Notes

It’s my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate and a stomachache.

We fall into clans: Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants, Cheerleaders, Human Waste, Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair Chix, The Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians, Goths, Shredders.

This is the girl who suffered through brownies with me, who taught me how to swim, who understood my parents, who didn’t make fun of my room.

My social studies teacher is Mr. Neck, the same guy that growled at me to sit down in the auditorium. He remembers me fondly. “I got my eyes on you, front row.”

Nice seeing you too, I bet he suffers from post-traumatic disorder.

Thawp! A lump of potatoes and gravy hits me square in the center of my chest.

All conversation stops as the entire lunch room gawks, my face burning into their retinas.

Art follows lunch, like a dream follows a nightmare.

Rachel is in the bathroom. Edit that. Rachelle is in the bathroom.

I sip hot chocolate; it burns the roof of my mouth.

We are now the Merryweather tigers. Roar.

A cartoon thought bubble forms over the heads of everyone in the class, (“will this be on the test”).

If she doesn’t sell a billion shirts and twelve million belts on black Friday the world will end.

Students are getting away with murder and the staff is to worn out to care.

Heather gives me my Christmas present early – bell earrings that chime when I turn my head.

Rudolph sets out on his ice floe, “I’m independent,” he declares.

She keeps bouncing balls my way and I keep putting them in swish, swish, swish.

All that running? Sweating? Getting knocked down by genetic mutants? I don’t think so.

Our frog lies on her back waiting for her prince to come and princessefy her with a smooch.

I saw that on a magazine cover and it looked