The Stories of Misfits

Flowers

“Yeah, see you,” I reply. He walks away and I stand there watching him and playing with the hem of my shirt. The rough texture of the flowers compared to the smooth texture of the white part is frustrating and itchy and I yank on it. For a few minutes I stand there staring blankly at a florescent light, but when the bell rings, I turn away and walk into my classroom.

My first classes are all pointless today; my English teacher shows a Disney movie, my P.E. teacher gives us free time, and my History teacher lets us watch some horror film. When the bell rings after History, I wait outside the classroom door for Marie so we can walk to lunch.

As we walk and talk, an arm wraps around my shoulders and I jump, a strange noise squeaking out of my mouth. The arm slides off as I look over to see who it is. I’m greeted with a tan face and dark eyes, both of which are currently sporting an odd expression.

Shamshad. Of course.

Why do you have to be so awkward?

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I look down at my shirt as my face turns many colors. “I’m fine, you just startled me,” I mumble.

A bemused look is on his face when I look up. Marie is giving me a knowing squint, which I have told her she shouldn’t do because it looks like she’s having bowel problems. She’s convinced I like him, but I don’t. I just think he’s mildly attractive, as does Rose, but she likes odd looking people. He’s tall, kind of exotic (his parents are from the Middle East), and he has a nice face. It’s symmetrical.

The three of us walk through the cafeteria. Marie immediately leaves us to buy lunch with Derek, but Shamshad and I continue outside where my sister is sitting at our usual spot. She’s talking to her current crush, a guy on the soccer team with brown hair down to his shoulders and a frighteningly angular face. His cheekbones are so sharp they could cut apart my indestructible phone.

Shamshad’s hand whips out and grabs my arm when we’re a few feet away from our spot. My arm is warm where he’s touching me. My face grows hot to match it, naturally. I don’t look at him of course, and instead glance down at where his hand is.

“Does Rose like me?” he whispers. “I mean, would she say yes if I asked her to dinner or something?”

I stop breathing as his words slice like razors into my heart.

You claim you don’t like him because you’re terrified of emotion.

Tears blur my vision and I blink.

He’s not choosing your sister over you because you weren’t even a choice.

One foot steps back.

Even someone you’re identical to is better than you.

“She likes some soccer player,” I gasp.

You’re Violet, the lesser twin.

And then suddenly I’m walking away, mumbling about the bathroom as the tears burst from my eyes like rain from the clouds. My chest aches and my eyes ache and I really don’t want anyone to ever see me again because eyes add weight. Maybe if I’m forgotten enough, I’ll actually turn invisible.

Maybe. Hopefully.

You’re already gone, can’t you tell?

I shove my way through the outdoor bathroom door and into the handicapped stall. My backpack clunks to the ground as I stare into the mirror at my red face, my blue and violet eyes, my stupid pimple right under my stupid nose. Everything I like about myself exists on someone else. All the things I hate are mine, all mine.