Prologue
Today was a day. It was a day full nothing. A day that was as empty as air, as empty as one鈥檚 mind while thinking nothing.
Although, air IS full of something. Nitrogen, oxygen, and other gases. And I highly doubt that it鈥檚 possible to think about nothing whatsoever.
So, to contradict what I said earlier, today was full of numerous things. Not that I noticed any of them, though. I was too busy being cooped up in my own little bubble, mad at the world. Too busy ignoring everyone, too busy keeping to myself.
I am Shy Girl.
This is the only name that people know me by. They don鈥檛 know that my name is Meg, they don鈥檛 know what I like to do, they don鈥檛 know what type of music I listen to. They don鈥檛 know anything about me.
I鈥檝e been new to this school for a month. You鈥檇 think that by now, at least the teachers would remember my name. But they don鈥檛. Often times they call me 鈥淪tacey鈥? or 鈥淎shley鈥?or something. Maybe that鈥檚 what they wish my name were. Those names are memorable.
I have no friends, I am alone in the world. Maybe if I鈥檇 be more open to people, maybe if when someone talked to me I didn鈥檛 just stare at them and wait until they went away, I鈥檇 have friends. But that鈥檚 what I do. I don鈥檛 talk to anyone, I doubt anyone knows what my voice sounds like. I don鈥檛 partake in any after-school activities or anything of the sort. Straight to school, straight home.
Sometimes it bothers me, sometimes it doesn鈥檛. For example, it would be nice to have a best friend to talk to about how much I hate everyone at school, at home, how much I hate everyone in the world. It would be nice to talk about guys and what鈥檚 going on in school. But I have no one.
I am Shy Girl.
1
鈥淎rt is man's constant effort to create for himself a different order of reality from that which is given to him.鈥?
- Chinua Achebe
I walk through the halls at Addam鈥檚 High School unnoticed. Untouched by the hands of concern. I walk alone.
I know that I sound like some depressed chick who never gets out, but that鈥檚 not the case. I couldn鈥檛 be more happy being by myself, all the time, everywhere. But maybe that鈥檚 just because I鈥檝e never known what it鈥檚 like to have someone there. My parents were never there for me, they still aren鈥檛. If I hung myself right in the entrance of my room, they wouldn鈥檛 notice for at least three days.
Which, if you think about it, is kind of sad. Sad in the sense that I鈥檓 so avidly unnoticed that my parents wouldn鈥檛 even recognize my death.
But it also hold appeal. For example, if I ever wanted to sneak out at night, I wouldn鈥檛 need to worry about being sneaky and quiet and whatnot. I could simply walk right out the door. No one would see.
Of course, I鈥檓 just busy watching my feet, counting my steps, as I run into someone. Someone I鈥檝e never seen before.
Now you鈥檇 think that since I rarely, if ever, talk to anyone, I wouldn鈥檛 know who half of the people in my school were. Wrong. So very, very wrong. I know exactly what鈥檚 going on in this school. I know who鈥檚 dating who, who got pregnant last weekend, who got completely wasted at the party last Saturday. I know everyone鈥檚 names, first and last.
You notice a lot of things when there鈥檚 nothing else to distract you.
Which is why I鈥檓 surprised to see this face looking at me, apologizing profusely for having caused me to lose my books. Black hair, pale skin. A face I did not recognize.
I bend down to pick up my scattered books just at the same moment that he, too, bends down to help me pick up my books. I notice something on his hand, a black mark. The closer I look, I recognize that it is a name. 鈥淛ohn,鈥?it says. I am confused.
I beat him to picking up my things. I stand, as does he. He apologized once more, before sticking out his hand and asking me my name.
What am I supposed to do with a hand? Shake it?
I guess that he鈥檚 new here at Addam鈥檚 High. Everyone who鈥檚 been here knows not to ask me questions if they want them answered to any extent.
I do not bother looking at him any more. Instead, I turn and walk around him. He follows.
鈥淯m, hello? My name鈥檚 Brandon. And yours is鈥︹€?br>
Walking faster. He is definitely new. Although I doubt that he will be known as Shy Boy or anything close to that. He will end up going along with a group of some certain, I鈥檓 guessing the punks or the hardcore kids based on what he鈥檚 wearing. He will forget ever running into me, ever seeing my face.
