Page 10 of Savage Hope

Me.

I. WAS. CHOSEN.

We didn’t do anything different than usual, but I did wish her a Happy Birthday. I think there were tears in her eyes, but she waved them away before I could be sure, and she was back to her bubbly self again.

Maybe she is my friend; maybe what she says about being positive is something I should listen to, but there’s no way in hell I could be as positive as she is.

I’m too negative at the core.

Who knows? Not me.

I know I’ll still be here tomorrow. Maybe I could try.

P x

Dear Diary,

(Almost not lame at all.)

Trying to be nice is more complex than it sounds. I’ll leave that to S. She sits with me now, claiming the spot beside me on the asphalt, and instead of drifting off in my head, I watch the rest of the school around me.

People watching is her favorite thing to do, but the way she chatters about the boys tells me there’s only certain people she’s interested in spying on. Yes, spying on, because she’s always trying to teach me how to do it as unsuspectingly as possible.

Sometimes, we watch the guys play football, throwing some weird shaped ball between one another. While she’s ogling them all, I spy the youngergirls skipping in the corner, or observe the other stragglers sticking to the edges of the playground with their heads down, closed off from everyone.

That would usually be me too, but I must admit, it’s much more fun to see the world as it passes me by. It’s going to rush right past me whether I like it or not, maybe S is right, maybe there’s no harm in enjoying something about each day instead of wallowing. Although, wallowing is my safe place. I’m excellent at that.

If I was getting marked on it, I would definitely come out with A’s instead of the B’s and C’s I’m actually achieving in my classes.

I may be here, waiting for my death, but at least it isn’t coming today.

P x

Dear Diary,

Sixteen.

One word, one number, and a whole world of a difference.

Something about the number makes it feel sweet and special as I now get to declare that’s how old I am, but I’m acutely aware of the gloom hovering closer in my life.

Two more years, and then I’ll disappear to wherever the eighteen-year-olds go.

I don’t want that.

As much as I despise it here, at least it’s familiar.

Like the last few years, I chose S to celebrate today, even though she insisted I should have asked T.

T.

A. Guy.

He watches me on the playground. I track him too.

If he catches the ball? He looks my way. If he throws the ball far? He looks my way.

S says he’s making sure he has my attention. I don’t know where else I’m meant to look. He’s cute, I suppose, but there’s no way I’m asking him. Nothing in my gut is urging me to do that, so I’m sticking to what I know. I don’t need anyone else—just myself. Maybe S too, but I can’t tell her that.

---