Dark Side

Kira

Kira's POV

The bright light blinds me as I step off the bus. Squinting against the glare, I walk with my head down, avoiding as usual the stares from the people around me. I try to pretend the gawping doesn’t bother me, but it does. Hunching my shoulders, I pull my hood up over my pure white hair. I manage to make it to the door of the school without getting knocked over by a backpack.

A group of popular guys are standing just inside the doors. I smile tentatively at one of them. He glances at me, meeting my eyes, then shudders and looks away. I drop my eyes and keep walking. Once I’m out of sight of the group, I straighten up a bit. Check to make sure my hood is still up. I hate when people stare at my hair.

It’s not my fault that I was born with no pigments in my scalp. It’s not my fault my hair is white. It’s not my fault that my eyes are an ugly gray color, or that they turn black when I’m upset. If I had been given a choice, I would have been born with strawberry blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes. But I wasn’t given a choice. I’m a freak.

For some reason the stares are bothering me more today. I feel the familiar shaking start--first in my hands, then my knees, then my whole body. I’m shivering from head to foot, even though it’s about 70 degrees in the school. I take a few deep breaths. I can almost feel my eyes darkening.

First bell rings and I jump about a foot. I hurry to my first class. I slip in quietly, setting my backpack in my usual seat in the corner. A group of girls are giggling in the center of the room. I recognize them--they’re the popular crowd. The ones who always have dates to the dances. The ones who always have a friend with them. I am so jealous of those girls. They’re talking about a tv show called Ever After. I watch it, too. It’s a great show. I want to say something to them, about the show, something funny that will get them to notice me. One of them glances in my direction. I meet her clear blue eyes hopefully. Her reaction is the same as the boy’s from earlier--she shudders and looks away quickly.

Second bell rings and I sit down, already feeling depressed. Our teacher stands up to take attendance.

“Billy,” the teacher says.

“Here!”

“Jessica.”

“Here.”

“Carter.”

“‘Sup.”

“Hannah.”

“Present!”

“Daniel.”

“Hmm.”

And so on, until she reaches the last name on the list. Mine.

“Kira,” she calls. I raise my hand awkwardly.

“I’m here,” I say. There are a few whispers when I speak. I lower my hand. I can tell my eyes are darkening again. I hate my voice. The teacher doesn’t seem to notice the mutterings, because she tucks the attendance folder neatly under her arm and begins to lecture us about the French Revolution.

For the rest of the day I say as little as possible. I answer for attendance, and that’s it. I think my voice is disappearing. I don’t mind. I hate my voice like I hate my hair and eyes. I pretty much hate all of me. I don’t know why I had to be born this way. I don’t know why I can’t be normal and beautiful and popular. I have to remind myself to keep my shoulders back. I have a habit of hunching my shoulders when I get uncomfortable.

Final bell rings and I am the first one out of my seat. My bus is the first to leave, and I’m always the first one on it. I hurry to the seat at the very back. Ten minutes later the bus is full and moving. No one on the bus talks to me. They talk to each other. To their friends. I pull my knees up to my chest and wait for my stop. Finally the bus stops at the end of my road. I stand up and leave, careful not to trip over anyone’s backpack like I did yesterday. The bus pulls away as I step out. By the time I look over my shoulder it’s already gone. I sigh. Another average day.

My life sucks.