Which is just as well, it鈥檚 what I would want.
I know that it is exactly 27 steps from my locker to the Science room. On the 25th step, I leap the last two in an attempt to be rid of him, this 鈥淏randon.鈥?br>
The bell rings, signaling that you鈥檇 better move your butt to your next class before the principal catches you. I am already in my seat.
I have no time for friends.
I am Shy Girl.
鈥?鈥?鈥?br>
I walk home today. Half the week I ride the bus, half the week I walk home. It just depends on my mood that day, I guess.
It鈥檚 maybe ten or eleven miles from the high school to my house, but I walk fast. It still takes me a good three and a half hours to get home.
Today is slightly nice. It鈥檚 hot and humid, but the breeze is cold. The sky is overcast. Perfect weather for walking home.
Several buses pass me by. 101, 76, 28...how do buses get their numbers, anyways? Do they number them one by one, or do they just select random numbers for each bus? A question I have always wondered. I also wonder, what if they ran out of numbers? What if you got up to 999? Would you go into half numbers, 21.5?
These are the questions that I think while walking home nearly every time I do. Either that or I think about the future. Out of high school, what will I be like? Will I still be so un-open to others? Will I still have no friends? Will I carry on the title of Shy Girl?
My mind is running a hundred miles a minute as I walk into the driveway. It stays lighter out longer this time of year because of day-light savings time. It鈥檚 just turning dusk as I search for my house keys that I keep on a chain around my neck. It鈥檚 close to seven o鈥檆lock now.
I enter my home, not bothering to call out my presence to anyone. I doubt they鈥檇 even hear, even if I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I see a note on the table in the kitchen.
Your father and I went out to eat. Money for pizza by the phone.
I鈥檓 slightly touched. They remembered my existence. At least enough to leave a note and money for food, something they鈥檝e never done before. I wonder why they seem to slightly care all of a sudden.
I look at the calendar, and see that the date is April 30th. My birthday.
I had forgotten today was even my birthday. Maybe that鈥檚 my parental units were being acutely kind. That brought down my mood slightly, I don鈥檛 even know why. You鈥檇 think that I鈥檇 be happy, they鈥檇 remembered my birthday. But instead it just made me feel more alone.
They were gone on my birthday. Eating out. Without me.
I ordered a small cheese pizza from the Pizza Hut in town. When it arrived, I gave all of the money my mother had left me to the delivery guy.
He counted it out, whistled and said 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if I got enough bills to make change for this, sweetie.鈥?I had just given him fifty dollars.
I shrugged and mumbled, 鈥淜eep it.鈥?br>
The smile he gave me was so tremendous, I thought his cheeks might brake off.
鈥淭hanks, lady,鈥?he smiled.
I nodded, took my pizza, and closed the door.
I opened the box and was suddenly overwhelmed with the heavy aroma that a pizza gives off. Before I eat this, I think, I need to do something. I open a drawer to my left and take out a birthday candle and stick it right in the center of the pizza. I light it.
鈥淗appy birthday to me.鈥?br>
2
鈥淔or a moment, nothing happened. Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.鈥?br>
- Douglas Adams
I was asleep by the time they got home. I only woke up because I could hear them arguing outside the house, looking for the key to get in. This is what my parents do, they argue. 鈥淎rgue鈥?would be the nice way to describe it. Arguing is what people do when they disagree about something.
They do not argue.
They fight.
They鈥檝e only gotten physical a few times. Nothing major, but it was enough for me as a kid to hide out in my room until it was over, and then some.
They鈥檝e never hit me, though. So you don鈥檛 have to worry about child abuse or anything.
Besides, I鈥檓 never in the same room long enough to give them time to hit me. I hide, not wanting to be apart of it.
I suppose you could blame my parents鈥?fighting on the way I act around people. Although really, that鈥檚 preposterous. I would know if I acted that way because of them. Believe me, I know. I act the way I do just鈥ecause. People ask stupid questions, people say stupid things, and people do stupid things. Like getting attached to someone who will clearly do nothing but hurt you later. Or they鈥檒l do something stupid like ruin their life when it was completely unnecessary.
