I woke up to the shrill sound of my alarm clock. Six-thirty. Monday. Another week of torture.
I smelled the air. I could never get used to the smell of my own blood. The fresh cuts along my arms stung as I lifted the white, now red, cover off of them. I grimaced, cursing myself for forgetting to put something to cover them so my sheets wouldn't get stained. If my mother asked, I could say it was a nosebleed. I get those a lot.
I pulled a streak of my blonde hair out from behind my ear. My black nails made high contrast with my dirty blonde hair. I dreaded school, mostly the people there, the worst.
The people there; the rich kids. Everyone with Beats, iPhones, and all that... I was a poor substitution for them. No one knew what I was going through. And I liked it that way.
I pulled off my pajamas, and grabbed my bra. I got dressed with a long sleeved brown shirt, long black pants, and my uniform's shirt. I wear two shirts because of all the scars running down my arms and my uniform's shirt only reached half of my biceps.
Looking in the mirror, I pulled my hair into a tight side braid. You're such a pretty girl! I envy your looks. I scowled at the thought of the words that my History teacher had spoken. How could anyone call me pretty? I'm in no way pretty. She has poor eyesight so I could understand her having the illusion that I'm good looking. I looked in the mirror and shrugged.
No matter what I do, I'll still look bad. I opened the door from my safe haven, and stepped outside. Not ready at all for my day. I looked around my hallway, making sure I was the only one up. My mom's purse was already gone. Left for work early again.
I jogged down the steps. Only tripping on the last one. Woo-hoo! New record for me. I went into the kitchen and god out a Pepsi. See, my parents don't like Coca-Cola too much. So I was stuck with Pepsi. And all the Coke I could buy from the vending machine at school.
I grabbed my phone and turned it on. See my parents had this thing that they hate the fact that I have an iPhone. Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking. You're no poor substitution for your classmates. You're one of them! Well news flash. It isn't exactly "cool" to have an iPhone 3G when everyone else is walking around with at least an iPhone 4S.
Everyone judged you by what you didn't have. So in my case, I was born to be part of the group of "freaks" that the Populars all picked on. You get used to the group you belong in pretty quick. There's no changing.
First I should explain the groups in my school. First place on the group wish list is the Populars. The people that make a difference here. They make the decision of which group you're put in.
They judge on height, posture, hair color, hair style, eye color, amount of make-up you wear, earrings you wear, rings you wear, how you wear your uniform, pants or skirts, and most importantly; whether or not you speak Spanish. If you weren't ideal in everything, you're out.
I'm freakishly tall. I slouch. I'm blonde. I usually wear a pony-tail. I have eyes that change color with my emotions. I barely wear any make-up unless I'm trying to impress a guy. I usually have either no earrings, or these silver hoops. I either have a mustache mood ring, a ring that looks like it came out of my music class, or nothing. I wore my uniform like I was supposed to, with the exception of the second shirt. I wear pants, skirts stopped looking flattering on me long time ago. I just learned fluent Spanish over this summer. Some people still look at me strangely whenever I start speaking rapid Spanish.
They took me off the list as soon as they saw me. I didn't belong there. Then came the second place on the wish list; the Girlies. They're the ones obsessed with make-up, fashion, music, acting, singing, and guys. They saw my lack f make-up and I was back on the market for a group.
The Populars started whispering among themselves. Mirala. Es tan fea. Ponla en los geeks. I looked up and translated it in my mind. They said "Look at her. She's so ugly. Put her with the freaks." And that was all I got from the Populars. I had a place and I had to stay in it.
I looked around, it wasn't hard to find my group. They were sitting on the grass. Seeming to have a good time. They seemed friendly enough. I sat down at the edge and soon enough I was surrounded with curious faces.
A guy next to me asked me my name. Tiffany Hudson. They gawked at me like I was an alien. The girl putting on lip gloss turned to me and asked me where I was form. London. They asked when I had moved here. Last month.
They started speaking Spanish. Porque los Populares la dejaron? Ella es matierial para ellos, no nosotros. No entiendo. The guy looked at her and said No tengo la menor idea. Pero puede ser orque ella no hablo nada.
I looked at them no one looking at me and translated everything. Why did the Populars leave her? She's material for them not us. I don't understand. The guy had said I don't have even the smallest idea. It could be because she didn't speak.
I gathered up my courage and spoke. No me preguntaron nada. Podria ser por eso. Y ni saben que yo hablo español. I checked to make sure I got it right. I had said They didn't ask me anything. It could be that. And they don't even know I speak Spanish.
They all stared at me. One girl laughed and said Is this supposed to be some sort of joke? I looked up. Tears in my eyes. I had expected nice people and even better times. Not this. This was a joke. It had to be. But how could I not belong anywhere?
I got up and walked away. Everyone looked surprised. I didn't look back and started my first day as a freak.
