on my left. I said I would try. She said she needed a definite answer, not an enigmatic one. Her shimmering, gray eyes had stared blatantly at him, and when he turned to ask me a question she had winked seductively at him and licked her lips.

His face had turned red, and when I had asked him what he had wanted, he said he wanted to borrow a pencil, but that he didn’t want one from a whore like me. I had asked him why I was a whore. He had said that because the “other girl” was obviously one, than I was one too because whores only hang out with whores. I said that he was too quick to assume things, and that I wondered if I should just assume he was an idiot because the rest of the guys in the class were idiots. He had quickly apologized, and I let him borrow a pencil. Missy had glared at me for the rest of the class period.

I never got to change my topic.

I don’t want to talk/write/think about my family. It’s not that I have a horrible family life; it’s just not the best. I was adopted when I was four, and I don’t know much about my biological parents. I only know a handful of facts; a little bit of stuffing that will hopefully sate the proverbial turkey.

My dad died before I was born; he never knew my mother was pregnant with me. I have a couple of brothers, a couple of half-brothers, and a couple of cousins. In my adoptive family, I have a brother, Mark, a sister, Leah, whom is at a college in Kansas and my parents.

My parents have taken to fighting a lot lately. Some people don’t seem to care if their parent’s fight, or if they do they drink their worries away, sipping happily at a bottle full of empty promises. Others get high, filling their veins with LSD or other drugs until the world shimmers back at them in psychedelic colors. I hide in my bedroom, cowering under my covers with the music turned up high so it will drown out the expostulations of their anger.

Part of the reason I don’t like my family is that I don’t know if I belong. I wasn’t made to fit the perfectly shaped bubbles they encompass; I’m not like them. For one thing, I break the rules a lot. At first, I didn’t do it on purpose; I would just forget that I wasn’t allowed to do certain things like eating candy before dinner or going into a bedroom without first knocking, you know, the simple things.

Now, I seem to crave bending their rules, seeing how far I can push them until they have had enough. I don’t do it to be mean per-se, I do it to see how much they love me; I do it to see if they love me.

I guess I need their reassurance.

If someone was to ask me my first thoughts about relationships I could write a paper. If someone asked me about sex, I could tell him or her my opinions on that as well. However, my opinions on family aren’t really definite. I know I need a family to survive, but I guess I’m still learning what a family is, and how they affect me. I guess I don’t have all the answers yet.

I think that for anyone to form a relationship, they have to be slightly irrational and idealistic. There is no reason for anyone that is perfectly happy to risk putting his or her emotional well being into the hands of a vacillating and unreliable human being

Think about it. How many people enter a relationship completely honest? How many people enter a relationship after completely baring their hearts out, and hope that it will last a few more days short of forever? None. That would be seen as ominously unromantic and cynical, two sentiments that are supposed to recoil away from relationships.

Instead they choose to paint their canvases full of hopes and dreams, and hand themselves over willingly to a juvenile, a person who still dabbles with finger-paints, a person who colors outside of the lines. And then they wonder why they got burned and why the end result isn’t a masterpiece, but is instead a bunch of squiggles and trapezoids. They wonder, and then they make the same mistakes again.

I think relationships are different shades of blue; sometimes relationships are cerulean and light, and sometimes they are cobalt and dreary. Relationships are all on a continuum, and we are all artists, sometimes we just don’t choose the right partnering brush.

Relationships are overrated, and underrated; full or trippy love songs and tipsy drunks; half-naked teenagers, and silver-haired adults. Relationships are oxymorons: Full of bull-shit and French-kisses.

Relationships could learn a thing or two from me.

Anya says I’m cynical about love. She says love is like cupcakes and kindness, and monarch butterflies floating around in stomachs. She says that love takes a long time to cultivate. She speaks as if she is experienced, and I almost believe in her kind of love. But then I remember that she is the one dating Devonte. He wouldn’t know what love was if it hit him in the face. I guess Anya is hoping she will be the one to change him, just like my mother hopes to change my father.

I used to think I knew everything about love, or at least love from a teenagers point of view. I simply classified love into three different categories of the physical: Kissing, making-out, and sex. Of course, I also classify stupidity along with those categories. I figure you have to be stupid if you think that anyone liking you for the sole reason of getting into your pants is love. If the long-term relationship won’t work out, why even settle for the short-term one?

Anya says that short-term relationships are fun. I asked her if it was fun having her heart break, if it was fun having to throw away every note and present she had received from ex-boyfriends, if it was fun losing her mind to all the losers she threw her heart too. Anya said that they were all worth the pain. I think she’s disillusioned herself with the thrill of yet another relationship.

When I was little and still had braces, I would skip around the playgrounds with Anya as we sang silly songs. She was always the one to invite a boy to play house with us, always the one to push me out of her “house” whenever a boy would tag along, always the one a little more risking.

When I was in middle-school, she was always the one with a new toy for Valentines Day, a new bear, a new locket, a new boyfriend that she could parade around for a couple of days until he moved on to the next girl. I was always the one holding her when she cried out her eyes after he dumped her.

She had said it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair the way they used her, but she always played along with their games. She liked their games, for the most part, liked being the center of attention for however long it lasted. She was in love with the idea of being in love. I thought she would learn from her mistakes, thought she would run away from a person like Devonte. Instead, she’s only come full circle.




I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to continue to warn Anya, to blow cyanide into her fragile heart so that she won’t end up burned like I know she will be. Devonte hurts everyone he “dates.” Although, he never really dates, he more “divides and conquers.” I want to be there for her like she always was for me. But she won’t let me, and I don’t feel like trying anymore.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am jealous of her ability to attract guys like a decomposing body attracts vultures. All she has to do is shake her head, wrinkle up her small, cute nose and smile and the boys will come running. She magnetizes all hot-blooded, males. She says that she wants to look like me, says that she likes my thick, dark hair and my muscular frame.

She lies.

Once, when we were still on speaking terms, and I was curled up in a ball on her bed, I noticed that she was drawing an hand, the cuticles were short and obviously bitten off, and the small, slender hand held a pencil.

Her eyes would flicker back and forth as she drew while exasperated sighs would escape her lips.

“Whose hand is that?”

“It’s perfections,” she had whispered, and then laughed. “It’s your hand silly, don’t you recognize it?”

(Dedicated to Anya)

I want to spoon feed you
Every last wish I had.
I’ll tell you all the fable’s I used to believe,
Just don’t hate me when I knock them down
Page by page.

I want you to go further than I did.
You:
A virgin to heartbreak
And innocent to gold plated
Double-meanings.

I want to cut you loose
Among the innumerable plains of
Amber wheat and forgotten hideaways,
And tell you to stay young forever.
But you don’t listen
As you skip languidly
To the cliff where I too fell.

I want to spoon feed you
With emerald words and aspheric warnings,
Reminding you that not all faces
Are what they seem.
Because sometimes happily ever after
Isn’t an option.

I want to hold your ivory hands,
And keep you innocent of the gaping
Cracks splitting my heart.

I want to spoon feed you
My every last wish.
But first I want to blow
Cyanide into your frail heart
As a warning.

Mother is cutting up pills on the kitchen table and separating them into the days of the week container for me. After my first incident with he-who-must-not-be-named, my parents made me go to a therapist.

At first, I hated going to see her. The room was white and had pictures of little children holding hands and sitting in wheelbarrows. They exuded fakery and subterfuge, and I hated her trite questions about how I was feeling, and if I was grumpy lately.

Anya and I used to call her office the sanatorium, because I knew I must’ve been crazy to allow my parents to drag me there.

I’ve been diagnosed with depression. Clinical depression. My therapist says that the chemicals in my brain are unbalanced and that it is not my fault.

Hah. Not my fault. Somehow, I doubt her careful reassurances.

She says the only thing I can do is continuing to journal and to take my medicine. I don’t want to be reliable on medication the rest of my life to combat my mood swings.

I hate medication.

She says that the traumas in my past have only made my depression stronger and I smiled at her woodenly, watching her heart-shaped face morph into one of her easy smiles.

Duh the traumas in my past have made my depression stronger.

Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.

I string the words together, and stare at Momma. Click. Click. Click. She’s found herself a pattern now-chop, slide, chop, slide, chop slide, and I close my eyes.

When I was younger, I anticipated the idea that if I told my parents what had happened they would instantaneously jump to my rescue. They didn’t. I don’t think my father believes me yet. He stared at me when I told him-his eyes sort of glazed over with what I convinced myself was sorrow. By stating that an incident did occur, father would have to file charges or, at least, confront the perpetrator.

He hates dissonance and so he ignores it. Besides, he-who-must not be-named father is my father’s best friend.

It’s better if he ignores it, and I allow myself to go along with his scheme. I can’t do anything about it anyways.

“Sara,” mother’s voice sounds far away and I open my eyes. The pills are neatly inside their box now and mother is nowhere to be seen.

“Did you take your medication yet?”

I notice a glass of water sitting on the counter, and obediently I walk from my perch on the couch to the counter and drink the water. It slides down my throat with the two tiny white capsules that regulate my moods.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mother clicks down the steps and smiles at me. Her face is painted, and she’s wearing another pantsuit.

“Good,” she smiles angelically at me and gives me hug. “Well, I’m out the door,” she murmurs, and kisses the top of my head. “I should be back before supper, but I made you a list of things to put in the oven in case I’m not back by 5.” She stops by the door and gazes at me. “Are you okay?” Her voice is strained, and I realize that I’m biting my lip and scowling at her.

“Yeah,”

She takes a tentative step towards me, not buying my pretense of being completely fine.

“I can stay and we can talk about it if you want,” she juggles her purse and I sigh. I don’t want to talk about my feelings with her. Isn’t that what my therapist was for? I “graduated” from her 2 years ago, and I really don’t want to go back.

“No go, I’m fine.” I purse my lips together and force a smile. She looks at me, worry still etched across her face and nodds once.

“Okay, but you know you can always talk to me, right?” She walks towards me again, and gives me a longer hug. “I love you Sara,” she murmurs, and than she’s gone.




The first time I had ever heard my mother defending me was when I was 4. It was shortly after my adoption and a neighbor lady had stopped by to see the new “Negro” girl.

I remember hearing mother’s heated voice echoing from the hallway to the back porch. “…She is my daughter, and I do not care what color she is, you will respect her…”

The second time was after the incident at the party. I had come down the steps from his room trying not to cry when she noticed something was wrong. Later, at home, when Mark hadn’t been able to elicit the truth from me, she came into my room with a cup of chamomile tea and a movie.

She didn’t even have to say anything, because as soon as she sat on my bed I started to cry. She held my hands and told me how proud she was to be my mom, and not too worry, she would soon have this all straightened out.

Later that night, I heard her on the phone with his mom crying. “You will do something about this Shelly,” she warned. “You will make this right, I don’t want to go the Police and I know you don’t want to either, so you had better do something soon because that son of yours is ruining my daughter!”

Her voice was harsh and raw. “…She is my daughter and he is your son,” she breathed, “and this is not acceptable. I swear if he would’ve raped her I would’ve gone to the police, because although we are friends Shelly Marie, I will not allow my daughter to go through hell in the name of your son’s sick pleasures.”

The next day, Shelly came over without her son, and apologized to me. Her eyes were red-brimmed and I could tell she hadn’t slept at all.

“He wouldn’t come,” she breathed. “And if you want to file charges, I understand…” she couldn’t stop sniffling and I tried not to glare at her. “But, I am awful sorry Sara. I’m sending him away to get help,” she hiccupped again and tears started falling down her face, “because I know-“ her voice cracks and she starts to cry again. I stared at her scrawny frame and wide face convulsing with sobs and did the only thing I knew to do when someone was sad. I gave her a hug.

He’s not worth it. Okay, maybe he is…which is why I’m standing on his front porch like a first class idiot hoping he’ll answer his door. I rock back on my heels and promise myself if he doesn’t answer it in ten seconds, I’m leaving. By the time I reach 9 Mississippi’s, I’m already turning to leave when the door swings open.

It’s Becca. Her tanned face crinkles in confusion and then opens gallingly in a wide smile of recognition.

“Oh. Hey!” Her face spreads into one of those million-dollar smiles that says, “I have white teeth and I don’t even use whitening strips.” I start to glare at her, my face freeze-framing into icicles, when Michael sticks his head out the door.

“Oh hey Sara, what are you doing here?” He smiles half-heartedly, pretending that he’s glad I’m here, pretending that he hasn’t been avoiding me. I can see now that he’s holding onto Becca’s hand, and it’s not one of those friendly how-do-you-do handshakes either. I want to vomit. I try not to choke on his words, “what are you doing here.” As if we haven’t hung out everyday after school since we were kids, (minus the last couple weeks). As if we are not friends, as if, hello, remember me – your best friend that you’ve ditched for the past million years?

“I just came to ask for help in Math, but I guess you’re bus…”

“Yeah, I’m busy.” He smiles, but it is strained, almost forced. His topaz eyes shrink, as if there is too much sun in them. I take a couple of steps back, trying to hide the rejection I’m feeling, trying to hide my total stupidity for coming to visit him.

“Wait, are your parents here?” I ask, trying to sound casual, and refusing to be kicked to the curb so easily. “Because, I mean, your dad is really good at math so…”

“Um, actually no. Sorry.” He pulls Becca closer, as if warning me to leave him alone, as if trying to show me his priorities. Which, by the way, is clearly her.

“Okay…?” I can’t help the disdain in my voice. I know Mike’s parents would seriously freak out if they knew he was home alone with a girl. They almost freak out when it’s just him and me at the house. I glance up at him, watching the pleading in his eyes to keep it quiet. I shrug my shoulders and turn around, cursing as I walk. Keep it quiet? Yeah right. I crazily envision myself speed-dialing his parents to tattletale, but deep down I know I won’t tell.

“Bye.” Becca’s voice goes unnaturally high and sweet, and I swear she is doing one of those cutesy valley-girl waves, but I don’t turn around to look. I don’t need to. I know all I want to about her type.

Instead I’m walking home. Alone. Oh, and don’t forget the alone and “pissed off” part, because I am totally not happy about walking the 2 miles to his house to be rejected…the ass! I try not to let the tears slip from my eyes, but they slip out anyway, so I press my freezing fingertips to my face to clear my eyes and step slowly onto the sidewalk.

I’m surprised it isn’t raining. Partly because the meteorologist called for it (not that they are right anyways), and partly because whenever I’m having a bad day it always seem to rain, or sleet, or do some annoying weather thing that just worsens my mood. I slide my hands into my coat pockets and mentally prepare myself for the long walk home, but my mind keeps slipping back to him.

He could have at least introduced me…or invited me in…or offered to take me home! I kick at a stray pebble and miss, inadvertently stubbing my toe.

Rebecca’s face fills my vision, and suddenly I’m seeing her perfect golden-brown eyes and extensively long flaxen hair. She reminds me of a fairy, as if she is too perfect to even be real.
I wish she wasn’t real.



