Extras // Mainly Poetry

Squeezing In (True Story of MY Childhood)

After school is the very reason silly ghost stories surrounding schools exist. I cannot remember why I was still in the school at the time, but I know the halls echoed easily. I couldn't react to it though; emotions and trivial things like that were for younger kids. I was a teenager, in eighth grade, with the biggest sense of elitism. I didn't have time for those trivial things. I had too big pride to show how my stomach plummeted when three of my friends stopped me on my way out.

Friends isn't the right term looking back, but in the moment, they were all I had. My social circle consisted of the other kids who didn't quite fit in, and who found a community in the scene crowd. I immersed myself into the scene culture; listening to only screamo while acting as if other music reduced a person's worth, wearing only graphic tees and bright suffocating pants, trying to convince my mother to let me get piercings. Those were my attempts at being a part of a group, to fix an internal background hum of broken, an ever expanding black hole I could never actually attribute to something so outward, but by God did I try. They probably didn't consider me a friend in the moment. At least, two of them didn't.

Out of the whole group, which consisted of a lunch table, we were split in half, mainly because the way the table was set up didn't allow for a conversation involving all of us. Two girls very obviously held power there. I should've known they weren't worth my trouble when they instructed me to ignore this other girl we sat with, but I was in the in-group, getting that validation that I craved for being so rude.

Shutting one person out wasn't good enough though, we were better than people who dressed a certain way or acted a certain way. We saw ourselves as an elite group. I didn't make the cut. I didn't have any other place to go though, with my select interests; who else could understand me? I couldn't leave, so I just ignored their ignoring me.

It's easy at lunch to just eat, being left out of conversations wasn't that big of a blow. All the while I still sought to prove myself to them, to redeem myself and be accepted somewhere once again. I needed to be seen as someone who didn't care at all, so I kept that passive face with all my heart and soul. I tried to be more adult, adopting speech so foul that a sailor's face would twist up at it.

It didn't work. They made their plans so much more obvious, starting at recess. Winter wouldn't leave, no matter how much any of us ranted, though it was far from full force. Since there was that chill, we tended to hang around in a circle and just talk (as playing on playground equipment and enjoying yourself was the paramount sign of immaturity). At first, they just closed me out of the circle, but one half of the table wasn't in on the plan, and they'd scoot over for me. Then they started talking in code, as we were prone to do.

"There's a bee we have to move!" They'd squeal, even though there weren't bees dumb enough to go out in the cold.

So there was a bee, I moved with them. I didn't want to be near a bee, maybe I just didn't see it. The bee moved with them as well, announced as I joined them, announced with a sly giggle hidden under their hands.

This time when I got to them, I twisted my fingers together and pointed out, "There aren't even any bees around here!"

"Yeah, there are."

I couldn't argue with that, not with who I was at that time. Preoccupied with rolling over and letting them step on me, the only thing I could think of was, How do I impress them if I can't talk to them at recess?

Ignore it. That was the brilliant non-solution I had. It's easy to guess how much that worked (not at all). I sat alone at lunch, surrounded by people who didn't want me. Surrounded by people I had placed my happiness in, by the only people I thought would accept me as I was. Even though they didn't accept me, I figured they'd be the only people to sympathize, the only people who would bother with me.

Opening my locker, a small little note on notebook paper fell. A bright contained smile popped up before I could fight it down. A note! I hadn't ever gotten a note before, and from shows and books, they had to be a thing. Someone cared enough to contact me through this old fashioned fun loop of dropping notes to each other.

I still remember the opening line:

Stop stalking following us.

Complete with the delicate line, deliberately crossed out on the folded lined paper. I wasn't stupid, I knew they wanted me to read it. Wanted to hit hard enough so I'd abandon my only hope for friends. The only note I've ever been sent, insulting me. Coming up with various lies as to why they don't want to be seen near me. I knew they weren't legitimate complaints either, as they very clearly said one of the reason was for pornographic pictures of little girls on my iPod. Which, to be clear, I didn't have any, or even any racy photos. With that, they said they talked to counselors, their parents, and mine about it.

They didn't, came my first thought, they'd talk to me about that. That's a big deal, they wouldn't just let that go, my mother wouldn't go without talking to me about something so big.

So I waited, and I still considered them my group. Less enthusiastically, for sure, but I still wanted them to realize that it wasn't true. Even though they knew it wasn't true, that they hadn't done anything they said in the note. I sat with them at lunch, face impassive as if I hadn't read their note with blurred vision. As if I hadn't spent a good majority of an evening red eyed and snot faced, hiccuping into my pillow and trying to keep my parents from finding out.

My withdrawal into myself wasn't good enough, I could still be seen around them. So, they took the route where I couldn't avoid them, avoid reality.

"We tried giving you hints," her voice sounded like a killer attending the funeral of their victim, completely lacking any sympathy.

A nod, mechanical, robotic. Speaking would reveal my voice to shaky, trembling as a chihuahua would in the middle of winter.

"I'm so sorry," one of the other girls, a follower, just like me, spoke up. Her hands held over her mouth, although not to hide her grin from me; for once, her eyes weren't smiling. It had to be to hide to disappointment from the others. Maybe deep down she knew she could be in my spot, thrown away as easily as molded bread. Replaceable, and only by luck she wasn't the piece getting thrown.

One of the leaders took the helm again, "It's just the rumors about us you started." Lies. With each word I could feel the blade pierce my innards, knocking them together. This is so much worse than the note.

"Like," the other one chimed in, "you're telling people that we're going to like big parties with you and doing all sorts of things..."

I'm not! I wanted to scream out, to confront them, bring forth my defense and attack their lies. But then I wouldn't be able to get in their good graces again.

"You understand, right?"

That right echoed down the empty halls, red lockers mirroring my own turmoil, picturing my own angst. The only thing more fitting was my black outfit, encapsulation my despair.

"...Yeah," I faintly squeezed out, making my leave before they could say anything else. That was it, nobody could accept me.

Until I realized there were people who had been thereeir for me before. From second grade they had dealt with my antics, my geekery, and matched it with their own. That while they weren't scene, they had good hearts. In the midst of my internal storm, they could have always been that shelter. I only never saw it, too blind to look beyond the glimmer of a community that wouldn't accept me. That hadn't accepting me, no matter how hard I tried.

Suffice to say, eight grade became a lot less stressful when I didn't have to try to fit an image to be friends. True friends take you wholly, without change, without petty judgement. I know who I need to impress in this world, and it's one person: myself.