dear frida (coming september 1st)

written in cerulean ink

paper tugged away in the back pocket of a pair of orange pom pom shorts

dear frida,

i'm so sorry i haven't written anything in ages.

my life has made this strange somersault and now the furniture is hanging from the ceiling.

school has become a living hell. everyone's tugging on my freaking clothes all day, so i can't concentrate for crap anymore. my grades have officially crashed to the point where i can't show them to laolao anymore and if i wasn't friendless already, i am now. no-one wants to lunch with me anymore, because i'm apparently idiot-magnetic now.

two weeks ago, i was sitting in the back of the school cafetaria trying not to catch anyone's attention when fattouma offered to sit with me. i said yes. (i feel so awful for that now. i know leander's right about how i couldn't've know what was going to happen, but it still makes my stomach churn. sometimes, when i'm laying in bed, i can still see my mouth going "yes", "yes", that stupid "yes", even though i knew i attracted bigots.)

"i like your skirt," she said. i wasn't wearing the jungle skirt, but something similar. "i think i might buy myself one like that too."

i didn't tell her it had fifteen different shoe prints on the back. i didn't tell her we probably wouldn't even be halfway our sandwiches before the asshats would land - that's what leander likes to call them. and maybe i do too now. oh, frida, i really don't like to curse but there are a thousand nasty things i want to call them right now and it's been two weeks.

i don't know why i didn't write about this earlier. i don't think i was capable of doing so.

i don't think i am now either, to be honest.

i'm already tearing up and we haven't even gotten to the bad part yet. and i'm sitting at the bus stop. admitted, i have no idea why i'm writing to you at the bus stop. i've never written to you in public. maybe i don't have any shits left to give. i don't know.

back to fattouma. so we were talking skirts and school and sandwiches but then this asshat hand landed on my shoulder and sarcastic snakes slithered down my ears, hissing about how nice my shoes looked. "go away," i mumbled, not looking up.

"can't we come sit with you girls?" snake boy smiled. i don't know what grade he was in, but he looked at least thirty. and a little like a truck driver. "it's not as if your table is that crowded," he added and the bearded guy behind him laughed. it sounded like gravel in a blender. "why don't you introduce your new friend?"

i didn't want to give them fattouma's name. i don't know why, but i just didn't. they didn't deserve it anyway. she threw it them herself and i was too late to grab it out of the air. they repeated it like it belonged on a takeaway menu, without the pleasant warmth with which fattouma did.

"you know," snake boy smiled and my stomach was full of stones, "it's such a pity you dress like that." he wound my scarf around his wrist until i untied it in fear of being strangled. "that's better," he laughed. gravel throat agreed. "now the skirt."

"i'm eating," i smacked and i tried to look a little like leander, a little like you. i bet you would've already threatened to hang them both with my wrap scarf.

"it's such a pity," he repeated, "you've got such a pretty little body." i coughed. i loathe myself for not uttering anything else. "no need to be prude." when he started tugging on my skirt fattouma cleared her throat in this no-nonsense businesswoman way that had me sighing in relief.

"i like the skirt," she said. "it's cool."

and that's when everything went so so very wrong.

oh my god, frida, i can't. maybe i shouldn't be writing you in public, i don't know. the bus is arriving anyway. i'll finish the story, i promise, just not right now.

i feel nauseous.

yours truly,

lei