Michael once promised me that no matter what, he would always be there for me. He said he could put up with my clingy/insecure personality. He said he would never hurt me.

He lied.

When I was little he was always the first person I could turn to about anything. His doors were always open when I needed to just escape from my life at home. His ears were always the first ones to listen to my troubles when Anya and I were in one of our rare quarrels. His arms were always the first arms to protect me.

Now with Michael and Anya both busy with others. I don’t know what to do anymore.

I had crocheted myself into the very fabric and stitching of their being. I had inhaled their air, and exhaled their air. I had buried myself away into the very keyholes of the earth and lost the key. I had become ingrained in their skin, and I hadn’t cared.

And now I don’t exist anymore.

I can see her sitting in the back corner, her feet swinging slightly as she rests a pale hand on her chin. She’s wearing a frilly blue dress that is obviously made out of something expensive: Pure silk maybe? Taffeta and silk? My gaze wanders down to her shoes: Two tiny white sandals and I sigh.

I don’t usually look at other people for vanity reasons; usually I look at them because I want to make fun of them. She isn’t exactly pretty in that familiar delicate way that most girls are, but she is definitely alluring. I haven’t seen her before. She turns her head towards me, and simultaneously I make sure to appear I’m staring at the smart board seemingly enthralled with the wonders of chemistry.

“Hey you.”

Twisting in my seat, I look back into Devonte’s dark eyes. I want to tell him that I hate him and that I hate what he is doing to my ex-best friend, but I don’t.

“Can I borrow a pencil?” His voice is smooth, and my eyes take in his angular face as I look for imperfections in the curve of his jaw and the thickness of his lips.

“Sure, I mumble, not quite sure how to tell him politely that I hate him.

“Did you like it?” He asks, bemused; his dark eyes full of mirth.

“What?” I ask and hand him a pink mechanical pencil.

“What you saw. I know you were checking me out.” His lips curve into a lustful smile, and I can see myself reflected in his square shaped, brand-name glasses.

“Dream on Devonte.” My voice is abrasive, and I imagine paint being scraped off the walls by my tone.

“Oh, I have.” His voice is low and pathetically sensuous. I imagine he thinks he is being sexy.

He’s not.

I glare at him, forever freeze-framing him in my mind.

“Let me tell you about your sad, pathetic life Devonte,” I hiss. “A life where you can never seem to get enough girls because your ego is so pathetically low. A life where if your pants aren’t always un-zippered than something is “wrong.” A life where you either are high or drunk because you can’t seem to get the right amount of popularity from the guys so you make up conquests so that you will seem more likeable, when deep down inside all you are sprouting is STD’s and AIDS.” I am shouting by now, and the whole class is looking at me. I take a deep breath and turn around in my seat.

The teacher is staring at me openmouthed, while an erasable marker rolls awkwardly around her feet. Catching herself staring at us, she sputters, “Price, McConahay. Office now!”




I’ve been told that I need to watch my mouth, told that I need to filter out what I say before I actually say it. Mike always told me that my mouth would eventually get me into trouble. Mark warned me to count to ten before saying anything. Father says I would be better off if I just didn’t speak.

I had never cared what they thought.

I wish I had paid attention to them a bit more. I wish I had dared to admit that maybe what they were trying to impose on me had merit.

When I told Devonte that he only cares about conquests and ruining girls, I wasn’t lying. I meant everything I said down to the last STD and AIDS line. He hadn’t looked at me while I yelled at him. I hadn’t expected him to; I hadn’t expected him to so easily roll over and play dead.

But of course, he has never met a girl like me before. I already knew all about his inner workings, his charm, and his lies. I had already been preyed upon by similar charms through my countless other mistakes.

However, I hadn’t expected him to startle me at the end of my spiel by smiling and saying, “you just like to rant at me because we are so similar.”

Tucking my hands nervously under my legs, I swing my feet methodically as I glance around the small waiting room. The room is immaculate. Little wooden corner tables with lush brochures depict three smiling students, each from different ethnic backgrounds, on the mattéd cover. Fresh flowers grace the middle of each table, spreading color as well as perfume throughout the room. White lights hum from the ceiling, and lamps are set just sporadically enough around the room to make the room feel cozy.

The amount of time that gets put into making Lionel High appear to be alluring and inviting makes me sick. Kids that will never speak to each other smile haphazardly on glossy sheets of paper, while subconsciously announcing Lionel’s racial diversity. Nobody really knows that we only have a handful of those minorities. Nobody knows that those are the kids we host in our school dorms and/or host-families.

My fingers pinch the thick folds of my padded seat as I try to contain ripping each brochure into millions of bits: Devonte is on the cover. I glance at him, watching his posture; he is slouching, his fancy basketball shoes drumming against the thick brown and beige carpet as he stares at the ceiling.

“I know you’re looking at me again.” His voice is hushed, and instantly I stare in front of me. “It’s okay,” he adds. “I like being appreciated by fine looking women.” From my peripherals I can see him wink at me, and my glare deepens.

Knowing that if I give him a reaction, he will never cease insulting me, I opt to ignore him. I stare straight ahead at the shiny ceramic wrap-around desk in front of me, and at the receptionist behind it. She is middle-aged, and her skin hangs in folds around her face like a rhinoceros’s. Her aging skin is starting to have spots and I notice the poor make-up job she has done. Her eyes meet mine and for a split second it seems that we have a connection. But then she blinks and turns away, her fingers clacking unknown sentences on an old keyboard.

A moment later her thin, reedy voice pierces the air. “Price, McConahay?”

I look up. She is careful this time not to meet my eyes.

“Mr. Camden will see you now.”

My legs shake as I stand up and try to shuffle forward. Devonte stands up behind me and then suddenly slaps my butt; his fingers grab and grope me, as I stand there numb.

The receptionist’s eyes freeze-frame us, her eyes snapping countless of pictures.

Instantly I turn, my knee shooting upward and forward into his groin. Devonte’s face is a mask of pain and horror as he slumps towards the ground.

My eyes meet with the receptionist’s and she laughs.




Michael and I once took a self-defense class. Apparently our mothers had been watching Mrs. Congeniality one night, and had then decided to make us both take self-defense classes. Actually, Mike’s mom didn’t make him, but I had begged and pleaded not to take them by myself, so Mike took them with me. He was the only boy in the class. I can still remember him staring wide-eyed into my face one evening, after I had swiftly “disarmed” him. His bright eyes spouted numerous question marks as he held his groin.

I didn’t know that I could hurt him so badly.

He said that what I had done was the equivalent of having all of his fingernails ripped out with a pair of rusty pinchers. He said a lot of things in his pain, a lot of things he apologized for later.

I had never known he knew so many swear words.

To this day Michael and I still joke about that incident. When we watch movies and a guy gets nailed, or during a sports event and it occurs, our eyes find each other and we remember.
We have so many memories.

I miss him; I miss being able to talk to him any time of the day or simply knowing that we could talk about anything. I miss being his best friend.

He’s older than most high school principles. I guess he is 65, maybe 70 years old. Age spots color his weathered cheeks and stray golden hairs give his otherwise salt and pepper hair an almost regal look.

“Price, McConahay?” He raises an eyebrow as he swivels around in his chair and stares at us. I dip my head in obeisance, quietly acknowledging my presence while Devonte shrugs his shoulders.

“I see,” he muses while absently writing down notes in a battered notebook. “So, what seems to be the problem?” His gray eyes stare at me, and I almost feel invisible. He seems to be looking through me.

“Uh, um,” I fiddle with the hem of my shirt as I try to form an accurate picture of what had occurred. I glance nervously at Devonte and he smiles innocently at me, as if blatantly gloating at my inability to speak. “Heharrassesme.” My words jumble together, and I can feel my cheeks flushing as I lower my eyes, once again absorbing myself with a stray thread hanging from my shirt.

“He what?” Mr. Camden cups a hand around a wrinkled ear, and gazes pointedly at me.

“Harasses me,” my voice is barely a whisper, and I can feel Devonte staring, shocked, at me.

“McConahay, please step outside for a minute.”

Devonte rises tentatively, and I can feel his glare on the back of my neck. Moments later the door shuts, and I am left completely and utterly alone with Mr. Camden.

“You said Mr. McConahay harasses you. That is quite a serious complaint Ms. Price. Can you explain in what ways? Does he physically harass you?”

Silently, I shake my head “no.”

“How about emotional harassment?”

“Kind of.” My voice is quiet, and I try to make eye contact with him.

“Okay, specify what you mean by ‘kind of’.”

“Well, mostly he just harasses me verbally,” I lower my gaze. I feel so stupid for bringing this up. What if he laughs at me? “I mean, he is always telling me how much he wants to make babies with me, and how much he wants me and how much he wants to do stuff with me…” my voice cuts off as I shudder. “I just want it to stop,” I add in a whisper.

“Sara,” Mr. Camden’s voice is quiet, and I look at him. “Tell me about what happened today.”

I can feel my face heating, and I lower my gaze. “I may or may not have said that he has AIDSandSTDS.” My words jumble together, and I peek at him. His mouth is miserably trying to hide a smile, and when I look up, he attempts to appear stern, but his smile breaks out.

“That was very inappropriate Ms. Price.” His eyes glint with mirth, and I attempt to look sheepish. “You knowingly spread lies about your classmate which is a form of harassment. Are you aware that this is what you did?” His smile is gone, and I shake my head ‘no.’

“I’m sorry sir,” I whisper. “The words just sort of,” I look at him again, “came out.”

“A lot of words just come out. But it is up to each individual to censor what comes out and what does not.” His voice is grave, and absently I twiddle my thumbs. “So, what should I do with you, Ms. Price?”

“Sir?”

“You are not known for being a trouble-maker Ms. Price, and I would like to think that you usually restrain your comments appropriately before you speak.” He looks at me pointedly. “So, I think an suitable punishment for you would be to give him a public apology as well as to denounce the lies you told to your class. Do you think you can handle that?”

Infuriated, I nod. He wants me to apologize to Devonte? And to the class? Standing, I glare at him only to have him tell me to sit down.

“You can apologize to him in here can you not?”

“Yessir.”

“Devonte,” He stands up and opens the door. “Ms. Price has a few things she would like to say to you.”

Biting my tongue, I spit out a barely audible “I’m sorry for saying you have AIDS and STD’s.”

Devonte hides a smile, and he cups a hand around his ear. “What was that, I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

The principle nods at me, and I have to force myself to speak up. “I’m sorry for saying that you have AIDS and STDS.”

“You’re what? One more time.” Devonte isn’t even attempting to hide his smile this time, and Mr. Camden tells him to listen attentively this time, because he’s not going to make me apologize any more after this.

“I’M SORRY FOR SAYING YOU HAVE STDS AND AIDS!” I bellow.

“Oh, are you now?” Devonte winks lasciviously at me. Silently, my hands form into fists as I stare at him. He is so insufferable.

“Can I go now?” My voice is quiet as I stare pointedly at the door.

“Yes.” Absently, he scribbles a hall pass for me and then closes the thick, oak door behind me. I can hear Devonte’s bass voice and Mr. Camden’s tenor voice harmonize together as they talk.

“Apologize.” Mr. Camden’s voice rings in my head as I remember his forced order for me to apologize. I’m not sorry. I almost wish I had said something more offensive, something more bone jarring. I wish I had punched Devonte in his face.

Unconsciously, I walk back through the office and into the hallway.

There is no way I am going back to class to apologize. Mr. Camden didn’t even listen to my concerns about Devonte! Aimlessly, I slide my feet across the tiled hallway and head to the bathroom where I can clear my head.



There is a reason my trust in authority has dwindled. After the many incidents in my life and the realization that nobody will do anything, I stopped caring.

Mr. Camden is the last straw.

The most recent incident happened at camp. Jamal and I were playing basketball when I tripped and landed on my ankle. Pain ricocheted through my body and I was sure my ankle was sprained. He wante to help me up the hill to the main house, but I didn’t trust him. His hands had a habit of straying on groping on other girls, and I didn’t want them touching me, so I refused his offer.

He walked behind me, content on only whistling until I made it to the maintenance shack. My room was only 20 feet away, and I needed to take a breather, but he didn’t care. Instead, he picked me up in his arms and carried me into the shack.

The place was dark and reeked of chemicals and mildew.

“Please, leave me alone,” I murmured, cowering in a corner as he stared down at me. Lust shone in his brown-black eyes, and I tried to protect my face.

You would think that after being attacked once, all other incidents would come easily.

They don’t. A thousand nightmares blossomed in my mind, and I tried to steady my breathing. I had learned long ago that screaming doesn’t help.

He shimmied down his pants and knelt on the floor beside me. His hands cupped my face and than my breast and I desperately tried not to cry. He slipped off his shirt, and pulled me onto his lap and smiled.

“You ready for a good time?” He whispered. His breath stank, and I tried desperately to remember what they taught me in self-defense class, but my ankle hurt, and I knew that I would never win this fight.

“Go to hell,” I whispered, and that is when the door opened.

Michael.

High school bathrooms always reek of cigarette smoke, feces and bad perfume. Of course, high school bathrooms are also the places where the “truth” is created and stretched. You can always find out about any number of things from the scribbles and nicks on the stalls.

The girls’ bathroom is where all the semi-important stuff, bad or good, happens. If someone’s going to get dumped, publicly scorned, or has been raped these walls know it before most do. But sometimes the walls lie and sometimes, just sometimes, these walls tell the truth.

As if one wants know who currently likes whom, who had sex where, who was raped who is a whore and who isn’t. High school bathrooms can’t keep secrets; they only parade half-truths across their grimy walls and start trouble.

You can follow the entirety of every single one of my relationships across the walls of this particular bathroom. They zigzag across the sagging boards of the toilet stalls, and continue onto each door, etching my entire love life through everyone’s handwriting except for my own. It’s the bathroom located on the middle floor of Lionel High. It’s the bathroom where all the drama begins. I don’t bother to use the bathroom anymore to actually go. A science group had once tested a toilet seat in this particular bathroom. They had found enough bacteria to fill an entire Petri dish.

Right now the bathroom is empty except for a solitary pot smoker and a girl who is actually using the toilet. My eyes glance across the stalls and sigh at the newest rumor. “Anya Harman is whore.” People have created a dislike and like tally underneath the big purple words announcing this newest “fact.” 17 people like this so far. I gaze at the scribbles that fill the flat boards and soiled walls in the lavatory: “Chase Woods is a tool.” “Adam Smith had sex with Greta.” “Charlotte is a bitch.”

Sighing, I turn around and look at my face in the mirror. Beginning my daily ritual of spreading foundation across my pores, I smear cheap brown liquid paste across my fingertips. A girl walks in and silently I appraise her. She has dirty blond hair and an extremely skinny frame. Her oversized clothing seems to swallow her whole. Artificially colored, her cheeks are sunken and her black eyelashes are caked thick and long.

