1642734778_punk-57-pdf

there’s no talking. You’re working.” Then she looks up to us. “The rest of
you…walk, please.”
The line leader pushes through the door and everyone bolts, running
outside to the playground. Some students dash for the tetherballs, others for
the bars, and some stroll around the blacktop, figuring out what they want
to do.
Everyone passes me by, and I slow to a walk, fidgeting and watching
them as they find their groups and begin playing. The sun is hot, and I
slowly step into the chaos, looking around and not sure where to go or who
to talk to.
This happens every day.
Girls run up to other girls, smiling and talking. Boys play with other
boys, tossing balls back and forth and climbing the equipment. Some of my
classmates sit on the grass and play with little things they snuck into school,
and everyone has found each other, pairing off.
But no one’s looking for me.
I shuffle my feet, feeling my stomach twist into knots. I hate recess. I
should’ve just stayed in the classroom and colored or wrote in my journal
or something.
I want them to know I’m here, though. I want them to see me.
I don’t like being forgotten.
I look over at Shannon Bell and a few other girls from class, their hair
and clothes always so cool and pretty. Why can’t I ever look like that? I run
my hands down my knee-length skirt and Polo shirt, looking like such a
good girl. My mom always pulls my hair back in a ponytail, but I want to
curl it like them.
I lick my lips, swallow the big lump in my throat, and walk over to them.
“Hi,” I say, feeling like I can’t breathe.