The human race, as a whole, is just stupid.
God must have done a pretty bad job at making people. I mean, if he鈥檚 supposed to know everything, then wouldn鈥檛 he have known that Adam and Eve were going to screw up? Couldn鈥檛 he see into the future and see what鈥檚 happening to the world today?
Animals are becoming extinct, women are being raped and murdered, kids are getting sold into drugs.
Stupid.
Which is probably why I鈥檓 an agnostic. They believe that it is impossible to know whether or not God exists.
Because if God is supposed to be so high and mighty, why did he do such a good job at screwing stuff up?
My parents found the key in the crack in the steps by the door. They stumble in, talking loud, laughing, and have stopped fighting about whatever it was that they were fighting about.
My mother鈥檚 words can barely be considered clear. Loud, maybe. But you can鈥檛 hear what she鈥檚 saying.
They鈥檙e drunk.
In the morning, they鈥檙e heads will be pounding and I鈥檒l have to give them Advil and other medications to make the throbbing of their hangovers die down. They鈥檒l realize that their car is at the bar they attended last night, having gotten a 鈥渟afe-ride鈥?home. They鈥檒l have to take the car at home to the bar to retrieve their other car, and they鈥檒l drive home separately, one of them in each car.
It has become a sort of tradition amongst them, you could say. It happens at least twice every two weeks, them going out on Friday night and waking up the next afternoon on Saturday.
I pull the covers over my head, blocking them out.
Tomorrow will be another day.
鈥?鈥?鈥?br>
Today is Tuesday, the second day of the school week. I get their early today, before most everyone is there. Before some teachers are even there.
This is on account of my father driving me to school today on his way to work. I鈥檓 able to get a ride about once during every week, when he doesn鈥檛 have to go to work on regular time. I鈥檓 not sure why he doesn鈥檛 need to be in early everyday. All I have to do is be ready on time.
We don鈥檛 talk on the way to school at all. Not surprising.
When we pull into Addams High鈥檚 parking lot, I get out without saying a word. I hurry into the building, not bothering to look back. Although I don鈥檛 know why I鈥檓 in such a hurry, it鈥檚 not like there鈥檚 anything waiting for me inside. I鈥檒l just be cooped up in that building for seven hours, and take the bus home while sitting in a cold faux leather seat all by myself.
But I move forward anyway.
Every day it鈥檚 the same: I go through each of my classes, numb and confused. I have no idea what the teachers are saying to us, which contributes to the fact that I鈥檓 mostly failing everything. Everything except art. Art is when I come alive, when I melt from my block of ice. It鈥檚 the only class in which I let something of myself come through, when I let myself speak. Only instead of words, I use paper. And pencils. And pens, paints, charcoals, pastels, oils鈥hat鈥檚 how my voice is heard.
Not that anyone sees it but the teacher. Still, it helps me vent. If I鈥檓 angry, I鈥檒l take everything and just mash it all onto one piece of paper. Relieving.
The metal doors swing open with the shove of my hands, and I鈥檓 inside. I have entered the jail cell.
I鈥檓 not surprised to see that hardly anyone is there. The buses don鈥檛 get here until later, and people who get rides usually come in at the last minute. Not me.
And apparently, not that person down the hall. Not a teacher, but a student. I don鈥檛 have much for eyesight, I鈥檓 supposed to wear glasses or contacts or something, but I chose not to. I like seeing far away things blurry. I like not being able to see the board during class. I鈥檝e grown accustomed to picking people out by their shape and what they鈥檙e wearing by the color. I鈥檓 good at that.
But this person looks familiar. As soon as I recognize the person, my stomach sinks. I know that I can鈥檛 slink away, he鈥檚 already seen me and is coming this way. I could run down the hall or something, but he could probably keep up.
He jogs over to me, and I stare at my feet, examining my shoes.
鈥淗ey, I know you.鈥?He says it in a friendly matter, but nothing in my head is friendly about it. He doesn鈥檛 know me. He knows my appearance, sure. But he doesn鈥檛 know me. He doesn鈥檛 know me at all.
鈥淵ou鈥檙e Meg, right?鈥?How did he know my name? Nobody knows my name. I am Shy Girl, not this 鈥淢eg鈥?he speaks of. In this school, I have no name.