“Sara?” Her voice is hoarse, and I do a double take.

“Eva?”
I used to know Eva Ryan before she turned into a skank. I used to be friends with her before she cared more about what made her who she was than what was on the outside of her. I used to know her before she ditched me for people she considered more popular.

Eva was the first person Chase ever cheated on me with. I can still remember walking in between classes to finding them snogging unashamedly underneath the stairwell. Her hands had clutched the back of his neck, as his hands had roamed down her spine and across the small of her back.

I hadn’t told Chase I had seen them because I was too scared to lose him. I was too scared that he would ditch me and the whole school would know he had ditched me for Eva.

And so I let him play his games. Let him have sex with every girl under the sun because I could at least still call him “mine” as long as I didn’t confront him.

But in the end he ditched me anyways.

Love like mine could've been thrown away-
I kept giving you flowers and putting them on your windowsills-
I dressed in silks and taffetta and let you parade me on a string-
But then you cut me loose and abandoned me for some other girl-
Some phantom girl that can do anything and everything that I refused to do
Because I am so
uglystupidworthless
To you.

I can make myself cry if I want to.
All I have to do is repeat
uglyworthlessstupid, uglyworthlessstupid, uglyworthlessstupid,
Until I have dissolved into tears.

It takes 10 seconds.

I am on stage and heartbroken
And I keep on falling for you
over and over.

You are only content when you are crushing my spirit.
You are only content when you promise to call
And I sit up waiting for 5 hours only to have you never show.

You never showed.

I believed everything you said,
And I kept on dancing along with your apologies
And excuses.

I even made up excuses for you-
"He's too busy..."
"He just forgot..."
"He's tired..."

I can't do this anymore because everytime we
Fight/yell/scream/argue/hate
I die more.
You like to fight.
You like ripping me apart and squashing me.
You like-
Another.
Someone, not me.

You and me are broken words and broken dreams
Because you and me were
Never equal.

“Eva, what happened to you?” Bruises line her arms, and I can see black marks around her neck.

“Chase.” She whispers the words, and collapses onto the soiled and yellowing floor. Her eyes are red from crying, and hold her hands as I sit down beside her, my make-up long forgotten.

Up close I can see her imperfections: The blackheads that escaped a layer of foundation, the mole under her left ear and the peeling, chapped lips.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “So sorry…” Her breath smells like whiskey and bubble-gum, and I lose myself in her eyes as she begins her story. “I know you won’t believe that I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to care in fact.” She starts to cry again, her voice quivering as she tries to steady herself.

“What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice gentle.

She points a lacquered, salmon-colored nail to the middle stall and stands up. I watch breathlessly as she opens the door. Sharpie scribbles cover the gray peeling paint and as I squint at the scribbles I begin to make out words: Eva has STD’s; Eva is a bitch; Eva had sex in the car with Chase; Eva will do anything…Curse words cover most of the spaces after Eva’s name, and I glance back and forth from the scribbles to her face.

“What is this?”

“This is why my life sucks.” She sucks in a breath and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her mascara. My eyes take in the words smeared across the wall and I gasp at the details that are revealed about her.

“What did you do?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Although, of course there are all of the things I heard: That she had sex with Chase the day he dumped me just to prove she was better than me, that she was pregnant but had an abortion, that she had STD’s.

To be honest, I don’t even know why I am here to listen to her. I guess, as shallow as it is, something about her intrigues me.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is soft yet steely. “I did whatever I needed to keep him interested in me.” She runs a finger over the list about the many sexual acts she was caught in and shudders, tiny quivers racking her small frame. “And you know what?” Tears are running down her sallow cheeks as she stares at me. I can see her green-honeyed eyes appraising me, while she considers if she can confide in me.

“That still wasn’t enough to keep him from hurting me.” Her voice breaks, but she steadies herself with a hand. “But,” a hint of a smile crosses her lips as she stares at me. “I. Left. Him.” she enunciates the last three words clearly and her eyes search my face as if waiting for a reaction, but I don’t give her one. All I can do is stare openmouthed at the wall displaying her conquests. She chuckles abrasively and licks her bright red lips. Gaping at her, I try to keep my rage in check.

“Whyhim?” I wonder aloud, my words jumbling together as I shuffle my feet nervously.

“Why not?” She raises her eyebrows at me and brushes off an invisible speck of dirt off of her shirt. I don’t reply as I look at her. I don’t know how I was ever jealous of her.

She lowers her voice, her eyes daring me to confront her. “He was hot, he was sexy and you couldn’t seem to keep him.” Her voice fades and suddenly she cuts the charade. “Or maybe it was because I wanted something…and you seemed to always have it. I thought that if only I could get Chase I could have whatever you had.” She drops her gaze and looks away; her hands tangle her stringy blonde hair around her pale fingers.

I sigh. “Why did you dump him?” My gaze flickers to the stall door, and I scan the scribbles again. She follows my gaze to the sloppy hand-written lists of her sins, and exhales.

“They aren’t all true.” She whispers. “But I’m not going to deny that a lot of them are.” She takes another deep breath and continues. “When I first started ‘dating’ Chase, he told me all about you.”

I can feel my mouth popping open to interject arguments, but she stops me.

“He said you’d do whatever he wanted you to; said you used to do it every day in the car.” She muses.

“He said you were nothing more than an intelligent, two-sided slattern.” She looks at me, as if wondering if I will dispute this but I don’t. I always knew he was telling her stuff. I just didn’t anticipate them to be so far from the truth…. “…I always knew he was lying…” her voice catches my attention, and I force myself to pay closer attention to what she is saying. “…I just liked his attentions. I liked seeing every girl wish they were me.” She forces a smile and looks at me. I nod at her, encouraging her to go on.

“But I had to work to keep him. It seemed like everything I did was never good enough for him. He was always comparing me to you, always telling me that I would never compare.” A tear drips down her face and she flicks it away with a finger, but black mascara is making little polluted rivers down her cheeks.

“I always did everything for him because I didn’t want him to leave me. I wanted to be buh-better than you. I didn’t want to be just another girl on his list of conquests. But then everything changed.” Her fingers wrap slowly around the bruises on her neck and she blinks back tears. “But the other day when we were in the car,” she lowers her gaze and fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “It just went too far. Things were different for me. I didn’t want him to touch me, didn’t want his hands under my shirt; I didn’t want to hear his whispers in my ear, so I screamed.” She shuffles her feet nervously as I wait for her to finish.

“And that’s when he told me that you did the same thing: Screamed. I think he was so mad he didn’t even know he was talking, but it was than I figured out I needed to leave him.” Her voice halts and she puts her hands over her face as she cries. “I think I always knew that I should not have been with him.” She adds in a hushed voice.

“I’m sorry.” My words don’t seem enough to cover what she’s been through. And yet, I still have one more question. “So why did you dump him?” I ask her again, not quite yet satisfied with her answers.

She smiles tentatively. “Because I finally decided that whatever you had that I wanted, wasn’t in Chase.” I encircle my arms around her shaking frame. “It’s not too late for me, right Sara?” She whispers. “It’s not too late for me to change?”

“No.” I say. “Of course not.”



When I was with Chase everybody used to envy me. Girls hated me because he would kiss me in the hallways, his strong hands running circles through my hair and then down my spine. Teachers would blatantly gape at his affections, at his utter disregard for the strict no PDA rule.

It didn’t really bother me that he would kiss me in front of everyone, that he would make me late for my classes or that he liked to stretch the rules. I liked his wildness; I thought it made him sexy.

After Chase broke up with me, he bought Eva a giant, plush teddy bear for Valentines Day. The bear was so big she could barely get her skinny arms around it. As I walked by he had kissed her again while letting his hands wind through her blonde curls and down her sky-blue halter-top.
I bet she knew that blue was his favorite color, and I bet she didn’t mind him touching her in front of everyone. I bet she didn’t care that she was just a toy to him.

Happy, happy, happy Valentines Day to me.

Back then, Eva, would come to school in small, scanty tops that barely left anything to the imagination. Her hands always seemed to be pulling down her already scandalous tops down further, as if to make sure that everybody knew she had size D-breasts. And of course everybody could see that she did, because she refused to wear a bra.

Back then, Eva, was just another girl I couldn’t stand. I still can’t stand her, but now I can at least relate to her: We have both been victims to Chase. We have both been lied to and believed in the deceptions of lust, because we believed it was love.

We have both been broken.

Anxt

A little piece of soul-
Trickles down her face
And across ruby lips that have been dusted and painted
One
Two
Three many times.

It tastes like salt and dusty regret.

“I broke up with Vanessa.”

Mark is sitting at the bottom of my bed, and I look up at him, startled.

“You did what?” I ask, shocked. Mark and Vanessa have had a “thing” since middle school.

He doesn’t bother to reiterate his statement and I stare at him, slack-jawed.

“And tomorrow I’m going to tell dad about my plan to be in the business career.” His voice is tentative, as if he still hasn’t quite made up his mind.

“You’re going to do what?” My voice screeches and then breaks off into thin air as I gape at him. Who is he, and what has he done with my brother?

“I’ve decided that the best way to be is blunt. I’ve lived my life in lies for too long. It’s time for me to take control of my destiny.” His words sound like they are scripted from a movie, except he is delivering them all wrong: There is no passion in his voice.

I tiptoe towards him, my hands touching his forehead, checking for his pulse. He smells like mint and vinegar.

“Have you been drinking?” My eyes glance to the clock; it’s 11:30 pm.

“No,” he slurs, but this time I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Maybe next time you should use mouthwash,” I murmur.

He stares languidly across the room, his eyes bloodshot and wet.

“Oh no.” I clap a hand over my mouth, wondering how far he stretched the truth to hide his pain. Did she break up with him? “You didn’t break up with her did you?” My voice is quiet and I take a seat beside him.
He looks at me, pain etched across his face as he struggles to maintain his composure.

“She is a bi…” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Don’t,” he hisses. “Just, don’t.” He staggers to his feet, and walks to the doorway.

“Whatever she told you, it’s probably not true.” I call after him.

He turns and stares at me, his bright eyes flooding over with tears. “She said that she’s pregnant...and the baby isn’t mine.”



I want to protest. Of course the baby isn’t his. We just had a talk about sex, love and dating a couple of nights ago, and we both swore never to do anything until we were safely married. He had promised me that he wouldn’t do anything stupid. I know him well enough to know that the baby isn’t his, but then, whose is it?

Actually, I don’t want to know whose it is; all I want to do is comfort Mark, but I’m not even sure how to do that. If Anya were here she would have a self-help book complete with exactly what we should be doing/thinking/saying right now. She is always reading those self-help books and ten steps to whatever she wanted to accomplish books. But somehow I don’t think they make self-help books for this.

Vanessa. Is. Pregnant. I can’t even string the words together to make a sentence. The whole idea makes me dizzy. I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. When I close my eyes I can still see her and my brother together, laughing over something ridiculous. I can still see them sitting on the porch swing, her head lying on his shoulder, his arm cradling her waist. I can still see them as innocents.

Was she lying to him then? Was every smile a fake? How could we miss the signs? There must have been signs: An inadvertent pat to the stomach, an excuse to not go out…an obvious lie.
How were we all so blind?

I can’t get over how heartbroken he looked. It was as if his whole world had come suddenly crashing in on him, as if he suddenly realized that maybe the world isn’t butterflies and glorious rainbows anymore.

Not that the world was ever perfect; the world is just a mixture of blues, some light moments and some dark moments. Our job is just to know how to deal with the things life throws at us.

“It’s a dog.”

“No. That’s a turtle.”

“It’s definitely a dog.”

Mike laughs and shakes his head at me, his dark hair bouncing every which way. “Sara, your horrible at cloud gazing.”

“It has ears and a long tail; it’s a dog.” I declare stubbornly, throwing a dandelion at him, but he continues to laugh. “Michael!”

“What?”

“…It is.”

Mike bursts out laughing again, and I try my best to force a glare on my face. My smile, however, is more stubborn than my attitude, and it shines through within a few seconds. Mike has a way of making it seem like it hasn’t been a couple of weeks since we last really hung out. Or making me forget that I should still be mad at him.

The aura of youth hangs above us, as if it is one of the clouds we are trying to pick out shapes from while laying on our backs in the soft grass of my yard. My father’s old record player, situated near an open window inside, spins the same vinyl disk that we danced to in the living room so long ago.

“I miss this.” Mike’s voice drags me from my daydreaming, and I turn to look at him.

“Miss what?”

“This!” He gestures around, “me, you, this song.” My eyes glide over to the open window. “Simple stuff…just living.”

“Well. You’re still living, obviously,” I joke. However, I can’t help but think that he’s the one who’s avoiding me. So, if he misses me so much, why doesn’t he do something about it?

Mike lifts his head to smile at me, but his eyes are serious. “Yeah, but I mean, really living. Taking the time to notice things that to most people don’t matter, like a turtle-shaped cloud.”

“Dog.”

“School is nothing like this, you know? And college definitely won’t be like this. I mean, you’re always worried about something: Exams, papers, lectures, jobs…you won’t have time to think.” Mike continues before I can interrupt with another smart comment. “I mean, really think. Or to ask yourself these questions. What holds the sky up? Where do falling stars go? What keeps that old record turning? Things you don’t really ask yourself when you’re too busy trying to jump start your car after it broke down on your way to class.”

I laugh softly. “But you know the answers to all those questions.”

“Yeah, well, I know the way that facts and studies would answer them. But when we were kids, those things never mattered. We still wondered. And the wondering led us to see things differently. The world was a much more beautiful place back then. We could do anything. We were invincible.”

“Well, we obviously weren’t invincible.”

“Huh?”

I smile a bit. “Life still got us. We grew up. We discovered that the world might not be as beautiful as we imagined it to be. But really, what can you do?”

Mike grins and lies back down. “Just keep that record spinning. I think we’ll be alright.”



When I was younger, I used to wonder about everything. I used to believe that I could fly, that I could become anything/anyone I wanted to. I used to dream impossible things.

Funny the way life catches up with us. Funny the way society knocks down every child’s fragile dreams and laughs at everyone who thought they could dare to live dangerously, recklessly, or freely.
And so one by one, each child grows into an adult full of wishes that were never pursued, dreams that were never fought for, love that was never discovered. And one by one they make the grave the richest place in the world for talents that will never be used.

I want to be able to ask impossible questions again, innocent questions again. I want to be able to wonder without having to know the answer.

I can’t remember the last time I took the time to color in a coloring book, or play with Lego’s. People just assume that we are supposed to grow out of such things. But why not continue playing with them? Why not expect innocence and questions?

Why not continue living in wonder?

(Dedicated to Michael).

You etched gilded hearts
On dilapidated bridges,
And you spelled my name
Introverted with yours.

