my life in novel form, part I

My first day at Orem High School started with complete loneliness. Living over 10 miles from the public school I took public transportation. Sitting among members of the working class and the mentally challenged, I found repose, albeit within the state of being alone. Loneliness among strangers isn’t so hard to handle, but among your peers, that’s a deeper rejection.

I made it through my first three classes without major incidence. The lunch bell rang. I headed for the cafeteria with the other 600 or so people in my class that didn’t have a ride to go off campus. As people began lining up for certain foods I hung back, so unsure of myself that I couldn’t even decide what to eat. I felt like all 600 people were watching my every move. Who is that loner? What will she eat? I began to question if certain foods could make me more popular. But at the same time, would buying cafeteria food make me look like a loser?

I finally decided on a Blimpie sandwich. I hated Blimpie, they were the worst sandwiches ever made. But the better looking people in the cafeteria were buying them up. And it did appear that the “losers” were eating regular school lunch. As I tried to get in line at the Blimpie counter I was stepped on twice, damn my height! I had picked the line with the football team. I was suddenly so aware of my short pants, my awkward boots, my heavy backpack. Was I wearing deodorant? I was stepped on again. People continued to cut in front of me because they didn’t even notice that I was there. I tried to speak up for myself; nothing came out but a whisper. I finally pushed my way to the front of the line; all they had left was ham sandwiches. I hate ham.

As I paid too much for a sandwich I didn’t want, a thought finally stung me. Where was I going to sit? I had been so torn up by the food choice that I hadn’t even contemplated the idea of where to sit after I had gotten my food. I turned to find every table crowded to the brim; every table but one. The tables originally sat 8 people, but this table had all but 2 of its chairs commandeered for other, more popular tables. This orb of hatred stood as an island. Because of how crowded the other tables were everyone was walking right past my lonely little table, in fact some were even walking on top of it because there was so little room to get by. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t put myself on display as the only one in the room without a friend.

I plastered a smirk (always play mysterious) on my face and walked around the little table, forcing my tears back, heading for the door. I passed groups of kids collected in clumps along the hallway. I walked out into the sunshine, into the bliss of none-competition. I found a tree and flung my backpack under it. I ate the morbid sandwich, realizing that I had forgotten to get a drink. I could barely swallow the soggy bread. I also came to the realization that the sandwich was completely plain, no mayo, no lettuce, no flavor; except of course ham. I hate ham.

I had high hopes of meeting more people like me at the new school. But what “type” of person was I anyway? At my previous school I had found a group of misfits, scoundrels really, with the proper name of the “rat-pack.” There were 10 of us girls, 2 lesbians, 2 bisexuals, the rest straight; what an odd name for an orientation. Straight, like everyone else is crooked? And gay, when did that name land on someone? Do they really think they’re having more fun that the straight folk?

To get back to the point, in this group of girls 7 of them were users of one or all substances. We also had witch. A real live, cursing, vampire loving, witch. And then, there was us, 3 of us that weren’t using, weren’t sleeping with anyone, and were not casting spells; home by 10 pm type girls. How we found ourselves in this group of friends, I’m just not sure. But I do know that we had each separately, sincerely tried to fit in with other types of people.

I knew that I didn’t belong with the slut cheerleaders; I was didn’t have the ability to fake perkiness. I was intelligent, but not a dweeb; I wasn’t willing to settle for that type of life, social suicide is what it would have been. I wasn’t athletic in any way, so I didn’t fit it with the jocks, the dancers, or the skaters even. I came from a poor family, so it limited me greatly as to what type of friends I could even afford, so not a preppy either. I liked the idea of drama and art, but I didn’t have the time in my schedule to take many elective classes. So who was I really?

My life at home consisted of raising my parents and my little brother. Both of my parents had decided three years before that they needed more education in order to further their careers. I became a mostly-stay-at-home surrogate mother. My parents went to school full-time and worked campus jobs. I was left to cook, clean, do laundry, raise my 8 year old brother, pay bills (sometimes with my own babysitting money), balance the checkbook, go grocery shopping, etc.

My parents had graduated together and we were all looking forward to moving on to the next chapter in our lives. I looked forward to getting out of our apartment. Technically we fit in the apartment. After all it was 3 bedrooms and there were only four of us. We weren’t supposed to look at it as tight, but “snug.” But in an apartment there is nowhere you can go and hide.

Night after night when I had taken all that I could take I would sit on the shared porch of the apartment complex. Rejuvenation came from my escape. Sometimes all that it took was a moment, to catch my breath, before returning to my family. Often times though I spent far more time. In the winter I found complete solace, wrapped in a blanket, starring out at the night sky. Winter time brought Orion in the evening. My warrior peeked above the horizon in the South. I counted his belt: one, two, three; trying desperately to think of three people that might love me. I was starving; turning myself inside out to find love.