I stand motionless, not looking up. Maybe he鈥檒l just go away if I don鈥檛 respond. That鈥檚 what I had been hoping, anyway. No such luck. He stands there, waiting for an answer. After a few minutes of dead silence, he continues.
鈥淚 heard you鈥檙e new. Well, not newer than me, obviously, because I鈥檓 guessing you鈥檝e been here longer than me. Judging on how you know your route to your classes so well鈥︹€?I know he鈥檚 talking about when I ran away from him when he first spoke to me.
鈥淎nyways, I鈥檓 Brandon. Wait, no, I already said that. Yesterday. Sorry. So, am I right? About you being here longer than me? Because I just want to confirm that before I go on to make an idiot of myself, asking to show you around or something. Although, truth be told, I hardly know this place myself. So I wouldn鈥檛 be much help. So. Am I? Right, I mean?鈥?He sure can ramble, if anything.
I wasn鈥檛 going to say anything, but something inside of me was just screaming to talk, even if it was just one little word.
All I was planning on doing was saying 鈥淵es,鈥?but when I opened my mouth, everything started pouring out.
鈥淵es, I鈥檝e been here for a month now, not that anyone cares because I have no friends and nobody talks to me because I don鈥檛 talk to them so I don鈥檛 know why you鈥檙e wasting your time.鈥?br>
His brow furrows, and he looks slightly agitated.
鈥淔irst, I鈥檒l decide who鈥檚 worth my time. I officially dub you worthy. Now that we鈥檝e gotten that past us鈥?aren鈥檛 we friends?鈥?br>
Well, I spoke to somebody. At least nobody but him is here to hear it.
鈥淯m, I guess鈥︹€?The truth was, I didn鈥檛 consider us 鈥檉riends鈥? We know nothing about each other, and we鈥檝e only spoken twice, if you count this time. Well, once, on my behalf.
He smiles. 鈥淕ood. Now. You鈥檙e here mighty early.鈥?
I nod. 鈥淪o are you.鈥? Surprisingly, talking really wasn鈥檛 very hard. Well, I knew it wasn鈥檛 hard, but it wasn鈥檛 awkward. Not really. Here I was, opening my mouth to a human being for the first time in months. It was nice.
I must have drifted off into my own world, because he waved his hand in front of my face.
鈥淪orry,鈥?I mumble. I鈥檓 still used to drifting off.
鈥淒o you want to get breakfast with me?鈥?he asks, right when my stomach rumbles. I don鈥檛 usually eat breakfast, even though it鈥檚, you know, good for you and stuff. I purposely make sure I don鈥檛 have time to eat it at home, because that would just contribute to many more minutes of awkward silence between my parents and I.
鈥淯h鈥︹€?I鈥檓 a very indecisive person, and I know that it bugs people. 鈥淪ure.鈥?
He smiles. 鈥淕reat,鈥?and we start walking in the direction of the cafeteria, where they have some sort of breakfast for the students at school.
It鈥檚 awkward, walking next to someone. I walk alone, in the halls and otherwise. It鈥檚 odd to have someone always be right next to you.
Since I don鈥檛 open my mouth, he opens his. 鈥淪o. Where were you from before you came here?鈥?br>
鈥淣owhere, really. We moved around a lot.鈥?br>
鈥淚 see, I see. We were kind of like that too, never settling down in a permanent location. It felt like every time we unpacked we started packing up again.鈥?I knew exactly how he felt.
We were now just silently walking down the hall, him looking straight ahead and every now and then he鈥檇 stop to do something odd, like jump in the air or something like that, and me looking at the floor and the walls. As I was looking at the walls, which were a bland cream color, I noticed how many posters there were. They were hung everywhere, in some areas you couldn鈥檛 even see the wall behind them.
Most of them were for something different- notices about club meetings, papers announcing that there would be some sort of religious concert held in town,鈥ut most of them were for the homecoming dance, which was not more than a month away. Everywhere you saw blue and orange papers- our school colors, interesting as they are- telling you to make sure you have a date, 鈥淕o Team!鈥? blah blah blah. All useless information to me.
