Who I Want to Be

Lunches

I really do not think I am pretty. As I stand in the bathroom, viewing my reflection in the mirror, all I see are flaws. I notice the rashes that run down my cheeks and the pimples that dot my forehead. I brush my hand against the underside of my chin to feel the small hairs poke out. My frizzy hair refuses to pull back, instead leaping out across my face. I open my mouth to see my yellowing teeth; I feel the rolls of fat that cross my stomach. Everyone these days wears makeup: long eyelashes and glossy lips. They coordinate fancy outfits. They are skinny and pretty. I could never be that, though, so I wear my face as it is, in all it's ugly glory. I put on whatever clothes I find. I show people how disgusting I truly am. No wonder I am ostracized. I wish I were prettier, like my mother was.

At precisely 9 AM school starts, and I am at my desk, waiting. We stand for announcements, for the anthem, then take a seat. The teacher calls out attendance. When she says my name I reply too softly - she doesn't hear - so I have to repeat it. That makes my classmates laugh. If I could, I would disappear. Camouflage with the blackboard, door, window, or better yet, with everyone else. Instead I stick out in all the wrong places. As my classmates laugh my cheeks redden into a vigorous blush. I hate it.

After class tests are handed back. We walk up to Ms. Morgan's desk when our names are called. My fingers shake as I wait, my legs wobble when I walk up.

"Good job," Ms. Morgan notes, passing my test. As I look at my mark I push down a smile. 96 on chemistry.

"Congrats." It's Emma hovering over my shoulder.

"Oh, uh, thanks," I stutter, "I'll move for you." Hastily, I shuffle out of the way so Emma can pass. In the process I jam my elbow against a desk and pain shoots through me. Emma does not walk by, though. She looks me down with her cold blue eyes.

"You're coming with us to lunch, right?" Her smile is hollow.

"Uh, yeah. Why not?" Conflicting emotions pull through me. Excitement and caution and fear and hope all bundled together.

"It's just that you didn't come last week," she pushes.

"Oh, I was really busy finishing that Chem lab. But I'll be there - definitely."

"Good." Emma says nothing more. She passes by me and sits at her desk across the room. As I sit in my chair I shove the test in my backpack - suddenly, my mark does not feel all that rewarding.

They are all waiting for me in the entrance foyer. I clutch my worn lunchbox, wrinkles distorting the butterfly pattern on the front. My heart is pounding so fast I think they can hear it.

"We're buying food," Marion comments.

"We all have English together after this, right?" Clo turns to Emma, who nods in response. I follow them through the glass paned door, as they continue their conversation, and into the frigid air. It is March, but the cold of Winter continues to carry over, coating everything in a light frost layer. My legs numb through the holes in my jeans.

I walk behind them like I always do. My lunchbag is tight in my hands, choking the poor handle; my eyes are glued to the pavement. We are heading up the hill to St. Clair - a street boasting several fast food restaurants. I cannot hear their chatter over the wind so I am left to my own thoughts. They are mean thoughts - they seem to hate me. It is because I am so revolting, so boring that they leave me behind. Right here, right now, is where I'll always be. As I listen, I move forward one step at a time. I walk across sidewalk squares the others stepped across centuries ahead of me. Always behind quickly morphs into a familiar rhythm.

When we finally sit down in a crappy McDonalds my lunch has gone cold. I eat my dry chicken as I wait for everyone else to order their food. Anna is not the most incredible cook, so my lunches are always leftovers with sliced peppers or celery. Today it is carrots, surprisingly, but I don't eat them. The crunch is too loud and I would feel embarrassed.