Labels│simon minter / ashley marie surcombe

I. "cheers"

+Ashley Marie+

First day of returning back to secondary school. It's been going well, if I may say. Easy introduction to my new classes, (relatively) nice teachers. Same friends, unfazed cliques. I still get the questionable looks from people passing by. I wish I could say I can give less of a shit about what they think of my appearance, but as usual, self consciousness is forever haunting.

One person today had yelled out from across the field when I was walking by, "Oi, look it's rainbow hair!" and his mates had laughed with him.

And that did not help my insecurities at all, especially on the first day back to this hell hole.

If you didn't know, the first day back from summer break is the most important day to look better than ever. It's the day that everyone judges you more than usual and slaps a label on your back to discriminate you from others. If you walk back into school or start your four years of complete torture with a bad image... well, your social life will drown in hatred and harsh judgement.

Everyone knew that they had to look like models, and everyone knew to act their best.

The teenage society is ruled by insecurities and self consciousness- everyone is scared of being judged, and I hate it. Because I know that in all situations I will always be insecure no matter what.

And that sucks ass.

"Ashley, are you alright?"

Startled by Cal's voice, I jump on my spot in the bleachers. I look over at him to find that he's holding a concerned expression.

"Yeah, why?"

"Your hand has gone white from squeezing the bleacher's seat." I peer down at my hand, and it was ghost white. I relax my hand and move it away from the edge of the bleacher and look back at Callum.

"What were you thinking about?" he asks and I sigh.

"The fact that we're ruled under the fear of being judged in this damn place," I say resentfully and adjusted my glasses that were sliding off the bridge of my nose. "I hate it so much."

"Don't we all?" he sighs and runs his fingers through his brown hair with a slight ginger tint to it.

I face away from the boy, looking across the field and watch the boys who had embarrassed me earlier messing around in a game of football, laughing and smiling.

Do they like their labels?

As my mental question stirs in my mind, one of them, the tallest one, catches my eye. I quickly look down at my paper I got from calculus that I had to fill out, my face burning with embarrassment.

It was one of those dumb "icebreaker" games as teachers like to call it. We aren't in primary school anymore, we
don't need to do this, I think with annoyance and pick up my pencil.

What is your favorite colour? Red, why not.

What colour eyes do you have? You can just look at them.

What is your hobby? Sleep, I don't know.

Favorite animal? Penguins, obviously.