I don’t know if I care that I’m not in their photos, their squad slideshows, their monthly binges at In n’ Out. I’ve never been much for bikinis and car keys at my side. I feel that I’m not a part of something when everyone’s arms are cold by the time they hug me. I’m on another bench, or in another pool, waiting to think of something clever to say. I’m not spontaneous, I don’t laugh at my own face, I’m not someone who walks into a crowd and gets mugged. I might have a light smudge of lipstick on my cheek, or a wrinkle in my shirt, but I won’t be made up. I won’t put on red lipstick or fake lashes. I won’t make fat rolls with my chin. I won’t parade down red carpets as if I had the legs for it. I’m not per say, notorious for my neighborhood.
My name might be mentioned once or twice when I arrive, and I kill the boring streak. Or when I leave, and one more name can be checked off and go stale. I try too hard…I regret it. I’m quiet…I regret that too. I don’t understand why every little piece of information is one-sided, why it’s small…and meaningless. I knew this day would go a certain way. I told myself: there might be a give or take in the end result, but eventually it would take to Maple Street, maybe Sir Francis Drake. It would make me say, “damn” as I took a shower, then again as I went to bed. It would make me satisfied that I predicted the percentage of lonely in my nighttime prayers.
I don’t know if I care that I’m not one of them: the one with the towel and the baseball hat, the one with the funny shirts. Am I too cynical? Are they afraid of me? Is it my hair?
I don’t know, I really don’t know. I’ve tried the lying thing: I guess all them high schoolers are better than me. Everyone is used to lying through their teeth, and puffing smoke, and asking people out like it was just another item on their grocery list.
I’m not used to that: I haven’t done anything. I don’t drive, I listen to drug-ed teachers, I listen to my parents, I don’t drive. I’m not ten anymore, so my art can’t look crappy, and I’m not allowed to wear a damn bow in my hair. I can’t hold my daddy’s hand. I can’t talk about my brother without imagining he was dead and everyone saw me for the first time. You know, the pity kind, where everyone pats your back. Maybe just looks over their shoulder, presses their lips together. Not a pout, but a gentle smile with the lower lip…a pity smile.
It’s because I listen to the right people that I haven’t done anything. I don’t dye my hair, because of the chemicals. I don’t drink Slurpees, because of the chemicals. I don’t talk to kids my age…because of the chemicals.
It’s because I listen to the right people that I’m not in anyone’s pictures, I shove off my mother when she stalks me with her disposable camera, or when my dad comes to school to bring my lunch. The fact is: I’m not interesting anymore.