Forget me lots (Completed)

13. Dawn🌿

"Watch it, bozo." Lorna shoves past me and heads to the locker room.

She has everybody else in my gym class calling me that. Makes total sense for my arch nemesis and her demon friends to be all in the same group as I am since gym is an extension of hell. Why should the stars align and give me a break? How would that benefit this new scene in the movie? It wouldn't. Hence, I'm shit out of luck.

Lorna's gang of lesser demons surround her and my stomach is knotted until the next crescent moon. They are all dressed in adorable matching gym suits. I'm surprised they're not wearing their boyfriend's letterman jackets.

This is where I stop my railing thoughts and fixate on one. I'll never get to experience these kinds of things. I'll never get to laugh carelessly among a group of clique members and feel like a fish in the water. I'll never be picked first in a team assignment or sports game. I'll be the one asking whether it's possible to work alone or have eyes rolling at my face when I'm last in line.

Some girls are unerring from the get go. I'm convinced they were visited by all the goddamn fairies and given all the blessings with no screw-ups. They breathe and walk and blink and live with ease. They wear their boyfriends' jackets because they have boyfriends. They have a tendency to nail the perfect messy bun in seconds and natural long lashes to bat at the exact moment to get what they righteously 'deserve'.

Then there's me. Itching underneath this stupid uniform. Me, with a tendency to sweat more than it is acceptable and wake up every morning looking like I had a seizure the night before.

I curse my bad luck, twitching in discomfort as I fiddle with the hoodie's zipper. We all have to wear these damn suits. At my old school, I didn't mind wearing gym shorts, but that was before the big suck. Now there is a whole lot of me filling up this dreaded sportswear. I'm too self-conscious about my wobbly bits—my hips being the worst of them. Wait, maybe my legs could win that match if they went the distance.

"Blue isn't your color, bozo." Michaela watches me suit up. Theresa, Lorna and other girls who don't know me, laugh with no mercy. I guess cracking a few ones over the fat chick in town equals conquering the next frontier. Climbing Everest is overrated compared to this new trend.

After Michaela also pushes past me—go figure—I take my time tying my sneakers. Maybe someone will sprain an ankle, or die, or something, and I can get out of this pickle.

"Coach doesn't think I'm going to jump over that thing now, does she?" Here's Stormy again and the heaviness in my chest lifts a little. She appears in my life like a gush of fresh air when everything around you smells rotten. She's the relief you feel when you've been holding your breath for too long—freaking out because there's no other option but to cave in soon—but suddenly all is well and you can unwind.

We've been texting a lot since my birthday. She's mentoring me in the art of 'emojing' the crap out of everything so you can conceal your insecurities and lack of social skills. I've improved so much we can hold wordless conversations but yet convey everything.

The nerd in me learned that the Japanese invented the emotion icons, and that the name is a contraction of the words 'e' and 'moji' which roughly translates to pictograph. While my mind wanders there's a sharp pang in my chest. This is when Dad would say something like 'how clever' or 'my bright baby bee'... Yet, there's this radio silence on his behalf and deep down I know I must work harder to get back to him. He has barely spoken to me and I'm losing grip.

"Earth to Dawn. Are you with me, girl?" Her wild gaze meets mine, and I focus on the pulsing of her forehead's vein. That thing has a life of its own.