You whispered decadent secrets
Into my unwilling ears,
While we watched falling stars
Float across onyx colored sheets.

You assaulted my senses
With your scent until I saw iridescent rainbows,
And you picked me together,
When I was too broken to stand back up.

You were the first one I fell in love with.

Remember when
We laughed until we flopped onto the floor.
Remember the songs we would sing off-key?
I still think our versions were the best.

Remember when
You would call me late at night
Just to hear my voice.
Or when I would call you,
And you would sing me to sleep.

I remember.

Tell me why,
It can’t be that simple anymore.
Tell me why I can’t look into your eyes
And just know that this is what forever is all about.
Tell me why,
Everything had to change.

I don’t like this change.

Remember when,
Questions were limited to coloring inside the lines,
Or simply wondering what held the sky up.
Remember when,
Peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches were rewards,
And recess seemed to be foursquare over and over and over again.

Let’s go back,
And forget the we are not invincible,
Because somehow we still got old,
And all of our promises slipped through the cracks.

Because I am here and you’re there.

We have a sub in math today. You have to give him credit for trying. I almost feel bad for the guy as he waves his hand, pathetically trying to calm the class, and explain a worksheet that we have to do on imaginary numbers. However, nobody’s listening, because nobody’s going to finish it. Some of us won’t even look at it. We all know the papers are just busywork that’s never going to be graded, no matter what the sub tells us.

Sub + bogus worksheet = free time.

Except you still have to look like you’re doing the work or you could get in trouble. So groups of three or four move their desks together. We huddle over our worksheets for a minute, writing our names at the top. Exhausted after this great show of physical exertion the gossiping begins.

I try to tune out the mindless drones of who’s dating whom, or who broke up with whom, or what party is coming up. Honestly, it’s like a soap opera- high school style. I glance around, and see Courtney. She’s sitting on a cute boy’s lap. Why does she always wear such tight shirts? But if you’re pretty like Courtney, in the way that everyone agrees you are pretty, I guess you can get away with stuff like that. My eyes try to pick out her slight imperfections, her mole above her right ear, her thinning hair from too much bleach and dye, her thickening waist and dark make-up. I roll my eyes, and continue scanning the room.

“Who is she sitting on?” I mumble to Anya.

“I don’t know, maybe some senior.”

“How much of a slut does she have to be?” I grump.

I clank my shoe obnoxiously against the metal rings of my desk until I count 5 faces glaring at me. One of the faces glaring at me is Anya’s.

“Sorry.”

“Trying to work here,” she shoots back, and I sigh. She’s weird like that. In any other class she’s all talk-talk-talk, but in math she’s anal, always working and re-calculating until she understands everything perfectly. It’s not like she’s dumb, but she doesn’t apply herself at all except for in this class.

Of course, I don’t have much room to talk about applying myself, but I do have a solid B in this class, and she has a C. She’s been grumpy with me ever since I told her not to date Devonte. She hasn’t exactly listened to my advice either, since apparently they’ve already had three dates.

“Are you still mad at me because of the whole Devonte thing?” I whisper.

“Can we please, like, not talk about this right now?” she shakes her bleached hair out of her face and rolls her eyes dramatically. “Some of us actually have to work to get a decent grade!”

She’s always bringing up the fact that I manage to get “good grades” when I don’t even study. I mean, I think it’s annoying that people get good grades when they don’t study, but it’s also just as annoying having someone gripe about it all the time.

“Okay. Fine. But you know I was just trying to be honest with you, right? I think you deserve better.”

Her green eyes widen as she begins to rant. “No. I don’t think that is what you meant. I think you are just trying to pull apart what’s fate, because you and Mike will never work out.” Her face is bright red, as her angry words spew out.

“What?” I hiss. “I thought you were my friend!”
“I am. That’s why I’m telling you like it is.”

“For your information, Mike and I have a thing…”

“A thing that’s gone. Or maybe never even existed! Can’t you see? If he would’ve truly been into you, he would’ve never gotten a girlfriend. But he did. Can’t you understand that?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I seethe. My fingers grip the corner of my desk until the tips of my fingers turn blue.

“Don’t I? You’re the one constantly talking about it, and to be quite honest I’m sick of it. I have a life too--- I mean, I have things I’m going through but no, all that matters is you and your maybe-would’ve been-”

“Just stop,” I hiss back, turning my back to her just as the sub arrives.

“Are we having a problem ladies?”

“No!” We grump together.

He raises his eyebrows annoyingly high and walks away. I hate when teachers ask if there’s a problem when there obviously is an emergency. Do they actually expect us to say, “No, I just don’t like this class and want to go hang out in the bathroom?”

Anya glares at me, and I glare back. I can tell people are staring at us and I wonder how much of a scene we caused. Timidly, I glance around. Courtney has stopped drawing imaginary lines across the boy’s legs and is staring wide-eyed at us. I turn back, and stare down at my math sheet. On the top of the page in Anya’s handwriting, bright pink letters read: “This is not over, bitch.”




I can count on one hand the amount of times Anya and I have fought. Growing up, we would argue but we would always make up. Even when I was convinced I was right and she was certain that she was right, eventually we would get over our differences and start anew. And no matter what, I always knew we had each other’s backs.

I wonder if she feels as unstable as I do, knowing that we aren’t looking out for one another anymore. I wonder if she even cares.

Mom’s like, “we need to talk.”

I’m on my bed reading The People’s History of the United States. More specifically I’m reading a paragraph in the book. It’s the same paragraph I’ve read seven times already. Every time I start over, I tell myself that I have to focus because if I don’t I’m going to be spending all of my time trying to read the same section over and over.

“Maybe later,” I say, “I’m trying to read this.”

“I’d rather talk now,” Mom says

“But this is a really good part.”

“Sara.”
I look up from my thick, paperback book and glare at her. I hate the way adults can say a person’s name and instantly grab his or her attention. My mother’s mouth is pinched into a tight frown, creasing lines into her cheeks as she stares at me, and her blue eyes are soft and wet.

“What?” I grump, even though I’m really not all that interested in what she’s going to say. “Wait, why are you here?” I glance at the clock–3:45. She’s never here this early in the afternoon; she’s always working.

“Well that’s part of what I wanted to talk about.”

She has my full attention now, and I pull my knees up to my chest, as if hoping to protect myself from whatever she is going to say.

Is it dad? They haven’t been getting along very well lately, but they did just start that counseling thing. Is it my grades? No, she’s never freaked out about B’s before. Maybe it’s…

“Your father and I have decided…” she takes a breath, leaving me hanging for what seems like an eternity as my brain spins into overdrive…To get a divorce? To end counseling? A separation?

“Your father and I have decided that we’re going to move.”

I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as her words hit me. I knew it was a divorce- wait…what? Move? I blink slowly, uncomprehending. This is the big news? I’m not sure whether to laugh in relief or cry. I can feel her looking at me, and I take a deep breath.

Breathing–that’s a good sign.

“Where?” I manage.

“Well, see, you know that place your father and I were looking at?”

That place? Yeah, okay, they looked at like 50 million places. I try not to look too blank, when I look back at her. “Umm, ok?”

“You aren’t paying attention to me, are you?” she says, not really asking, just stating in that irritating motherly way. She places her hands on my knees and pats them, which really irritates me.

What is it with parents, or specifically, moms and always patting their kids? Honestly, I’m not three. Though, my dad does ask me quite often if I’m still thirteen-yes dad, in fact I’m 17 thank you for noticing.

“Umm, what?”

She sighs and begins again. “Well, you know that little house just down the road from us?”

I close my eyes briefly and momentarily picture all the houses I can remember that happen to be, “just down the road from us.”
“No.”

“The one at the bottom of the hill, think dear.”

Think. As if I wasn’t just doing that? I frown, and try to think again. “No. Nothing.”

She sighs dramatically and pats my knee, which almost makes me want to slap her. Did I mention that I’m not three?

“Well, it’s this house at the bottom of the road, in Ambivalence…”

Ambivalence. No way. Imagine hicks, dirty rednecks, big trucks jacked up so high that you’d need a ladder just to get in, and lots of trailers. No way. No freaking way!

“…It’s a lovely place dear.”

“For people named Billy Bob and living in trailers maybe. And would you quit calling me dear?” I seethe through my teeth. Was moving to Ambivalence supposed to put me in a good mood?

She pretends to look hurt, and I almost feel bad. Almost. “I know moving will be a big change for you,”

“A big change? Ya think?! First of all, I come home from camp this summer, and all of a sudden now in November you’re springing this one on me? And to Ambivalence? Gosh, I thought even you had a sense of style somewhere…”

Her hurt expression deepens, and I take a deep breath. “I know it’s hard dear- I mean, Sara.” She sighs, and pulls out some pictures that I hadn’t noticed before. “But it’s not like we’re out in the open. It’s down a long lane, and it’s in the woods, and your father and I have been dreaming about this for so long…” Her voice catches and she wipes her eyes. She holds the pictures out to me and reluctantly I take them, studying the tall trees and lush grass fields. My eyes flick back and forth from her face to the pictures.

Great. Now I’m a dream-spoiler.

“Look mom, I’m sorr…” No, I’m really not. Scratch that. “…I’ll get over it,” I amend, “I’m really glad that we can move.”

She looks at me though watery eyes. “Really? Oh Sara, just give it some time and you’ll learn to love it. You won’t even have to share a room with your sister most of the time and…” She scoots off the bed, and maneuvers around my piles of stuff until she’s at the door. “Oh, this will just be so perfect. I’m so glad you came around.” She closes the door, and I fall back onto my bed.

What was that she said? I won’t have to share a room with my sister most of the time? Oh, so now I’m this run-of-the-mill kid that she can move from room to room whenever need be? I close my eyes, and practice these lame breathing exercises we learned in Conflict Resolution. I should be ex-communicated for even doing these stupid exercises. Let alone remembering them.




I don’t want to move. Not now. Not later. Not ever. Of course, I really don’t have a choice in the matter. But I don’t want to leave the familiar. Mom is all into redecorating and restoring old, dilapidated houses. My father calls them junk houses. My mother says old houses are the best to renovate because they have so much character. Character. As if I need more of that in my life.

Of course, Mark is fine with the idea of moving to their faces. But I bet he’s just as reluctant about moving as I am, he’s just not verbal about his disinclination to move. Then again, maybe he is happy for the space now. Maybe he views it as a chance to get away from Vanessa and all of her drama, a time for him to finally begin to sort things out.

When it comes down to it, I don’t want to move because it scares me too much. Every time I moved when I was little, it was to another family, another place, and another group of people. I don’t want to do that again. It invites all of the feelings I have tried so hard to contain out into the open. I don’t want to deal with those things I’ve kept hidden. Moving just invites trouble.

I hate Mondays. And it’s not even the fact that tons of other people hate Mondays as well. Okay, maybe that helps, but it’s more of the fact that it’s the end of the weekend.

Mom says I complain too much. And when I told her that no, I just happen to vocalize my dislikes a lot; she said I was giving her attitude. Whatever. What is up with moms and saying stupid phrases like that? I mean there’s the all obnoxious, “Because I said so,” or “Because I told you to,” and then the other ones like, “I’m your mom, that’s why,” and “Is your room clean?” and oh, the oh so threatening one of, “Don’t make me tell your father.” She’s going to tell him anyway, so why should I stop doing whatever I’m doing?

I hitch my backpack a little higher on my back and head off down the main hallway towards my fifth period class of Anatomy, which reminds me of another thing I hate. Backpacks.

I want one of those cute little shoulder bags, but mom says that it’ll ruin my back and I’ll be lopsided for the rest of my life. People like Courtney aren’t going to be lopsided for the rest of their lives, so why should I? Oh, right: Murphy’s Law, that’s why.

I turn into my classroom and make a beeline for my seat only to find Mr. Strickler sitting in it. Again. His lifeless gray hair is stretched into an oily comb-over, in an obvious effort to his shiny pate and I sigh. Sometimes people are just so pathetic.

“You’re late Sara.” His voice sounds gravelly and bored.

I stare at him, not really caring that I was late or not. He slides off my seat and walks to the front of the class. I try not to shudder when I sit down on my seat and notice how warm it is. I hate warm wooden seats.

I try to catch Michael’s eye from across the room, but he’s yawning and texting behind a textbook. Stretching uncomfortably in my seat, I lean towards my backpack. My fingers curl around the strap of my bag and slowly I hoist it up to my desk. My fingers wrap around my phone, and I begin to text. Mr. Strickler’s voice stops. I look up only to notice that he is staring at me. He holds out his hand.

“Sara, phone please.”

Shit.

Everybody is staring at me. Michael is smirking, his book probably open to the proper page and his cell phone nowhere in sight.

Goodbye texting. Hello detention.



I saw Devonte with another girl today. He was snogging her, probably some freshman girl not yet aware of his past, unashamedly underneath the stairwell. I wonder if Anya knows.

I wanted to tell Anya, but we are no longer talking. I don’t even think she would believe me if I told her.
I can still see the way they were arched under the stairwell. His disgustingly, perverse fingers steadying her back as his tongue flicked in and out of her mouth like a toad catching flies.

I know he saw me watching them. I know he did because his eyes caught mine and he winked at me. He winked!

I want to tell her that he didn’t deserve her anyways, that she can do better than him. I want to be her friend, but I don’t think she wants to be mine anymore. Nevertheless, I can’t help but wonder who will catch her this time when she falls.

He’s rude to me. There’s no hush-hush on it anymore. Michael is so rude sometimes. I don’t think he does it intentionally, but I really come away from our conversations sometimes feeling so…cheapened; so talked down. He hurts me, and it doesn’t really bother him.

It bothers me.

I glance around the closed, stuffy detention room, and count the faces. Some of the people I anticipated would be here; Merissa and her crowd of flittering, perfectly cloned sycophants; Justin Tenner, a guy who would rather smoke pot than be in class; and Nary Michelin. Nobody really knows anything about him; of course nobody can really see him through the black capes he always wears.

“Priss,” he mumbles, not even trying to be discreet about it. I turn and glare at him, wondering why he thinks he can judge me without even knowing me first. I am half-tempted to say something back, curse at him and tell him that he will probably amount to nothing but I don’t.

I don’t have the best mouth. I’m prone to swearing, once in a while, and I really want to stop because swearing is ugly. It’s rude. It’s unladylike. In everything I do and say, I am always thinking ahead, wondering if in some way I’m being rude or disrespectful because it really means a lot to me that I don’t hurt someone else’s feelings, even unintentionally.

Mike, however, doesn’t have the same consideration for me. If anything, he’s lax with me. He says whatever and apparently it doesn’t matter if it hurts my feelings. Even his tone of voice can be harsh and abrasive. It’s unnecessary. I don’t say anything most of the time, I just deal with it. But one day a few weeks ago, he flat out yelled at me. I don’t stand for being yelled at, especially when I was just worried about him.