鈥淵ou going to that?鈥?I jump when Brandon asks the question. He noticed me looking at all of the posters, and was pointing towards the 鈥淢ake sure you have a date for homecoming!鈥?poster.
鈥淣o.鈥?I never go to anything school-related. Not just because I would have no one to talk to while we鈥檙e there, much less sit next to, but also just because I simply didn鈥檛 have any interest.
鈥淎h. Bummer.鈥?He sighed, and he showed disappointment. I couldn鈥檛 tell if it was genuine or fake, I鈥檝e never really had to dissect people鈥檚 expressions before.
We were at the doors to the cafeteria, and you could hear the music they had playing inside. The Beach Boys- always the Beach Boys coming out of the speakers. Call me a freak- oh, wait, most people do already- but I kind of like the Beach Boys. True, some of their lyrics are a tad bit too corny for my taste, but they have a nice tune. A happy tune.
There were two other kids in there, each at completely different sides of the cafeteria. I tried to see what they were eating to see if I was going to enjoy this or not, but like I said, my vision isn鈥檛 anything special.
We walked into the room slightly cut off from the rest of the cafeteria where they serve the food, and Brandon grabbed two trays and handed one to me with a smile. He seemed to be a very happy person, always smiling, even in the short time I鈥檝e known him. When he smiled at me, though, I noticed a slight glimmer of silver come from his mouth. He turned before I could see anything, obviously un-aware that I was studying his mouth.
It was also then that I got to see what they were serving- cereal, in little pre-packaged bowls. There was a choice of Trix or Cheerios, I went with the Trix. I personally like anything with a fruity flavor.
After paying, we found a table in the middle. Out in the open. Uncomfortable.
He sat to the right of me, so I could see what was in his mouth that was silver. I saw a tiny little metal loop circling a small part of the left side of his bottom lip, a lip ring.
I wondered how he kissed people with that there, then instantly smacked myself internally for thinking that. His personal business is not yours, I told myself. So instead I looked down at my Trix, and went to pour my little carton of milk over them. Just then I realized that I had gotten chocolate milk, which probably wouldn鈥檛 taste all that great with my cereal.
I opened them anyways and scooped some into my mouth; the crunching noise coming from the dry fruity morsels was nearly deafening in the almost empty cafeteria.
Crunchcrunchcrunch鈥runch crunch鈥run鈥h.
The other two kids had now stopped eating and were staring at me. They clearly did not approve of dry-cereal munching.
Brandon reached his arm over and poured some of his milk (he had been smart enough to get white) on my half-empty bowl. I blushed and mumbled a quick thank-you in return.
鈥淣o problem, we all have those chocolate-milk days.鈥?What he said didn鈥檛 exactly make sense, but I think I knew mostly where he was coming from. I skipped a lot of it cause it seemed kind of pointless. It's kind of like your friend was just writing to take up space. When you write it needs to be for a purpose. And I'm sorry but it was like she was repeating herself over and over again. I like the plot though. It's nice to have someone writing about the outcasts of the world, for once. A really good thing about it is that I can imagine everything happening in my ming which is what I do with books that I really like and understand. The plot is great and some of the writing is but some of it is just taking up space. Also if your friend is having trouble writing enough for chapters then they can always turn it into a short story. Hope this helps. No offense, but i lost a interest after the first bit. And too much of that " I am Shy Girl" stuff. Once should suffice, i think. I dunno, the writing was just a bit iffy, shall i say. really, no offense...because I've also written some just okay stuff. But yeah, I'd work on it a bit, and not so emo sounding. Get a plot going, develop characters...use interesting sentence structure, vary word choice...Cheers, hope my constructive criticism wasn't so bad.
Edit:
You know, I finished the story and I changed my mind. It could still use work yes, but I really thought it was good, especailly towards the end. I'm interested for more, despite what i said before. I suppose it was just a bit to emo-sounding in the first bit for me, but i shouldn't have been close-minded and stopped. After that, it's pretty good. Cheers and sorry about my first few comments. i actually liked it! its weird cause i usually cant read stories on the computer but i got wrapped in this story. the last bit with her and brandon was kinda drawn out, but i like it.
except the anti-God stuff! SO not cool!!! it's pretty good, too much 'i am shy girl' |
