Two Minutes

One

A few minutes can make a huge difference. And I know what I'm talking about when I say this.

My whole life has revolved around those two minutes.

Two minutes can be important in any situation, not just mine. For example, in a long race, or exam. Two minutes could be the difference between winning and losing, passing and failing. Two minutes could be where someone has to make a massive decision, and after that, there is no turning back. Two minutes could be the last two minutes of a show, or a book, or someone's life.

And when they're gone, you regret taking the thing that's over for granted.

So two minutes always held me back. I was always told about those two minutes whenever I almost did something first or got the most precious thing.

Now the two minutes I'm waiting for to end now is until the bell will ring, and I can start my day. One I'm still unfamiliar with after weeks.

I never, ever thought I would move schools. I always thought, whenever someone new came, or someone left our school, 'Must be hard for them.' It never once crossed my mind that I would, one day, leave.

Bartworth High School wasn't just a few years you passed through. You became a part of it after a few weeks, or days even. We were all together. People you passed in the hall way weren't just people. They were friends, people you knew and liked, more often than not. Nobody had a status. Nobody was on the outside, looking into some picture that they wished they could be a part of.

Bartworth High was a place where freshmen weren't scared, and older kids weren't arrogant and stuck-up. My life was always so easy, not having to worry about What To Wear Today or How Will I Be Judged.

That was before Jackson High School entered my life.

That was before my sister's love of dancing really got too much.

That was before I was judged, looked down on, leered at, laughed at, pointed at, sighed to, walked ahead of, and all those other things that have become part of my everyday life.

The 'I'm two minutes older,' thing stopped when we were about ten. My sister began to see she was immature for repeating it time and time again, and let me be the first to go, or hold, or choose, or whatever it was, first. But little did she know that she had scarred my memory for life. My parents had always tried to be fair, treating us equal. But I could see behind all the smiles and hugs and beautiful comments that Danielle was my mother's favourite. My dad, however, always had time for me. If I didn't want to go for a makeover with mum and Danielle, we would go and watch some awesome film at the cinema. If I hated dancing, he would take me to karate class.

Over the years, my sister and I, as well as my parents, discovered that being twins didn't mean you were the same. Sure, we looked identical. We both loved some of the same things like music and bike riding and walking on the beach and swimming. We always stayed together, even if it meant looking totally different but exactly the same all the time - me in my t-shirt and faded denim shorts, her in a girly skirt and flowered top. I loved my sister, even though I quit dancing when I was nine because she was better and I had no interest. Even though my mum liked to go shopping with her more than me. Even though I went to karate and played football and most of my friends were loud, hilarious boys, and hers were all pretty, perfectly pristine girls.

So when we moved schools, it was quite a shock when she started to not wait up for me at the end of lessons. I hung around with her and her new friend, Kelsey, (after I discovered the school was mainly populated by weirdoes) but they just started to walk ahead, in deep conversation, and then people would jostle me in the hallways, hurrying around, and I would lose them.