All I had said was that he seemed to be spending too much time with his girlfriend. He accused me of being jealous. Well, of course I am, but weren’t we also supposed to keep each other accountable? Before he had started dating, he had told me that he wanted help not to lose his other friends when he dated.

I wonder if he knows he has lost almost all of his friends by now.

Mr. Swenson is taking attendance now, staring over his drooping paper as his pencil consistently ticks off the regulars. “Price?” His voice is flat, and I stare defiantly at his thinning hair as I raise my hand, signaling my presence. His eyes flicker across my face, and I can almost see him filing away my face into his many data banks of storage with a sign across my forehead: Trouble.

I kick my feet aimlessly, and stare across the thin gray carpet. I’ve never had a detention before. In fact, I’ve never really gotten in trouble before. Rubbing circles into my forehead, I think about what my parents are sure to say when they find out. I can’t hide my detention from them. They always seem to know everything good or bad that happens to me. Always.

Not that my parents especially seem to care about the things I do right. I can’t remember the last time they said they were proud of me, or that they loved me. Instead, they like to find my flaws and parade them in front of my face. I need to “lose weight, walk taller, exercise more, and eat healthier, play less and drive slower….“ I will always disappoint them.

My friends tell me that they love me more than my parents, and my friends encourage me to follow my dreams.
I have decided that if I have to live my life either following my parent’s ideas or doing what is important to me, I need to be true to myself.

I need to be true to me.

I lay my head down on my desk and close my eyes, hoping to somehow sleep detention away.



“How was school?” Mom’s voice is falsely chipper, out of place around our depressed dining room. Mark stirs from his sprawl, and drops his fork, letting it clatter against his plate. Regurgitating my spaghetti, I cough it into my napkin, as my father raises his eyebrows at me.

“Well, speak up, your mother asked you a question,” he says brusquely.

I want to remind him that she is not just “my” mother, but I refrain from doing so. “Fine.” The lie rolls easily off my tongue and I glare at Mark, praying that he will not tell them he had to wait later than usual to pick me up after school because of my detention.

“Mark?” My mother turns to him, and Mark smiles at her. I can see him forcing the smile through his teeth. He hasn’t talked to me since that night when he was drunk.

“Great. I aced my tests today.” He gives my father a winning smile, and my dad begins to badger him with questions about college. Mark hates being asked about college, hates being expected to follow certain rules. He’ll follow them, and be a complete stuck up pig sometimes, but I love him. He’s always there to watch my back for me.

“Did you finally figure out a college? The deadlines are coming up you know.”

Mark shakes his head slightly, his dirty-blonde hair obscuring his eyes.

“Well you need to decide. And you need a haircut as well. No law school is going to hire some scraggly kid that can’t even comb his hair.”

Mark’s face turns beet red, and he squirms in his seat. “Yessir.” I can see now that he hasn’t told father about his dream of becoming a businessman. He looks at me and I can almost hear him speaking to me “I won’t tell on you about your detention if you don’t tell on me about wanting to become a businessman.” His eyes flicker and I nod as I watch him visibly relax.

“Good. I’ll set you up an appointment tomorrow.” My father’s voice is firm, and I stare at him, comparing his face to Mark’s. Sometimes they don’t look alike at all.

“Dad, his hair looks fine.” I try to stick up for Mark, try to help him like he helps me but it’s useless.

“Sara, this is none of your business.”

“Nathan, listen to the boy. Maybe he doesn’t want his hair cut.” My mother’s voice is soft and pleading, smoothing the cracks of his previous disdain.

I stare at my father, wondering if he will begin to yell at her, yell at everyone like he used to do when he was upset. However, this time he surprises us.

“Mark, do you want your haircut?”

My mouth pops open, and I stare amazed at my father. He never asks us anything, nor does he take our advice very often. Mark’s eyes widen in surprise, “Uh, no.”
“Okay then. No haircut.” My father shrugs his shoulders and gets up from the table, leaving us all wide-eyed as he clears his dishes and heads for the kitchen.

I stare at my brother, and he shrugs his shoulders as well. Okay, maybe it’s a little on the superficial side: My father letting my brother choose a haircut or not, but the root of the idea isn’t it. He’s changed, I don’t know if it is the counseling or the prospect of a new house, but something inside him is gentler, more pleasant. He always says that you can’t teach an old dog a new trick. Well, looks like he just learned one.

I think I’m beginning to like country music. Not necessarily because of the quality of the music, but because when I’m feeling down I know there are people that have it worse than I do. I’ve been feeling down lately…mostly because of he-who-screwed-me-over.

Anya says I’m pathetic, and that I need to get over him and move on: Make some new friends; go shopping with her, binge on chocolate. I said that I couldn’t possibly be ‘pathetic’ because she’s the one dating Jerkface. She hasn’t said anything to me since, and that was three days ago.

Three days ago was when she convinced herself that I’m in love with Devonte.

Maybe I am pathetic. I’m so wrapped up in myself and mourning someone that wasn’t even mine, that I turn my best friend against me. What makes it worse is that I’m too pathetic to even try and get her back.

I close my eyes and count down the minutes until study hall. I swear clocks move slower when you are waiting for something.

Mike’s wearing a blue T-shirt today. He hates blue. I wonder if she knows this. I wonder if she knows that his arms aren’t the same length, or that when he’s stressed he wrinkles his nose, and tilts his head sideways, as if trying to view the world in the third dimension. I wonder if he cloud gazes with her. Shit. I wonder if he thinks about me.

Okay. I’m definitely pathetic. I zip my backpack, and walk slowly to the door as the clock finally turns to 11:14, and try to throw him out of my mind by reciting facts I need to know for today’s history test, but I blank out by the time my feet hit the hallway. This is not my day.

My eyes mill across the throngs of talking and laughing people meandering from classes, and I wish I could be that free, but I feel tied down. I feel like all of the things I thought were important are no longer, and everyone that I thought I could trust is suddenly gone. In essence, I feel old. It’s as if I am watching my peers make bad choices everyday and I have no desire to congregate with them except from the bitter emptiness in my heart, and my own wanton desires.

My feet stumble down the hallway to the bathroom, and I wonder how long I can hide in here before somebody notices I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I bite my lip and slink into the bathroom, silently cursing myself for not finding a better hiding place.

All High School bathrooms smell vulgar.

I wander to the far side of the restroom, shaking off my backpack as I wonder how life got so complicated.

I hate the fact that a lot of my bitterness about the world has resurfaced with the disappearance of my best friend. I was warned that this would happen, that he would find somebody else, and somehow in the middle of that I lost Anya, and I’m too proud to crawl back to her. I’m too miserable to even handle myself.
Why should she?

My thoughts ebb and flow, dancing between my lack of a social life and my lack of a love life. Sighing, I put my head in my hands when my phone vibrates.

Where are you?

Dangit! I bite back a curse. I’m skipping tutoring.




This morning, I woke up from dreaming of Michael. I know this, because my lips were pressed passionately into my pillow. Only Michael makes me kiss inanimate objects.

I wonder if he kisses her. I wonder if he ever thinks of me or if he is perfectly happy with everything the way it is.

I wonder if he needs me anymore.

You’re late,” Mike says, and points to a dingy chair across from him. The library is dim and musty with high ceilings that seem to go up forever, but I always feel like home here.

I sit on a plastic, orange chair and watch Becca scribble in her coloring book.

“Why are you here? I practically had to drag you here the first time,” I retort.

“Because I wanted to talk to you.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Well you could at least say thank you for not letting you skip.”

“How did you know?” I catch myself as I gaze up into his teasing smile, and I find myself fantasizing about his lips again…. “I mean, uh, I was just uh,”

“So you were.” He grins triumphantly. “I didn’t know it was in you to be so BA.” He drums his fingers obnoxiously on the wooden table, and I ignore the urge to kick him.

“Of course, I wasn’t skipping,” I splutter, but abruptly stop when I notice his smile widening. “Anyways, I think our conversation is done, because I have to tutor.”

“Oh, right. Tutoring, the thing that is so important to you…because you value her so much…so much that you would never ever leave her, let alone forget her…”

I glare at him until he shoves his chair away from the table. “Don’t kick me,” he warns.

“I wouldn’t dream about it,” I intone, my voice velvet.

“Sara, listen.”

“I think you better leave Michael.”

“But I want Mikey to thaaaay!” Rebecca pleads, her crayons and papers temporarily forgotten.

Since when did she know his name? I wonder.

“What have you done to her?” I mouth. Mike slightly raises his shoulders and pulls a lollipop from his pants pocket.

“Here Becca girl, you want a loli?”

“Yeth,” she lisps, and I try to catch Mike’s attention. She loves sugar, and I can’t get her to behave at all if she has it.

“No, no, no.” I hiss while miming a cutthroat, but he ignores me and gives her two brightly wrapped lollipops.

“Sorry, but I gotta go Bec’s. Be good for Sara okay?”

She tears off the wrapper on her lollipop and stares into my face. As soon as he turns his back she sticks out her tongue at me, her small face contorting into a sneer.

Standing up, I grab his shirt as he turns to go.

“Where do you think your going mister?”

“I thought you didn’t want me here.”

“So you just give her sugar and leave?”

“Yup.”

“You just let out a monster.”

He looks over my shoulder and sighs. “Sara, she’s a third grader. She’s not exactly a deranged killer.”

“She could be. And she’s scary with that thing.”

“It’s a lollipop.”

“It’s two lollipops. Which is two more than I would have given her or will ever give her. And it’s a potential sugar-high.”

“Fine. If you want me to stay I’ll stay.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” He turns around and sinks into a chair next to me. “Are you really scared of her? Because, I know a lot of things scare you, but seriously. A third grader?”

“She bit me once.”

“Sure…”

“I’ll prove it. I even have the scars.” I pull up my sleeve and gaze anxiously at my arm. “There used to be scars…”

“I’m sure.”

“I promise you!”

“Sara, I really don’t care if you did or didn’t have scars. If I’m going to be here can we please talk?”

“Fine. What do you want to talk to me about Michael?”

“Oh. So we are back to Michael? Okay, fine. But that’s one of the things that we are going to talk about.”

“Your name?”

“No your crazy spazing. I mean, what is up with you? I have a life you know. I go home, and I get these crazy emails. One day you’re totally done with me, the next day we’re best friends. I mean, that is a little bit whack, don’t you think?”

I turn my face to the side, so he can’t see the tears that are sliding down my face. He’s right. Again, and I hate the fact that he’s right. My life has been so crazy lately that I thought our relationship was one thing I could rely on and control but even that snapped. And now I’m really going insane.

“Yeah, it’s whack,” I whisper.

“Sara, look at me.”

I don’t want to but I slowly raise my face to his.

“Talk to me.”

“If I say anything it will probably ultimately embarrass me, and permanently get rid of you.” My voice breaks, and I watch Becca drawing, completely oblivious to us.

“Try me,” he says.

“But I’m done trying me,” I whisper back.

Confusion colors his face, and he sighs. “Look, you drive me insane. A lot. I mean, half the time I can’t follow your crazy mind, and the other half of the time I’m plain confused, but the rest of the time, you’re a really great girl Sara. And I’m really glad you’re my friend: One of my best friends.”

“You’re really bad at math,” I whisper. He smiles at me and grabs my hand.

“And you’re really insane.”

“Thanks bud.” I glare, and then in an afterthought ask, “What are we going to do about me?”

I watch as he roots around in his pockets and I try not to roll my eyes. What is he doing? After a bit he produces a lollipop and hands it to me.

“Err, thanks? What is this?”

“A lollipop.”

“No really Sherlock.”

“It’s blue.”

“And?” I tear off the wrapping paper and suck on the candy, savoring the artificial flavor of blue raspberry.

“Okay, don’t laugh. But I know how you’ve been down a lot lately and so I was thinking what happens if every day you write down ten things that made you smile that day. Something that made you…not so blue.”

“You want me to keep a journal?” I try not to sound condescending as I stare back at him.

“Yeah. I knew you’d laugh.” He plays with his hands and mumbles, “It was just an idea.”

“No wait. It was a creative idea. That was sweet, thanks.” Unconsciously, I stare at him. Who is this kid anyways? He never used to be this sweet. Frantically, I avoid looking at his mouth. I wonder if his lips are as sweet as his sudden new personality?

“What?” His voice breaks into my thoughts as I realize he caught me staring.

Immediately, I break my stare. “Nothing. It’s nothing, I didn’t meant to stare.”

“Whatever you say. I really got to go this time. And I don’t think those lollipops hurt her.” He motions to Rebecca and starts to walk off.

The little sneak. She was probably just being good because he was here. I roll my eyes and finish my lollipop. A journal eh?




I used to keep journals everyday. I used to have time to do ordinary things like reading a book, enjoying the scenery and relaxing without wondering if anybody would hurt me.

I used to dream.

I guess everything changed after my eleventh birthday; everything became different, stranger. My sister, Leah, had moved away to California to become a model. She had always dreamed of becoming a model, of parading around in silk and taffeta while clutching brand-name purses with expensive price tags.

Mother had been hesitant to let her go, she didn’t think that modeling was lucrative enough, didn’t think that Leah should have her sense of beauty warped and twisted by society. Leah said that she was not a little girl anymore, and that mother had no business in what she wanted to do. Mother said that when Leah comes back anorexic and depressed maybe she’ll have learned to distinguish the difference between how to live a “proper” life over a slattern life.

Leah said that mom is full of analytical BS. Leah and Mother have not spoken since then.

However, Leah does occasionally send me letters filled with news: What current modeling show she is going to be in, how many pounds she has to lose/gain, who she is currently dating. Leah, at least tries to connect with me.

I don’t want to have to write about my messed up family connections in my journal or for class. I don’t want to have to think about the problems our family has.

My home isn’t perfect. Even as much as my parents like to glam up our image: The perfect American family; our lives really aren’t that ideal. We live in perfect symmetry, slaves to the clock. At 5:45 my father, if home, wakes up, takes a shower, eats breakfast and listens to the radio, brushes his teeth and heads off to work. At 6:30 Mark wakes up, takes a shower, eats breakfast, wakes me up and we leave for school. At 7:30 my mother wakes up and tidies the house, and then goes to her decorating job and luncheons where everyone gossips about their children and husbands.

My father frowns at these meetings, but my mother likes to “socially indulge with others.” And so she goes, wearing her perfect, wrinkle-free pantsuits and expensive jewelry only to come back with the latest “news,” which, of course, is always true.

Mark’s door creaks open and I watch him shuffle out in his forest-green, Christmas pajama pants, while the top of his bright blue boxers peek out. Not bothering to knock, he comes in and sits at the bottom of my bed. He looks miserable and I can tell he barely got any sleep.

“What’s wrong?” my voice is hushed, and I squeeze his knee, letting him know that I still care.

