1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I look to my right and see Delilah working on a piece of butcher paper
on the floor. She holds out a marker, her fingernails dirty and her blonde
bangs hanging in her eyes. She always stays in for recess. Unlike me, she
stopped trying to fit in a long time ago.
I take the marker, coming down to the floor with her.
“Thanks,” I say, looking at her hand-drawn Eiffel Tower that’s almost
as tall as me.
She smiles, and we begin working, coloring it in as the weight starts to
lift from my chest.
She’s always nice. Why do I care so much what the other girls think?
Why do I want to be friends with them?
I try to be nice, but it’s never good enough.
But they’re mean and everyone loves them.
Why is that?
I bend over in the shower stall, resting my hands on my knees and
pushing the memory away. That’s not me anymore. I’m fine. I’ve got this.
He pushed, they laughed, and I choked. I got complacent. I just have to
push back next time. I’m good at that.
Or just ignore him. This was no big deal anyway. None of these people
will be a big deal in a couple months.
Damn Twilight. How could he possibly have guessed that? I breathe in
and out, my muscles finally relaxing. Masen Laurent is consistently a step
ahead.
I slip the inhaler back into my pocket, shut off the water, and exit the
stall, leaving the locker room. I’m late for Math, but I push forward and act
like the episode in English never happened.