The Pavement on a Sidewalk

Ch. 1

The sidewalk.

It's so peaceful.  It gets stepped on everyday. Walked all over and it does nothing except for gain scars and bruises from each passerby. 

Each piece of gum, each wrapper, each hairband, each memory dropped onto its shoulders, it handles.  Takes every new weight with a grin, but with no promise of keeping it.

The sidewalk is me.  Me in a nutshell.  In fact, there is no other way to describe me other than that I am in all respects, the sidewalk.  Dense, dark, and unclean. (dirty is not the right word here).  Every friend i've ever had has been a passerby on my portion of the sidewalk.  Except, they dont leave memories, they take them.  Instead of dropping a penny, They find a 100 dollar bill and spend it at the nearest Banana Republic store in which overpriced blouses and overfriendly, passive-aggressive store klerks ooze from the doors.  And, like all sidewalks, i smell and taste and feel of many different people as i have no true identity to withhold.  I am the sidewalk.

My shoes skid on the ground as i walk across the hall to my locker.  According to my friend, the only people in this particular locker hall are " couples or mormons."  I don't think i like it when i see the overabundance of couples kissing and smiling affectionately,  I think i just favor them over the other people in the hall who laugh and fake-punch the arm of the guy they want to be with so much but know he won't ever like them back.  Those people remind me why high school is such a horrible place.

My name is Abigail.  But i hate it. So I have my friends call me Abby.  My mom refuses to call me that and calls me Abigail just to annoy me and put me into a state of self-pity.

errrrrrrr. The bell rings. Crap. English. I almost forget that i have to go talk to my english teacher about a missing assignment my mom freaked out about.  I still don't understand why "writing assignment #53" will be so detramental to my grade if it doesn't get turned in.  Or if it will truly be missed since the reason for its absence is the fact that i used it as a coaster for my 7-eleven slurpee yesterday. 

I walk in the classroom. Rubbing alcohol. I'm positive my teacher just went on a disinfecting rampage because the room smells like a nail salon.  Please get me out of here.  

| see that Casey has already taken her seat.  "Hey! you're here! Isn't my hair cute today?"  Casey is a friend of mine.  Not a good friend.  The kind of friend you have so that you can officially say "you have a friend."  Casey is the type of person that only gives you eye-contact because she wants to look at her reflection in your eyeballs.  One thing i can most definitely tell you about Casey...she cares about her reflection more than her family.  And that is something that is hard to find in a person these days.

I'm currently bordering on a C+ and a B- in my english class and my mom is convinced that if i turn in that assignment i so willingly soaked in blue raspberry slushee, my grade will stay at a B-.  

I sit in the class for about an hour while my teacher talks about the importance of Shakespeare's words in the final scenes of MacBeth.  The bell rings.  Thank freakin' god.

I run out of class.  The rest of the day is a blur because i'm so stuck in my own thoughts.  My own memories.

The final bell rings and I finish the day walking home to what will await me no matter when i get home.  My mother.

Click. The door shuts.  

"How was your day?"

She has dark circles under her eyes and i know she hasn't slept for days.

"Fine."

"Did you talk to Mr. Simmons?"

Crap.