“She texted me to ask if I could take her to the,” his voice breaks and he rubs his eyes with a fist. “To the abortion clinic.” Quickly, he turns away, but I can see the tears spilling from his eyes.

I don’t know what to say, so instead I bite my lip and stay quiet, anticipating his next move.

“I just don’t know what to do Sara,” his voice breaks again, and I scoot down the bed until I am sitting beside him. A

wkwardly, I wrap an arm around his waist in an attempt to comfort him. “I’m not taking her to the abortion clinic, I just can’t. I won’t.” His voice grows husky, and he looks at me. “For some reason I keep thinking, what happens if this was you? You are her age, and part of this makes me want to be a better brother.” He’s babbling now, and I suppress a sigh.

We’ve never talked like this before. He’s never talked like this before. “And I’m so mad at her, dammit. I thought I knew her.” He clenches his fist and cusses. “Guess I was wrong. I don’t even know who the father is; she won’t tell me, says it’s not important. She probably thinks I would beat him up. I guess part of me wants to, and the other part of me is still so confused.” He looks at me again and sighs. “I hate this,” he whispers. “What?” He looks at me, and I realize that I’ve had my mouth open the whole time he’s been talking.

“Nothing.” I whisper, “I’m really sorry about this whole thing, Mark.”

“Not your fault,” he shrugs. “I’ll get over it.” He stands to his feet and looks sheepish. “Sorry about all that,” he waves an arm, apologizing for his behavior. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this, I just needed someone to talk to.” He sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair as he walks to the door.

“Mark, I love you.” My words stop him in his tracks, and he turns around and stares at me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve told him that.

“Uh, thanks Sara. You too.” A hint of a smile crosses his face before he turns around again and departs, leaving the “you too,” still ringing in my head.




I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a family, to care about somebody else besides number one. Ever since my parents have become distant, I try to stay out of family affairs.

But maybe life is about taking the blues with the yellows: The good with the bad. It’s so easy to focus on the easy things, the little things, and the things that won’t matter tomorrow. Maybe I’ve become too caught up in focusing on the small things.

I’ve become too self-absorbed, too wanton. Perhaps, part of the reason I am so apathetic is because I’ve forgotten how to care about others. I’ve forgotten how to love.

Wisdom doesn’t always seep from
Dusty books and astute elders
Who memorize words in Latin
Just so that they can pray more
Effectively.

Sometimes wisdom
Is simply breathing
In and out.

My dreams hold all the answers
My fragile soul wants to know
And I regurgitate my delicious
Perception through my
Intuition.

Where perceptive ashes burn,
Pessimism glows in the incinerator
While I observe that we
Break china plates
Across the tiled floor
Just because we can.

Everything is marvelous
When it is under control
And I have it firmly in my
Grasp.

Pay heed to your intuition,
My darling
And redefine your future
By forgetting your past.
Disregard the asinine words of
Society.

Travel at the pace your spirit sets-
Not at the height of the barriers.

Go further than those who went before you
Because courage is written across your eyelids and lips:
Audaces fortuna iuvat,
And if you don’t believe in me-
I will believe in myself.

Go dismantle society’s interpretation of what is
Perfect by accepting the marginalized because
Sometimes courage isn’t the loudest roar,
But the quietest whisper.

There are three days until my paper for Individual Family Studies is due.

Three. Two. One.

I haven’t started on it. It’s not that I haven’t tried, I have-but everything I have written I end up deleting. Writing about my family is too hard, too emotionally wearing.

When I asked Mark what I should write about he smiled and told me to write about life from my perspective. I stared at him like he was crazy, and told him that was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. How was I supposed to do that? He disappeared into his room, and came out with his laptop and told me to start with just writing down words that came to mind when I thought of family and go from there.

He told me not to think about writing perfectly but instead about writing from my heart. I told him he was psycho, and he smiled at me.

So, I sat down and wrote about words that come to mind when I think of family: Disorganized, comfortable, creative, obnoxious, embarrassing….I wrote until I had an entire page filled with adjectives, and then I cried because it was then that I realized that although my family really does drive me crazy, I still love them.

I needed to be reminded that I love them.

“Sara.”

I can hear Mark outside of my door, and sighing, I clear away a spot for him on my bed and tell him he can come in.

The door creaks open, and he enters carrying his soccer ball and guitar.

“I’m going out to hang with some friends and I wanted to know if you wanted to come with me.” He glances at the pile of papers and pencils on my bed, and quickly begins to recant with, “but I can tell you’re busy. If you don’t want to-“

“No, I want to go,” I manage, surprising myself. I never go anywhere with Mark.

“Cool. I thought we’d go to the park and then to Dorian’s Café- a couple of us got asked to play and we were wondering if you would sing,” he smiles sheepishly, and I stare at him shocked.

“What?”

“I know, I know, it’s a long shot, but Sara, you have an amazing voice.” His eyes catch mine, and I try to nod and smile.

For as long as I can remember, Mark hasn’t ever openly invited me anywhere him, let alone to do anything with him. I open my mouth to respond, but forget to speak.

“Is that yes?” He grins before he disappears. A few seconds later he reappears with a few pieces of paper that he hands to me. “Those are the songs we want to do, I think that they will be familiar enough, but you can look over them while we are at the park.”

I glance through the stack at the songs: If I Die Young; Killing Me Softly and Ordinary People, and shrug my approval.

“Sure,” I reply and stand up, in search of clothes to wear.

“I knew you’d say yes,” he murmurs, and closes the door behind him. I can hear him singing to himself as he disappears down the hallway and I smile.

He needs to be able to go tonight and enjoy himself. Ever since Vanessa told him about the baby, he’s been a wreck, and if I am able to help him make him feel better for an evening, than I will do my best to try.



After Michael had found me in the shed at camp, he went crazy.

Jamal never had a chance.

After he had finished beating Jamal up, Michael had carried me out of the shack and to my room. He sat staring at me anxiously, and cursed.

“I’m calling the police,” he whispered, but I stopped him. The authorities never made a difference, I whispered, but he didn’t care. “They’ll make me go on the witness stand,” I pled, and he stared at me, his eyes wild and crazed.

“I can’t do nothing,” he hissed. “I can’t…dammit Sara, why aren’t you mad?”

Tears formed in my eyes as I stared at him, openmouthed at his audacity.

“I am mad,” I hissed, “and I’m also grateful. Thank you for…”

He interrupted me and smacks the bedside table with his fist. “Don’t thank me if you’re not going to do anything about it,” he snarls.

Pain blossomed in my heart when he spoke, and I tried not to scream. “I can’t, I can’t…” I hiccupped, and he left.

Two days later, Jamal was sent home and I received a note from the Camp Director saying that if anything happens again to tell him immediately.

Apparently, Michael had gone and had a chat with the Camp Director on my behalf. He apologized later, but said he wouldn’t allow myself to be the victim anymore, and than he had kissed me.

I’m wedged into a corner drinking Ginger Ale when he approaches. He has mocha-colored skin, a pretty smile, and his golden-brown hair hangs in short curls around his face.

“Would you like to dance?” His voice is soft, and I act like I’m considering his offer, before I politely decline.

“No thanks, I don’t dance.” He looks slightly disappointed before he smiles and tries again,

“That’s okay, I can teach you.” He smiles at me, and I desperately try not to blush.

“Really, it’s okay,” I mumble, but he’s already pulling me off of my store and onto the dance floor.

“Just follow my lead,” he whispers. “By the way, I never caught your name, “ he murmurs, and I laugh out loud.
“Sara, Sara Price,” I manage. “And is this how you pick up girls? By dancing with them?” I question, he raises his eyebrows at me and grins.

“Well…I wanted to see if it would work,” he admits, “and I think the technique has worked pretty well so far,” he adds.

“I think it could use a bit of refinement,” I add. “I mean, you don’t know anything about me….?”

“Dante. Dante Royal. And I know some things. I know that you’re a pretty girl with a pretty dress on and Mark is your brother.” He grins triumphantly, and I narrow my eyes at him.

“Did Mark put you up to this?” I stare at him intently. He does look slightly familiar.

“Hell no, he doesn’t even know I asked you. Honest.” He puts his arm up and twirls me underneath it until I’m dizzy and can barely stand up anymore.

He looks at me, clearly bewildered, and than chuckles. “I thought you couldn’t dance.”

“I was lying,” I admit. “I just…I haven’t danced for a while.”

“You know, Mark never told me how pretty you were.”

I can feel my cheeks blushing, and I drop his hands, and curtsy as the song ends.

“Song’s over,” I announce and smile, thankful that I no longer need to think of a response to his compliment. After I thank him for the dance, I turn to walk back to my corner, but he grabs me by the arm.

“Do you think I could see you again?” He’s standing close to me in the middle of the room, and I find myself counting the buttons on his shirt. There are 13 of them.

“I don’t really date,” I manage,
“How about we consider it as two friends going out to dinner?” He urges, his eyes twinkle with mirth and I laugh.

“Okay,” I agree, and sigh.

“Great, how about tomorrow night at 6?” His enthusiasm bubbles over, and I begin to wonder if he ever frowns.

“Sure,” I agree. “Tomorrow at 6 sounds perfect.” He smiles, and hugs me before stepping back in sudden dismay.

“What?” I question, suddenly wary.

“I hugged you,” he begins, “I’m sorry if that offended you or any boundaries…” Worry creases his face, and I smile at him.

“No, it was fine,” I murmur.

“Cool,” he turns to go and then faces me again. “Sara,”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for giving me a chance,” he states simply. The lights dim, and he hurries to the stage where he sits at the piano.

Dorian’s Café is filled with people, and suddenly I feel nervous. I can see my brother standing on stage with his guitar, perfectly at ease. Dante begins playing something jazzy, and suddenly people are dancing all around me again.

I head back to the corner but never make it.

“Is there a Sara Price in the building?”

I stop. Dante’s voice rings through the Café, and I freeze. Mark never told me I would be announced like this.

Couples still sway in the middle of the room to Dante’s music, and I silently pray that his microphone will break.

“Everybody, I would like if all of you would welcome the prettiest girl here to the stage and listen to her sing for ya’ll tonight.” He takes a breath, and I glance up at the stage. Mark is still strumming his guitar and smiling out at the crowd.

Someone’s going to pay.

“Not only has Sara agreed to sing for ya’ll tonight, but she has agreed to go out on a date with me tomorrow night,” A few people let out a couple catcalls and whistles, while another handful clap.

There is no way I am going up on the stage.

“Sara, honey, don’t be shy. Come on up here,” he suddenly switches his song from a jazzy number to a prelude for “If I Die Young,” and I glare wildly at the stage as I walk towards the front.

Mark’s eyes meet mine, and he smiles as he continues to strum along on his guitar.

As I ascend the stairs, I can’t stop staring at Dante. The way the light hits his dusty brown skin and his golden hair accentuates his soft features. I wonder if he knows how attractive he is.

The prelude starts to come to an end, and cautiously I pick up the cordless microphone. I haven’t sung in public since I was dating Chase.

Chase. The word brings back too many memories, millions of them, and I can feel tears forming in my eyes. What am I doing here?

The people swaying back and forth morph into various shapes of Chase, and suddenly I feel as if I am suffocating.

“Sara, Sara, he’s played your entrance cue 5 times now.”

Mark’s voice brings me back to reality, and I smile sheepishly at him and open my mouth to sing about someone else’s dead love.



“You sounded beautiful…you sang like an angel…. when are you going to be famous?” I am ushered out of the café and millions of voices, and into the hallway by Mark and Dante. Both of them are staring at me while searching desperately for tissues.

As soon as we walked into the hallway, I started sobbing. I managed to make it through the rest of the songs without a glitch, but I can’t tell you what songs I sang anymore. Instead, as I stood up there, I thought about Chase and Michael and how I was never good enough for them.
“Sara, Sara, what’s wrong?” Mark is shaking me and Dante is pushing me into a chair while announcing that he’s going to go and get me something to drink.

I don’t want to talk about what’s wrong because I’m not even entirely sure what is wrong. I had planned on having a good evening, and I had ruined it.

Maybe I’m not good enough to have a pleasant evening.

Mark stares at me and haphazardly places an arm around my waist and pulls me close. I dissolve in his warm embrace and hope that Dante forgets to come back.

“I’m sorry. If I had known that you weren’t up for an evening out…” he begins, but I shush him.

“I wanted to come. Don’t blame yourself,” I hiccup. A door closes and Dante places another arm around us.

“Sara?” his voice is distressed, and I try to stop the tears pouring down my face. I dip my head into the crook of his neck and allow myself to feel the soft warmth of his skin.

Chase was all angles and squares where Dante is soft and warm, and I cry again as I realize that Chase never ever comforted me the way Mark and Dante are attempting to.

The minutes pass like hours, and after a bit I manage to regain control over my composure. Mark shifts awkwardly on his feet, and heads for the door with an excuse to use the restroom. Dante stays behind and pulls me close.

“I don't usually make most girls cry the first time I meet them,” he jokes. I crack a smile and he pushes my head against his chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I want to talk about anything but that.”

“Okay, we can talk about how beautiful you are.” I laugh, and he cups his hand around my waist and pushes me backwards.

“I don’t know what made you cry like that, but I want you to know I hope I never hurt you like that.” His words are gentle, and I can feel myself tearing up again. “I knew I made you cry!” he announces as a tear rolls down my cheek. He chases it with a thumb, and rubs it on his shirt.

“Don’t cry,” he pleads softly. I stare at him, wondering why I never noticed him before. He has gorgeous eyes and perfect skin. “Please don’t cry,” he begs.

The world is spinning, and I try to focus on breathing: in, out, in, out.

“Sara, are you okay?” His voice sounds softer and further away than it did before.

“Sara?” A door creaks and I can see Mark. Or maybe there are 3,4,5,6, Mark’s.

“Sara? You look like you’re going to

#$%@!@!#$@!#$!-

faint.”

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m lying in my bed. I’m not entirely sure how long I was knocked out for, but I’m in my pajamas with a glass of orange juice beside me.

“Sara, you have a visitor.” Mom knocks on my door and comes in. She smells like homemade bread and is wearing a pair of pants that look like a rainbow exploded on them and a loose-fitting, silk blouse.

“Who is it?” I groan. Mom kisses my forehead and announces that I don’t have a fever anymore.

“Um, I don’t remember his name. Dawson? Dean? Dan…”

“Dante,” I growl. He probably thinks I’m insane.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Cute, has curly hair?”

“Yup,” I mutter and try to pull myself out of bed.

“Nope, Hun you fainted. You need to stay in bed and drink lots of fluids.” Mom’s voice becomes warning, and I cringe.

“I already sent him up, he should be here-“ she turns and acts surprised to find him standing in my doorway. “-Any minute, “ she concludes. “Well, I will leave you two kiddo’s alone. Dante, just make yourself right at home. Well, please don’t make a home…” she chuckles and I can feel myself blushing as she leaves.

