Prologue

            I was a sensitive child.  I grew up in a small apartment in a small town, with no one but my mother.  I was ignored in elementary school, and occasionally teased because of my shyness.  In middle school, I lost the one friend I had and the teasing became worse.

            I tried to help people.  If someone was getting picked on, or needed help with someone, I did my best.  My reward?  Even the teachers made fun of me.  As a result, I tended to only be friendly with my mother and my one “out of school” friend, Tyler.

            Because of my shyness, I had extra time to work on my studies.  I studied hard and did all of my homework to the best of my ability, determined to please my mother.  She was always thrilled when I got A’s in school, and I had never received a grade lower than a B.  That changed one day in fifth grade.

            We had a pop quiz, one with four questions on it.  Unfortunately for me, the night before was the one time I hadn’t studied.  Out of those four questions, I got one correct.  That F on my quiz seriously brought my grade down; that was the first term I received a C on my report card.  I was devastated.

            From then on, I rarely received a C but when I did, I was okay with it.  My main concern was not my intelligence; instead, it was my mother.  I knew she wouldn’t be angry with me, but I always tried so hard to please her and I felt bad when I couldn’t.  I felt even worse in eighth grade.

            Eighth grade science was the hardest class I had ever taken at that point.  I studied every night, but I could never seem to grasp the material.  When I opened my report card on the walk home one day, I burst into tears.  I had received my first D.

            I was so scared of telling my mother that I again began crying when I called her at work to let her know I was home.  She, of course, asked me what was wrong.  So as not to worry her, I spit it out.

            Honestly, I really needn’t have worried.  She was wonderful to me, and truly made me realize that I was not a failure.  She encouraged me to ask for help if I needed, despite the fact that I knew I would never do that.  How does a person like me ask a teacher for help when her biggest fear is being teased for stupidity?

            My mother never knew anything about my social status; I made sure of it.  It was too embarrassing for me to tell her, to know that this strong, assertive woman could have a daughter like me – a spineless, sniveling coward.  And I was, too.

            I ate my lunch in the bathroom most days; and when I didn’t, I didn’t eat at all.  If someone spoke to me, be it student or faculty, I responded with one word.  If I was insulted, my face would heat up and I’d walk away, doing my best to hide my tears until I could hide my face.  I truly believed everything that others said about me, probably because no one ever contradicted it.  I mean, sure, my mother told me I was beautiful, I was smart, things like that.  But she was my mother; she was supposed to tell me those things.

            I went to a vocational high school, trying to get away from the small town class of 2006.  It worked, since our little town rarely deviated from the local high school.  In my class, there were exactly two other students from my hometown.

            Entering a brand new school where no one knew me, I vowed to myself that it would get better.  And it did, for a little bit.  My teachers were great for the most part, nobody really bothered anyone they didn’t know, and I wasn’t afraid to ask for help when I needed it.  I even made a friend, one who later became my best friend for all four years: Shannon.  Shannon introduced me to her other friends, and while I was civil enough with them to eat lunch at the same table, none of us ever hung out unless she was around.  We had the same homeroom for freshman year, and for that I was extremely grateful.

            But then the next year rolled around.  We had different homerooms; instead of being sorted by our last names, we were placed with others of our “majors”, so to speak.  These were our shops; what we would be doing for the next three years.  Shannon and I were not in the same shop.

            I reverted back to my quiet self, watching teachers carefully as I tried to feel more comfortable.  I became friends with Heather and Riley, and I cherished those friendships.  Considering we were stuck with the same twenty people (all girls, in my case) and the same five teachers for a whole week, every other week, I was thrilled to have friends with me.  I quickly learned which teachers were fair, and which would walk all over you; not that I ever did anything about that information.

            My junior year of high school, things started to change.  I started to change.  I was tired of being picked on, tired of being walked all over, and so very tired of taking people’s s**t with a quiet nod and an “I’m sorry”.  That was the year I began having troubles with my grades again.

            I had been moved from the smartest English class, to the second smartest.  I thought that this might make it easier on me, but I was sadly mistaken.  English had never been my best subject; I’ve always struggled with it despite being told I have “a way with words”.  My essays were never good enough, my grammar never correct enough, and I just plain sucked at conclusion paragraphs.  Give me a good book and ask me a few questions, and I’ll get them right every time, though.  Unfortunately, high school English doesn’t often include reading my kind of books; instead, I had to sit through a very painful year of Shakespeare, then The Odyssey (which actually wasn’t that bad, just confusing), and then To Kill a Mockingbird, which I absolutely loved.  Loving a book doesn’t get you the grade, though.

            At the tender age of sixteen, I was having problems.  Not only was I supposed to be getting straight A’s that year for colleges, but I couldn’t figure out what I wanted my major to be, let alone where I wanted to go.  In my home life, I was becoming more and more rebellious, and I was dying to learn about my father.  When I worked up the nerve to ask my saint of a mother about him, she offered me a number.  I went from there, and spoke to my father for the first time in thirteen years.

            So I was facing quite a few dilemmas.  I wanted to know my father, but I didn’t want him to know I cared.  I wanted to get good grades and get into a good college, but I didn’t even know what I wanted to go for and I didn’t have money to waste while I sat around thinking about it.  And most of all, I wanted to be able to figure out what my dreams were, instead of being told what it is I should and shouldn’t want.

            I was a shy, quiet kid when I was younger.  I grew up into a shy, quiet teenager.  And then one day, I snapped. 

Reviews

[Theresa]

This is a great opening chapter especially the last line it leaves you hanging and wanting more. You conveyed the life of so many teenagers and you did it well. Within the first few lines I was sympathetic towards the main character and could understand her struggles with growing up. I hope you write more I would love to see where this is going.