When It Rains [Sameena]

thirteen: the play and the essays

"What's up with you, Sam?"

Sam looks to her side, slowly closing her locker. A popular cheerleader who claimed to be her friend, standing there, asking her questions.

"What do you care?" she replies, fixing her hair.

"I care because you're my friend. You don't ever really get dressed up like this. Is there some school event I don't know of or something?"

"You're my friend, huh? Can you even name one thing you know about me?"

"Your name is Sam."

"I fucking know that, anybody who goes to this school can fucking know that."

"Well, maybe if you talked to us more, then we would know more about you."

Sam just rolls her eyes, holding her folder in her hand. "Talk to you more? I'm fucking tired of this. I've tried. I've been trying. Nobody listens to me. I'm just one of the popular girls. An object, as you could say. Jocks just wanna fuck me then leave me. You guys, who claim to be my friends? Just stick around because you wanna be treated like me. You think I want to be constantly harassed by jocks just because they don't get sex? I don't! I just want to be who I am. Be myself. But I can't when I just have the reputation of a popular fucking cheerleader!"

"Gosh, you're a freak," she laughs, walking away.

Sam slams her hand on her locker, the pain coming over her shortly after but she didn't care. She sighed, standing there, trying to calm down. Once she did, she walked into English class, a smile forming on her face when she spots Deena, at her chair, doodling on her hand.

"Hey," she smiles, sitting down next to her. And that's when Sam remembered— the essays.

She pulls hers out, nervous as she rereads it. She couldn't believe she was doing this, but there she was, staring at the words on the essay.

"Hey."

Sam wraps her arm around Deena, sitting on her lap and playing with her curly hair. "I though you wanted to, keep it a secret."

"Well, what you think I want is about to be proved wrong, Johnson," she teases with the nickname, sitting back on her own chair. Deena just rolls her eyes, and Mr. Spotsor begins to speak as he stands in the front of the room.

"As you guys know, a week ago, I told you to write an essay about somebody in the class of whom I paired you up with. Today, we are going to share those essays. Be patient, be ready, and be respectful and ready to share."

The class nods, and he smiles, beginning to call people up. Sam's nerves grew stronger and stronger every time he called a person up, because she knew that meant that she would soon have to go up and share hers.

"Deena Johnson, please come share your essay," Mr. Spotsor smiles.

She looks up and down, nodding. Walking up to the front of the room, essay in hand, she looks around.

"My name is Deena Johnson, and I wrote my essay about Samantha Fraser," she begins, looking at Sam, who had her fingers locked together, sitting with her hands on the table in a fancy matter. She smiles at the brunette, and she smiles back.

"Not just a cheerleader," she reads the title, clearing her throat before continuing, "When you first take a look at Sam Fraser, you'd expect her to just be another cheerleader. Blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, just another girl that everybody drools over. A popular cheerleader girl that's the most drooled over at Shadyside High. But when you get to know her, she's different. A sweetie, so caring, she makes you feel safe. A sense of home, or warmth. She'll hug you when you're sad, do the sweetest things to try and cheer you up when she notices you're down. Samantha Fraser is more than just a cheerleader."