“Well, this wasn’t exactly the date I had in mind,” Dante jokes. He sits on the side of my bed and stares at me. I smile, and cough a couple of times. “Are you feeling any better?” Tentatively, he reaches out a hand and touches my forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever anymore.”

“Fever’s gone, and yeah, I feel a lot better,” I answer, and sit up. “Do you care to tell me how I got home last night?”

His eyes twinkle and I groan, already planning on being embarrassed by whatever happened.

“Well, I know people aren’t supposed to kiss on their first dates…but I had to give you mouth to mouth to resuscitate you.” He’s not looking at me anymore, “but you also threw up on me when you came too…ruined my favorite shirt and shoes too,” he mumbles.

I can feel my mouth popping open and I try not to gasp. He looks at me and then laughs at my horrified expression.

“I’m just kidding.” He laughs, and I glare at him. “No, what happened was your brother came out just as you fainted and he was the one who actually did all of the proper procedure because he’s a lifeguard and all. I just helped him carry you to the car.” He laughs again, and I continue to glare at him. “That’s the truth, I swear,” he adds.

“Okay, I believe you.” My voice cracks, and I attempt to hide my embarrassment with a smile.

“Good.” He sits so close to me I can feel his breath on my skin, and I wonder if he feels as if the air in my room has suddenly evaporated in our chemistry.

He places his hand on my arm, and I stare openly at him.

“What are you thinking?”

He asks.

“Yourgorgeous,” my words are stringing together like a Kindergartner’s art project.

He smiles, and it is than that I realize that I said those words aloud. “Um, I didn’t meant that…it’s the drugs,” I lie.

“They don’t give you drugs for fainting, silly,” he leans close to me and I can hear my heart beating.

“Oh.” I begin to sputter out excuses, but he covers my mouth with his and kisses me, and suddenly I am kissing him back. Heat crawls up my spine and settles in my face. I wrap my arms around his neck and he pulls me towards him and wraps his hands around my waist.

We lie, embraced like that for a couple of moments before he abruptly stops kissing me.

“Stop,” he murmurs. My lips are on his neck, and my blankets are pooled like waves around us.

“What’s wrong?” I ask and stare at the golden flecks in his eyes, and notice that he’s distressed. “What’s wrong, “ I press again.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He whispers. “I don’t even really know you and I’m kissing you.” He scoots away from me and holds my hands. “I just think that we should take things slow, you know?”

I continue to stare at him, and feel as if he’s punched me in the stomach. No one has ever wanted to value me before.

“Sara?” He’s saying my name again, but I can’t answer. “Dammit, Sara, please don’t think I didn’t like kissing you…that was…amazing.” He slides closer to me again, and pulls me close. “I just want to get to know you before. And, I,” he lowers his eyes, unable to reach my gaze, “I don’t wanna do anything before marriage.”

His words stop, and I gaze at him, and wonder where a guy like him was all my life.




The first time a boy kissed me was when I was 4. I can still remember the smell of his stale animal crackers and the soggy feel of his lips on mine.

The second time was Michael.

Michael. The name does funny thing to my heart and I try to focus on Dante.

Kissing Dante was nothing like my first kiss. Instead, he was all soft folds and smelled like peppermint and wood smoke.

After Dante left, I fell back into my bed smiling and watched him play basketball outside with my brother. They both looked so carefree as they took turns dribbling the ball and shooting. Occasionally, they would look up and wave at me, and I would smile, wondering if it was possible that dating another could feel so effortless and painless.

Whenever I am depressed, I go to an art gallery. I love art galleries. Something about walking into another’s dreamland always calms me down.

The pale walls arch and the wooden floor glisten like a circumlocutory form of art. My feet meander over the smooth tiled floors as I glance around the local art gallery. Art always puts me in a good mood. I love trying to understand the obscure lines and rhythm each piece of art has. My fingers press up against the shiny covers, tracing each line, each brush stroke as I wonder how the artist knew what to draw, how they knew how to make their end product come out so exquisitely perfect.

Glancing down the hallway, I can see Chase. His jeans sag slightly and I can see the top of his black-and-white-checkered boxers. His eyes linger gently over me, and it makes me feel self conscious, as if I am an art piece that he is scrutinizing, looking for an inert flaw.

His feet slide across the tile, his brown shoes finding the sweetspots and squeaking down the hallway toward me.

Cautiously, I run a hand through my hair, smoothing out any perceived kinks and imperfections. My head itches, and I toss away the idea to scratch my scalp as I stare at him.

He walks in fluid motion, each step perfectly following the other one. As if he’s not afraid to trip, as if he’s so confident about what he’s doing that he doesn’t consider the maybe-could-be’s.

“Sara.”

I don’t look at him. We had had our history, and I don’t want to begin to repeat it.

“Sara. Listen.”

I force myself to walk past him. My feet shuffle across the floor, but he grabs my arm, turning me around until I face him.

“Sara, I’m sorry.” His voice is rough, and I stare wide-eyed at him. I attempt to hold back a snort of contempt, but it escapes me.
“Okay. I deserved that.” His brown-black eyes never leave my face and I glare at him.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry for what? The emails? The lies? The tramp you cheated on me with? You’re not really being specific here.” I jerk my arm out of his grip and turn to go.

“Everything.” His voice is quiet and I almost turn around.

Almost.

He doesn’t attempt to hold me back again as I walk down the rest of the way down the hallway. I don’t even stop to look at the art anymore. He’s ruined that for me too.




I used to think I loved Chase. But I can’t love him because he’ll never know love. Yet, I can’t hate him because I feel sorry for his lack of humanity. I can’t imagine floating around this world without a true heart, mind, or soul, just animal instincts: Lust and selfishness.

I don’t miss him at all. I used to, I used to want him back because I liked the way he made me feel. I liked the way everyone envied me. I was just like Eva: Vain, excited, and silly. I was convinced the world wanted me, and I had the world, because Chase was exactly that.

He used to tell me that I was his angel, or something like that. He said he wouldn’t need anything if he had me. He sang Chris Brown in my ear, and promised, “If I got you, I don’t need money, I don’t need cars, girl, you’re my all.”
He lied.

A lot of people lie to me and don’t have qualms about it. Am I the only one who thinks that lying and cheating is wrong?


“Sara.”

Dante is at my front door waiting to take me to the movies. I finish brushing my hair and stare at the mirror at my reflection and sigh. Two brown-black eyes stare back at me out of a freshly powdered and starched face. I brush the folds of my T-shirt and admire my new jeans in the mirror.

Mark said that the movie we were going to see was funny, but I am slightly skeptical. Boy humor is always different than girl humor. Always.

“Coming,” I reply and skip down the steps. He’s standing on the porch holding an umbrella and a bouquet of my favorite flowers: Multi-colored daisies.

“You look beautiful,” he says while opening the front door and handing me the flowers.

“Thanks, you look pretty handsome yourself.” I can hear Mark snickering from the kitchen, and I try to ignore him. “Let me put the flowers in a vase before we leave,” I say and invite him in. He follows me to the kitchen and banters with my brother while I put the flowers away.

I try to hide my face from him so he won’t see my tears. I have never been given flowers before.

“You ready to go?” He calls, “The movie starts in 10 minutes.”

“Yup, almost done.” I wipe the tears from my eyes and meet him at the door again. I can see my brother Mark appraising us, and I wonder what things Mark might have told Dante about me.

Dante puts his arm around me and walks me to the car while warding off the rain with his umbrella. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I notice that it is from Mark.

“Have fun,” it reads and I smile.

My room isn’t very big, a small twenty by twenty cube without any windows: A hole in the basement. But it’s my hole, a space where I can feel comfortable in my skin.

“Sara?” Mark’s rapping on my door, his knuckles slide across the hard wooden frame as if he’s a bad piano player and I sigh.

“What?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Opening the door, he shuffles into my room and sits at the bottom of my bed.

“Sure.”

He’s wearing his favorite Hollister hoodie, a black and gray striped-sweater that brings out the color of his eyes.

“What’s up with you lately? I mean, you never did tell me after you fainted.” He tucks his feet up under him and watches me.
I squint at him, “are you sure you want me to answer that?”

He laughs, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. “Well, probably not. But I know that everything has been really crazy here lately, and I just wanted you to know that I, uh, I,”

“Care?” I finish his sentence for him, and shift my legs uncomfortably. Mark is my brother, I mean, he’s nice to me, but he’s never seemed to want to be my friend before. I stare up at him, my eyes grazing down his frame and sigh. He looks just like my dad; same lanky frame, same deep blue eyes, same crooked smile.

“Yeah.” He sighs and gets to his feet, obviously feeling as awkward as I am. As he turns to go, my mouth opens involuntarily.

“Thanks.” I hear myself say. He turns around and smiles,

“No problem kiddo.” He turns to go, and then spins back around. “Oh, and about Dante. I approve.” He smiles and I glare at him.

Sinking back into my bed, I close my eyes. Am I that readable? I can hear Mark’s feet pound up the stairs, as I wonder when he got so caring. Or, maybe I’ve been so focused on other things I haven’t noticed how grown up he’s becoming. Maybe I’ve lost track of the things that really matter: Family, love, respect.



Mark and I have never necessarily been close. We tolerate each other, pass along a couple niceties, but we never sit down and have a heart-to-heart. We are not those kinds of siblings. Don’t get me wrong, we don’t hate each other, but we also don’t sit and enjoy each other’s space.

If you look through the piles of pictures of us when we were younger, it is hard to find one of the two us. Instead, we are usually in different places enjoying being by ourselves. Mark and Leah always seemed closer until she suddenly decided that modeling was more important than trying to keep the family together. She and Mark haven’t really seen eye-to-eye since she left.

Mark likes to focus on trying to make everything at home easier. If the meal isn’t started, he’ll start it; if the woodstove is running low on lumber, he’ll refill it. He’s quietly helpful, a humble hero.

Ever since we were little my father had high hopes for my brother. Mark-Anthony the lawyer; Mark-Anthony the world-renowned judge. There was never a doubt in my father’s mind that Mark would have some sort of career connected to law: It was just going to happen. It was very much like the same way that my mother expects me to get a “nice job and make lots of money.”

I wonder what will happen when Mark isn’t there to fix their problems; the problems they seemingly don’t even realize they have. I wonder what they are going to do when Mark finally breaks the news that he is not going to be a lawyer. He wants to be a businessman. I wonder what will happen when my parents finally realize that we are not going to live out our lives for them.

The school hallways are empty. Sunlight shimmers and flickers through the dusty windows, creating shadows across the floor. My feet slide across the linoleum, and I can hear myself breathing as I slowly walk down the steps.

“Stop. Just get away!” Anya’s voice is loud, bordering on terror when I hear the slap: Flesh against flesh. She cries out, and I shudder in terror.

Since when did the abuse begin?

“Shut up you stupid slut.” Devonte’s voice is quiet, yet threatening. Tiptoeing down the steps, I peer down at the alcove below the stairwell. Anya is pinned against a locker and Devonte is holding her arms by her side.

Tears are running down her face, as she stares at the ground.

“You, you cheated on me,” she whimpers. I can hear her voice shaking, as I stare at them.

“You. Didn’t. See. Anything.” He shakes her between each word, enunciating his statement by subtly threatening her. Her head wobbles on her frame, her hair flying haphazardly in her face, and I can her tears.

She is sobbing now; her small head lowered in a confused penitence.

“Now leave me alone. I’ll see you after school. I’m not finished with you yet.” Devonte’s voice is harsh as he drops her, shaking, onto the ground and leaves the hallway through an emergency exit door. The door slams shut behind him, and for a second we are both left in silence.

Stunned, I stand there, watching her curl herself up into a fetal position while she sobs. And then suddenly I’m moving, running, down the stairs and to her side. I wrap my arms around her and, surprisingly, she doesn’t move away.

“I’m, I’m so, so sorry,” her words jumble together through her tears.

“Shh, shhh. It’s okay,“ I whisper as I feel tears run down my cheeks. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Be-because I don’t want you to know what a terrible person I have become,” she whimpers. “I don’t want you to hate me. But, I bet you already do. You pretend like I don’t exist. You’ve moved on.” Her words pour out as she cries and silently I massage her back.

“You’re full of a bunch of crap. I could never hate you,” I say.

“But…this whole thing was my fault.”

My hands smooth her hair as I steady my voice. “What whole thing?”

She takes a deep breath, and wipes her face. “Please, please don’t hate me.” She pleads; her face and eyes are puffy and red.

“I won’t hate you,” I lie. What else has she possibly done?

She takes another steadying breath before she starts to speak. “The first time I saw Devonte I thought he was the hottest thing that I had ever seen. He was charming, sweet and such a gentleman.” A slight smile tickles her lips as she loses herself in thought for a moment.

“But that was just what he wanted everybody to see: A beautiful lie. And, stupidly, I believed in his lie because I wanted so badly to be with him. In fact, I used to dream about him all the time.” She pauses, “so I decided that I was going to date him no matter what. I used to stuff my bras with tissues, or just wear multiple bras so that it looked like I was a bigger size that I am…I remember you staring at me openmouthed in the hallways as I paraded myself around for him. I would bring clothes to school that I knew my mother would never let me wear, just because I knew I would get a second glance from him. And then one day he asked me out. You remember that day, don’t you?” Her voice is pointed as she looks at me, and I nod.

Of course I remember that day.

“Of course you remember.” Her voice becomes sad as she plays with a strand of her hair and a tear runs down her cheek. “I should’ve listened to you. But I didn’t. I felt so free then.” She chuckles half-heartedly. “I was finally free of you and all your goody-too-shoo rules. I could be anything I wanted to be. And for a time, everything was fine. We would go on dates; he would pick me up, open my doors, and buy me cards and chocolates. But then he started to get physical…” She rubs her neck absently and stares at me. “I won’t go into all the details, but…” she starts to cry again, and her words are hard to hear in between the sobs that rack her body. “What have I done?”

“There, there.” Awkwardly, I rub her back as my mind reels with countless questions.

What has she done?

“We had sex.” She blurts out the words, and I close my eyes. “We had sex for goodnesssake, and oh, I promised you I was going to wait. I had promised myself too.”

Instinctively, I wrap my arms around her small waist as she cries. She smells like Japanese cherry blossoms and tears.

“Andthat’snottheworstofit.” Her words jumble together while she quietly sobs. Clenching my arm with her hands, she spills the rest of her decadent secrets. “He cheated on me, and got the other girl, some Vanessa chick, pregnant.”

And that is when I finally put two and two together: Vanessa Leane.




I want to say that this is impossible: No guy can possibly be such a man-whore. But I no longer believe in impossibilities. I learned that, when I was screaming in that navy blue room so long ago.

I don’t know what to say. All of my words stick together in my throat, and I try not to gag. I should tell my brother.

