I make it through the first two weeks of school without a nuclear meltdown.
I make it through the first two weeks of school without a nuclear meltdown.
I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebra in a National Geographic special, looking for someone, anyone to sit next to. A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a social studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport.
It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.
It's easier to floss with barbed wire than admit you like someone in middle school.
My parents didn't raise me to be religious. The closest we come to worship is the Trinity of Visa, Mastercard, and American Express. I think the Merryweather cheerleaders confuse me because I missed out on Sunday School. It has to be a miracle. There is no other explanation. How else could they sleep with the football team on Saturday night and be reincarnated as virginal goddesses on Monday?
Sometimes I think high school is one long hazy activity: if you are tough enough to survive this, they'll let you become an adult. I hope it's worth it.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories