Get Used To It

Chapter Eleven: Fill in the Blanks

The week after camp was hectic. The board has suggested that each student sign up for at least two clubs provided by the school and volunteers.

If someone were to fail at finding a club of their choice, they would be in one that the school board chooses.

Of course, the administrators messed up our entire schedule. Now, we have a half an hour at the end of the day for one of our clubs.

In this case, I just had to stay put in Mr. West's sixth period and wait for all the others to show up for Creative Writing.

Oh, guess who else stayed behind?

Jake!

We hang out a lot more since we got back from camp. Even when it's small gatherings at someone's house, they mean a lot to me.

Normally, Emma is more than willing to hang out with us, but sometimes she won't show up. When we are expecting her, a simple, "sorry, I can't make it" text message would be appropriate.

I still haven't had the attitude talk with her. I keep blowing it off every time I think it's the perfect timing. I'm just terrified of what the outcomes might be.

Emma and I have been friends for a very long time, but high school changes people. Unfortunately, for me, Emma took that seriously and became an entirely different person.

Honestly, I know I get pretty salty with her sometimes. But I have never been bad enough to cause her to snap at me again. Even though, I didn't do anything wrong when she snapped at me back at camp. 

We all made plans to go out on Friday after practice. I was crossing my fingers that Emma's little phase was just that—a phase and I wouldn't have to talk to her about anything at all.

It's too soon to tell.

On this great Thursday, Jake and I are excited to work in class. I finished my rough draft drawing of the book cover and Jake finished typing up the summary.

Although, for club time, I was less than excited. Mr. West had everyone write an entry that introduced ourselves to our peers. We are going to read them out loud in class tomorrow.

I noticed that the majority of the class spent the first ten minutes completing their writing so that they could blabber on for the rest of the school day.

I'm over here, practically stress sweating, over how great I need to write this entry.

What am I supposed to freaking say when I don't do anything?

"Hello, my name is Sophie Young. I play soccer and work with angry customers who don't know how to tip properly."

Ha! No.

That's the problem with me: I tend to make situations even harder than they need to be. I drag out what could be a twenty-minute paragraph into hours and hours.

I need help, like, special help. Is that a form of anxiety or do I just need to get over myself?

Probably the latter of the two.

"Are you alright over there, Soph?"

"What?" I stare up at a quizzical Jake Savage. "Oh, no. I mean yeah. I—" I squeeze my hands together, pulling at my hair. "What was the question again?"

Jake chuckles, "Why don't you take a break? Your stress is stressing me out."

I drop my pencil onto my desk. "I'm sorry, I just can't concentrate."

"Penny for your thoughts?" 

A smile spreads across my distress. "I don't even know. Everything is just bouncing around in here." I point at my head.