No.

Yes.

He would be devastated, and absolutely furious at the same time. I close my eyes and she rests her head on my shoulder.

Staring down at my lap a slight smile tugs at my lips as I notice that we are both wearing blue.

My report card came today: Five A’s, two A-plus’s and one B-minus. My perfect 4.0 GPA is absolutely ruined. Staring absently, I glance at which class I had managed to attain a B-minus: Individual Family Studies.

Once, I used to dream about going to an Ivy-league college: Yale, Princeton, Harvard, Brown…Once, I had thought that I had a chance to be something great.

But, maybe greatness isn’t determined in what letter grade we receive.

I’ve learned that wishing for things isn’t always a good idea. Wishing for things just makes me feel more awful about myself. I can make myself feel awful without any outside help. All I have to do is repeat worthlessstupiddumbugly, worthlessstupiddumbugly, worthlessstupiddumbugly. If I repeat that over and over again, soon I will have myself in tears

Once, Mark used to think that he lived in a fairy-tale world. He was the prince in shining-white-armor and Vanessa was his princess. In the fairy-tales the princesses never wind up pregnant before the royal wedding.

In the fairy tales, the princesses never cheat on their prince.



The night that Mike and I were staring at the stars, Anya was on her second date with Devonte. Devonte had taken her to some Chinese Restaurant, and they both had eaten too much chow mein and wonton soup. He had put her arm around her waist, and led her to the car. He said he had a surprise for her.

It wasn’t the kind of surprise that she liked. Devonte said that he loved her, said that he knew that although it was just the second date he wanted to show her how much he loved her, and so he took her to Eva’s, where there was a party going on that night.

A party with a little too much alcohol and LSD’s available.

What they didn’t know, was that in the other room Chase was punching Eva in the stomach and whispering lies in her ears so that she would never leave him.

He was telling her that she would never be anything but a slut, because nobody cared about her. He was telling her that she would never find anyone as good for her as him. And stupidly, she believed him. Besides, everyone whispered about her. “Good Girl Gone Terribly Wrong,” was what people nicknamed her. Girls would glare at her in the hallways, or “accidentally” bump into her, because they hated her.
Chase liked it that way. He held her closer, did way too much PDA in the hallways, and he’d kick it up a notch whenever I would walk by.

He thought he could make me jealous. He thought he could get me back. He thought absolutely wrong.
Later that night, as Devonte and Anya stumbled their way into the car, Devonte decided to have sex with Anya. High on drugs and drunk on cheap beer, he pushed her into his car as his hands anxiously ripped her clothes off.

Anya says she tried to scream but she couldn’t make her mouth work. All she remembers is watching him yank off her blue jeans while she wordlessly clung to him and cried.

It’s May 30th. Everyone is jittery and fidgeting. The teachers are handing out busywork, and everyone is zoning out. College acceptance letters have already arrived so nobody cares about High School anymore.

No one at all.

Mr. Becker is droning on about the importance of staying sober and not engaging in sexual behaviors. Normally, this would make somebody laugh, but no one cares anymore. It’s senior “check out” day.

Michael is texting and not even attempting to hide it. Devonte is sleeping; his body is sprawled out into the aisle; Chase has been sued with sexual abuse, he has been suspended from school until next year; and the seat where Anya usually sits is empty.

She hasn’t been to school since the day she told me she had had sex with Devonte. I visit her a lot, and bring her flowers: White roses and bluebells are her favorite. She puts them in colored jars and decorates her room with them.

Her room is a rainbow of colors.

I can still remember the day Anya called my brother to tell him about Vanessa. He was quiet for a very long time, and then hung up, his body shaking. I hadn’t told him that Vanessa had gotten pregnant by Devonte. I didn’t know how too.

After he got off the phone, he was ashen. Later, I could hear him barfing in the bathroom. The only thing he could manage to repeat over and over again, like a broken record, was: “She used me. For 6 years, she used me.”

Michael’s girlfriend was accepted to UCLA and she is ecstatic. He looks like he can’t be happier for her. I like the way they look at each other; although, I still wish he would be looking at me that way. But maybe, our not being together is for the best.

Maybe, the things I need to focus on aren’t always tangible, or completely urgent. Maybe the things that I need to look at are the things that make me who I am and what I am, instead of the things that make me feel like less of a person.

The bell rings and Mike walks over to my desk.

“Sara, I have something for you.” Hurriedly, he reaches into his backpack and produces a shiny blue journal. “Now you can start your journal.” He smiles at me, and then disappears into the meandering crowd.

Sighing, I walk slowly to study hall.

Later that evening, as I sit on my bed, I open to the first page and see that Michael has scrawled me a note in the front. It reads:

Sarah Price: You are my best friend, and I hope that you never forget how beautiful you are. –Mike

I try not to, but I can’t help the tears that are already sliding down my cheeks. I wander towards my desk, and pull out a piece of notebook paper, and silently glue it into my journal. Elmer’s Kraft glue sticks to my fingers and leaks onto the page.

For as long as I can remember, I have always worked to please everybody else: Chase, Michael, Dan and even my parents. I have forgotten to remember that the bleach-white bones I carry in my skin are my own and not everyone else’s.

I have forgotten to care for myself. Sucking in a breath, I stare at the piece of blank notebook paper that I glued over Mike’s message. I know he meant the best, but I need to believe it for myself. I reach for a sharpie and yank off the cap. The smell of acid and chemicals fill my nose, as I begin to write:

MY NAME IS SARA PRICE AND I AM NOT UGLYWORTHLESSTUPID.

I smile, and hope that soon I will begin to believe that in everyday and not just in spurts.

The first time I stood up for myself in High School was when I yelled at Devonte during class. After the ordeal with the principle and Devonte’s lame disciplinary action: Detention for a week, I wanted to officially give up on authority.
It seemed like every time I would go to the authorities with a problem, nothing ever happened, but than I remembered Camp, and I decided I would hold on for just a little while longer.
Some people are good at standing up for themselves. It’s like they are born with an extra shot of self-esteem. You can tell who they are when they enter a room because confidence tends to radiate from them.
Chase has the ability to stop any argument because he’s popular. Devonte can stop them because he’s muscular and Michael only needs to enter a room in order to make people shut-up and want to be better. He exudes self-respect and wisdom.
I wonder if I emanate anything.
Dante says I look like the sunshine-warm and bright. I wish I could believe him. Our relationship scares me because he’s…nice. He treats me like I deserve something. He values me.
It feels nice to be valued. But what if I screw up?
Anya used to tell me that I should never allow my sense of worth to solely rely on a human. She said that I should find value in myself, and demand respect.
Respect. I wish she would respect herself. I wish I would respect myself. Dating Chase and Dan was not respecting myself. Instead, they made me feel and act like trash. I wish I could go back in history and erase them from my life.
I wish…so many things.
I curl up on a ball, and find a pencil on the table beside my bed, and a wrinkled piece of paper. I haven’t written a poem in ages, but suddenly I feel as if my mind is an explosion of words and feelings. My pencil flies across the page, and I feel as if, for a second, I’m flying.
Flying.

I have tried for too long to become
Their definition of perfection.

I have tried to straighten my hair, paint my nails, wear their fads and sing their songs,
But I am tired of losing who I am.

Today,
As I tried to sleep, and I could hear his loud, obnoxious, whiny voice
Pulsating through the airwaves,
I decided to stand up for myself,
And to ask him to please be a little more respectful.

He laughed at me along with his friends that believe
In girls with perfect skin and hair,
And visit colleges only to rank how many hot girls I.

I could hear them talking about all of my
Many imperfections after I left.

As if I am not bombarded by my
skinhairbody skinhairbody skinhairbody
All day
Every day.
As if I am not aware that I do not fit the typical
Teen Vogue magazine,
As If I don’t know they will never be interested in anything about me.

I have given up on crying because
Not one of my tears will ever make a difference
In making me become a stronger person.

No amount of tears will ever make me
Pretty or smart or attractive.

I have been told 13 times today that I am
Not worthy enough to
Attend a college, to get a scholarship or to even think about wanting a music scholarship.

I have been emblazed with the word: Failure
Across my forehead and I have been laughed at by Fate.

I am a mishap and an anomaly
And I have been told that I can’t sing/dance/write/speak worth anything.

I have had my heart broken 4 times and I have been crushed,
But I will not
Stop trying to become something better than what I am,
Because I have decided to like
Exactly who I am.

The first time I was called beautiful, I was 6 years old and on my way to first grade to visit. I can still remember the girl’s small face lighting up as I walked up the steps and to the classroom.
She picked me up and swung me around in a circle and exclaimed, “You are so beautiful!” I was shocked, yet also pleasantly surprised. Not too many strangers go around and tell me that I am beautiful. I decided that I was going to like that school.
“Beautiful,” the compliment was repeated again and I blinked back tears as joy swelled up in my small heart, and heat radiated in my face.
“What’s your name?”
I whispered.
“Anya,” she replied.
I was only 6, but already she had made an impact on my life.
Who knew such a small word, could make such a big difference?

Dante is texting me again. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and excitedly I open it.

“Your brother and I are going to Dorian’s again if you want to come. No fainting allowed J.”

I smile, and text him back a quick reply. Mark knocks on my door and shuffles in. He’s holding his guitar and soccer ball again, and I suddenly wonder if déjà vu exists.

“You coming?” His tone is bright, and I wonder how he’s doing.

“Yeah. How…how are you doing?” My words are stilted, and he sits for a moment at the bottom of my bed.

“Better…” His hands play with his soccer ball, and I decide not to push him for answers. “…I think,” he adds and sighs. “I think I knew it was coming. This past year had been difficult for us, and I think I knew she wasn’t what I wanted her to be.” He sighs, and pats my knee awkwardly.

“You know what the funny thing was? The more I was with her, the more I felt suffocated. It was as if the only reason she wanted to be with me was to gain status.” He lets out a short laugh, and looks at me. “I don’t mean that to sound conceited or anything,” he adds quickly and looks away again. “And she always pressured me for stuff,” he sighs. “I know most guys are really into doing stuff…but I,” he looks at me sheepishly and lightly punches his soccer ball. “Never mind.”

I smile and kick at him playfully. “No, what were you going to say?”

“I’msavingit,” he mutters through closed teeth and stands up. “So yeah, good talk.” He smiles at me, and this time it reaches his eyes. “No fainting tonight, okay kiddo?” I pretend to chase him out of my room, and smile as he runs down the stairs.

We are late for the dance, and I find myself once again wedged into a corner. Dante approaches me and smiles. “So, do you still not dance?” He laughs, and leads me out onto the dance floor. Mark is playing guitar on stage-something slow and sweet. His eyes meet mine, and he raises his eyebrows and winks.

“So, I wanted to ask you something,” Dante murmurs softly. I lift my head from his chest and stare into his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to be my girlfriend,” his words are stringing together again, and I smile.

“Well, I’d like to be your girlfriend,” I hear myself answering. My dress swings around my knees, and I try to make sense of the fluttering moths in my esophagus.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he’s saying. “I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you, but I will do my best to try not to.” He cups his hand around my chin, and I notice again, what beautiful eyes he has.

“Me too,” I murmur.

He weaves his other hand through mine. “Well, maybe we can learn to do things right together.” He smells like cinnamon tonight and spicy food.

“I’d like that.” I manage.

He kisses me on the forehead, and leads me off of the dance floor as the song ends.

“Have I told you tonight how beautiful you are?” He asks, and I hug him. “Well, you are.” He whispers, and hugs me back.

When Dante calls me beautiful, somehow I believe him. He doesn’t tell me I’m beautiful in order to make me do things with him I will later regret, instead he tells me at random times. Like when I’m cutting onions and crying, or doing homework.

It’s as if his words are meant especially for me.

Mark is going to tell dad that he’s going to become a lawyer. He said he’s tired of lying and that he needs to tell him.

Anya came to visit me last night. She was wearing adequate amounts of clothing and was carrying a bin full of everything Chase ever gave her. Together, we burned them all and laughed and cried.

She said she’s sorry for everything and I apologized too. We decided to start over again, because sometimes-new beginnings are the best places to start.

Mike called me. He apologized for ditching me, and promised that he would become a better best friend. He’s coming to visit tomorrow…without his girlfriend. He said he wants us to be friends, but that he wants to hang out with me like we used to.

We’re going stargazing.

Dante is going to Brown University in the fall because it’s close to me and he got a full scholarship. I am so proud of him.

Mom and Dad and Mark and I are going to see a family therapist to help us work out our problems. We invited Leah but we don’t think she will come. Father says he’s not sure he’s ready for this, but that he wants to try to right some of the wrong’s he’s committed. When he said this, he stared at Mark and I and then our Mother. She couldn’t stop crying.

Michael smiled when I told him about the therapist, and he said he wishes us all the best. “Because you deserve it Sara,” he murmured. “I’ve never met a girl so strong before yet doesn’t see her own strength. That is what I wish for you. Strength.”

Last night, Anya wrote me a poem and taped it to my mirror. She said she wrote it especially for me because whenever she thinks of beauty she thinks of me.

“Both of your names are synonyms,” she whispered, as she posted the poem to my mirror.

To my dearest Sara:
Beauty isn’t about folding into the boxes and trapezoids of others
But of reaching out and creating beauty in the midst of the cold and the ugly
And still exuding courage and strength.

I smiled at her and she folded me into her arms. “You are truly amazing,” she whispered. “And I hope this therapist will finally sink that in your head.” She looked at me and sighed.

“Beautiful,” she whispered. And this time, I began to believe her.

The End

Dear Reader, Thank you so much for your support. Many of you who are currently reading this have always encouraged me to follow my dreams and to continue writing, and for that I thank you! Currently, I am still playing with the plot a bit, and finding a publisher. If you have any suggestions, feel free to comment. Thanks so much for always encouraging me to write! This book means a lot to me, and a lot of the events in it are based off of my own experiences. It would be easier to describe what Sara and I do not have common rather than what we have in common. In the book Something Blue, Sara often looks at her past dating history. I, however, don’t have a dating history, although I do have a horrendous history with people I have "fallen" for. Otherwise, Sara and I are very similar. We both love to write, to engage in communication, to follow our dreams and we both did not maintain a 4.0 GPA our senior year of High School. For the most part, I am still working on describing Sara's character. I want the reader to be able to relate to her on many different levels. Not only do I want the reader to be entertained by the idea that there is a High School Senior dealing with an estranged best friend-Anya, and a never ending idea that she is never enough, but I also wanted to convey a symbolic element by using the color blue. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Writing it was challenging, and made me rethink and relive a lot of my past experiences. Please feel free to give suggestions about the book for this is the story I hope to one day publish. Thanks for your support. Sincerely, Bonita G. Note: If you liked this book, I am currently working on a sequel called Surreal Gray, which is about college life, and you can also check out my books “Shades of Black” and my millions of poems.