Why She's Jealous

Chapter One: 2 Years Ahead

"My name is Noknee Bennet, I am 16 years old, I love to write poetry," I replied in a bored attitude. My AA class voiced a monotone of, it's nice to hear you again, Noknee Bennet, and then hushed themselves as if not to be called to speak next. But Cherriece is the next one up, that's just how it is. Our AA coach has a routine, always will, too. His name is Frank, and he never changes. Between his tie, the tux, his talk, even the way he ties his shoes. It's all layered, though. We're just another file to him. But I'm not complaining. "My name is Cherriece Vanderbill, I'm 17 years old, and I lurrve to roller blade, it's like my thing, ya know?" She popped her gum and twirled her black hair around her black painted finger nail. She's goth and believes in a religion she made up based on peoples looks. She wears huge black pumps and a skirt almost see through and so short you would think them as underwear... My motto is, shit happens, or at least, it has been since I met her. I live in a group home, a home you go to when your a little punk and nobady wants you... I used to take pride in that, the being a rebel part. But now I'm just an angry mess. I actually don't like to write poetry, I'm so passionate that when I do write my hand cramps up like a B. As everyone states there name, age, and their favorite something in life, I am underwhelmed with a sudden earge to cry. I push it back, but not before my friend Kieesha notices. It's her turn. I'm screwed. "Hello guys, my name is Kieeshaa Hennings, obviously, I'm 17 and I love talking and conversating with people." She says it the way we all know she has more to say. And she does just that, asking me what's wrong in front of the whole group. Mortified, I closed my eyes and plead silently, praying for her to understand that I already hate life and asking me to voice my pain in front of my AA class will make me hate it no less. Gosh, she doesn't listen and neither does God. I push back the thickness from my mouth, it doesn't work. My saliva disappears and my hands are trembling, but even so, I speak: "I'm afraid.." Steve, the boy who never talks, shouts out to his imaginary friend. And the croud erupts, cherriece starts crying. Marcos, the dislexic moron, starts shouting about how this is why he hates coming here.

The darkness outsides seems to seap towards my heart, and the man outside with the bright green eyes waits for me.