A Tangled Tale

• One •

As I stand at the bus stop, my stomach in knots, I pick at the loose thread on the sleeve of my jumper. Already, it's unravelling into a mess of navy, but I can't stop fiddling with it. Sucking in a deep breath, I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my worn ripped jeans and duck my head, refusing to make eye contact with the blonde barbie shooting me sidelong glares from the opposite side of the bus shelter. The bitumen road is slick with pooling puddles from the steadily trickling rain, the sky dark with clouds. The weather really matches my mood.

Scuffling my tattered Vans against the pathway, I scrunch up my nose and pull my hoodie down lower over my face in a feeble attempt to hide from the scornful stares being sent my way. I really don't look like much, with my boring brown hair and boring brown eyes, my clothes wrinkled and threadbare and my skin covered with a splattering combination of acne and freckles. My Aunt says I dress like I'm homeless, with my love for baggy jumpers and simple jeans, but the truth is I just don't want to draw any unwanted attention to myself.

So far, I'm achieving my goal of staying invisible for the entirety of my high school education. The majority of my year doesn't even know my name, let alone the first thing about me. The only real friends I have are just as introverted and shy as me, and we hang out purely because we'd all be miserably alone if we didn't cluster together. I don't have any social media; I don't even give my number away to anyone. My phone is just for emergencies and for texting my Aunt and Uncle, pleading them to let me stay at the library for longer.

Aunt Clara always tries to push me out of the house and force me to socialise, always asking, "Why don't you organise a catch-up with your friends, Gia? Why don't I call Caitlyn's mum so you guys can chat? How about you join the netball team? Sports are a great way to make new friends."
And the whole situation gets a thousand times worse when extended family come to visit, smothering me in hugs and kisses which causes my face to flush the highly attractive shade of beetroot and my words to die in my throat, escaping in a stuttering heap. But worse still than the overwhelming affection is the predictable, inescapable question, always posed with a lifted eyebrow and a teasing half-smile, "So, Giana, do you have a boyfriend?"

A boyfriend? Me? Antisocial, awkward Giana who wears clothes meant for boys and spends more time curled up in bed than anywhere else. Anxiety-stricken, stuttering Giana who would rather cut off all her fingers than speak in public. Blushing, ugly Giana who can't string together more than two words when in the presence of a boy and can't for the life of her navigate the turbulent sea of dating. Boring, nerdy Giana who always has her nose buried in a book and usually spends lunchtimes huddled in a toilet cubicle just so she can avoid her "friends". Me, Giana Montgomery, have a boyfriend? It's more likely that daisies will sprout from my ears than I'll trick a boy into asking me out.

HONK, HONK, the bus horn pierces the air, starting me from my reverie and snapping my attention to the vehicle as it swings into the bay, sending a wave of rainwater onto the pavement and all over my Vans. Cursing under my breath, I shake off the worst of the damage and join the single-file line gathering at the bus doors. No sooner have I settled into place five people from the head of the line, then I'm pushed back, shoved roughly by a manicured hand and jostled out of my position, falling heavily onto my butt. Barbie looms over me, tossing her curled blonde hair back across her shoulders as her accomplices giggle, hiding their lipstick-stained mouths behind polished nails. My tormentor poorly stifles a laugh, looking vaguely demonic as she gushes, "Oh, sorry, sweetie," she bares a plastic smile, gracefully hopping onto the bus and flashing her student pass to the driver, "Better watch your step next time."

Her sidekicks erupt into hysterical laughter, following suit and disappearing to the back seats in a blur of golden locks. Biting down hard on my lip to keep from retorting, I gingerly get to my feet, wiping my stinging, grazed palms on my now drenched jeans and keeping my eyes fixed doggedly on the ground. Slipping my pass from the pocket of my jacket, I hesitantly hold it out to the driver and wait for his brusque nod before stepping onto the bus, my cheeks flaming and my eyes pricking with hot tears.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I take my usual seat at the very front of the bus, shuffling across to the window seat and sliding down, trying to conceal myself from sight. Staring determinedly out the window, I block out Barbie's excited chatter from the back of the bus, ignoring the howls of laughter that follow every stupid word that tumbles so effortlessly from her red lips.

Why can't I be like that? I wonder as the bus chugs to life and begins rolling towards school, where public humiliation awaits with impending doom. Why can't I be confident, outspoken and jaw-droppingly gorgeous like she is? Why can't I have shimmering gold curls instead of mud brown? Why can't my eyes be stunningly sapphire instead of like diarrhoea? Why can't my skin be clear, flawless and smooth instead of riddled with pimples and freckles?

I wish I was like Barbie- though I learn her actual name is Daniella Hartman when a gaggle of girls greet her as the bus drives into school, shrieking and squealing like they haven't seen her in eons. I wish I was Miss Popular, always surrounded by admirers and capable of winding all the boys in the history of the world right around her little finger. But instead I'm stuck as Miss Nobody, friendless and unknown to the entire population of the universe.

It really sucks being a dork.