Penguins Can't Fly

1. How Good Does It feel to fly?

I wish I could fly again...
Thoughts clouded my mind as I sat in the back of my history class. As usual. The back was like my second home. My things littered the floor around me. The teacher looked at me sympathetically.

"Hey Tracie you sure you're ok?" He said enunciating every word. It sounded as if he was talking to a 4 year old.

Distractions were all around me. I lowered my eyes from the ceiling and allowed a small nod to my teacher. I quickly read over the directions on the board.

Then I began telling Grace all about World War II, I talked slowly making sure she got everything down. She kindly wrote everything down- I wouldn't really say kindly, it was her job. She got paid to help me.
The boy sitting in front of me looked back. I instinctively looked behind me as well, to look at the wall. What was so interesting about a wall? I soon realized he was looking at me and a small spark of anger flared inside me. I still wasn't used to everyone staring at me. I sighed as he then he whispered to the girl next to him,
I didn't even pretend like I hadn't seen him. They all thought I was some sort of thing that didn't have feelings. They were wrong, very wrong. But on the other hand the teachers thought I was a fucking 5 year old trapped in a 17 year old girl's body. I couldn't say it didn't bother me. It did. And a lot. But it's not like there was anything I could do about it. I tried to glare, but decided against it mid-glare. That caused him to laugh.

It was more like a snort, since he obviously didn't want to be seen laughing at the disabled girl. He dug his arm into his mouth, unsuccessfully trying to block out the noises coming from his throat. I tried to keep calm and soon ignored him, looking past his hair to read the board once again.

This whole time, Grace didn't say anything, just wrote everything down with a bored look on her face. She acknowledged the situation, she just didn't want to get involved, apparently. I was partly mad at her, partly mad at the boy. And then I was mad at the teacher, at my classmates, at my parents. Until I was mad at myself. Frustrated really. How had I let this boy get to me? This happened so often, I should be used to it by now.

The old Tracie, the normal Tracie, would've fought. She would've been a warrior. Glared the boy down. Stood up for herself. But she's gone. Now it's just pieces of her messily glued back together.

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