Paperboy. (h.s. au)

07.

After I had returned from my walk to work, I was attacked by questions from the ladies. "Who was that?" A friend of mine. "Is he your boyfriend?" No, I barely know him. "Where did you go?" Not far. "Does he like you?" God, no. "Why are you walking away?" I have to use the bathroom.

I didn't have to use the bathroom. I couldn't handle any more questions about that. This is a regularly used tactic by myself in any number of situations. I stood in the tiny bathroom in the back of the building staring at the mirror, but not at its reflection. Not at anything, really. You don't know what it is to be stressed until you've been interrogated by three nosy old ladies. I'm not sure how much time passed before I convinced myself that I could go back out there. I wasn't even sure I could. But I did.

•••

It's Friday and I'm writing down all of the reasons why I shouldn't go out tonight.

I don't know Harry or his friends

I don't want to go to the old movie theater

The theater is half an hour away

What if the people are overbearing

What if they don't like me

What if what if what if.

The therapist I used to go to told me that writing things down and making lists is a good technique for pretty much anything. Getting out stress. Decision making. Clearing my head. And time after time, list after list, I find that the tactic is useless on me.

Right now, it's only showing me how nervous I am. My handwriting looks the way it does when I try to write with my left hand- sloppy and shaky.

I haven't told my mom yet.

I haven't, and I probably won't because I will most likely talk myself out of this before I give myself the chance. My mother would probably force me to go anyway, if she found out. She loves hearing that I have plans, that I'm putting on real pants and that I'm leaving the house for a night. This hasn't ever happened with a boy before. Much less a random boy. Much lesser, a random boy and his random friends.

I'm not even sure why Harry asked me to go out with them in the first place. I flat out refused to even go on a walk with him. Why would he take that as an invitation for him to invite me out?

I out my pen down and push my notebook into the drawer of my desk. List making has never helped me, but each time I convince myself that it might.

I lay my forehead on the desk. How am I supposed to just make a new friend? To go out with them and make more friends? Has he seen me? I have, and it's just shy of impossible to get me to do this sort of thing. The only thing that makes it possible is my mother when she knows about things. And yet, he did it.

Often times, I feel very bad for my mother. I'm sure that she didn't expect this kind of child. She probably grew up dreaming to be a mother of beautiful, social butterflies who would bring people home all the time. Who's friends would refer to her as the "cool mom." She probably dreamt of going to sleep at night and not having to worry that her daughter wasn't sleeping, wasn't hating the life she so graciously gave to her.

Okay, nobody dreams about that. But it was more than likely a thought in her head. I know this because my mother tells me every now and again. How she has always wanted kids, always wanted to be a mom. She had dreams of being lawyer. Went to law school, met my dad there, and thought they would live happily ever after, convicting people of crimes and rolling in their victory at the end of the day.