Obsessive Love Disorder

1

September 16, 1996
Charlotte

I open the heavy door to the school and immediately feel like turning around and ditching, as usual. I don't know how I haven't given up on my education by now.

Kids crowd the narrow halls, searching through lockers for textbooks, meeting up with their friends, or running around like toddlers. Christ, these people really are like children, huh? They've definitely got the maturity level to match. 

I see some of the football team chasing each other up and down the nearest stairwell, tossing a football back and forth in an impromptu game of 'catch.' I don't understand how those psychos have that much energy this early in the morning. Me? I feel like I could pass out at any second. I guess I didn't get a lot of sleep last night.

I keep my head down as I walk. Not even in school, just in general. It's something I noticed I do right around the time I turned fifteen. I don't know what psychological bullshit could explain it, but I think it's just that I don't want to be looked at. 

I wouldn't say I'm insecure or anything. There's just something weird about people looking at me and... perceiving me. There's no other way to explain it. I wish I could just walk around as a ghost — invisible to everyone except for those who matter. And right now, the only person who particularly matters to me is my brother. 

Turning the corner, I enter my first period class. The bell hasn't rung yet, so I take the time to sit and rub my eyes. Flakes of day-old mascara fall onto the surface of my desk and I yawn. Damn, I really didn't get enough sleep last night. The fluorescent lights are buzzing quietly and filling the classroom with white, burning light. It's annoying as hell, just like the other miscreants who slowly make their way into the room and into their seats. 

I still keep my head down, even when I hear people snickering at my oversized hoodie or my frizzy hair. It's better to let it slide off my back rather than give them the time of day.

"Hey, Wilson," a male voice laughs above my head. I don't know who he is, nor do I particularly care. "It's, like, 100 degrees out."

That's definitely not true.

"So why don't you take off that sweatshirt, huh?"

"Yeah," another voice chimes in, "I'm almost positive you've got a bangin' body underneath that mess."

"Come on, girl, let loose a bit!"

Sweet Jesus, am I really getting sexually harassed at seven in the morning?

The boys, who wear bright letterman jackets and guffaw loudly at their own jokes, slap palms and basically trip over their own feet to get to their desks. I swivel my head and see Mr. Robins walk in through the door with his briefcase, eyeing us all warily. The bell rings shortly after.

"Good morning, students," he says, adjusting his glasses. He picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing something on the board: Attack on Pearl Harbor. It's truly great having American History first thing in the morning — we all get to hear about mass murder and racism to start off our day. 

Mr. Robins continues to drone on as the chalk squeaks across the board, failing to notice that my classmates begin passing notes and whispering to each other. This is pretty pathetic, honestly. Part of me feels bad for Mr. Robins — I mean, the man has to be near 70, and he spends his days teaching (or trying to teach, at least) a bunch of asshole kids who never pay attention. I do my best to stay focused, honestly, because he always sounds so excited to teach. Even now, as he's talking about one of the worst events in American history, he moves his hands around wildly and has a giant, wrinkled smile on his face.