Alive | Nick Robinson

Neoteric

new or modern; recent.

I've never been good at being being alive.

Let me rephrase that: I've never been good at having a life. It's always been school and whatever activity I wanted to do that month. Painting, photography, dance, cello, karate, writing, gymnastics. Every hobby that existed I had started doing them all since the moment I could walk.

I've always been obsessed with finding my one thing, the one thing that was meant for me to pursue and do in my life. Yet everything i had tried had felt wrong and misshapen. There wasn't anything I felt drawn too or that I was good at so after at least a month of trying out these, anything, I would then give up soon to be found with a new interest and something i was destined to be incredible at. I had never found it.

My parents always supported my endeavours, possibly because they were hoping I would finally find that one thing and stick to it. But it never happened. I had given up a long time on finding what I could give to the world and think they have too.

I'm okay with change. I had been changing what I loved since I could love things. I changed my hair too many times to count. At the moment It was chopped unevenly and the ends had faded blonde on them. Tomorrow I could shave it all off and feel nothing.

I'm okay with change. I'm okay that I'm standing in Vermont and standing in front of a Rhodes Oak High School. I'm okay I'm just nervous, that I'm more of a feeling; the one you get when you're on a tire swing for far too long and the world turns into sick dizziness.

It's too cold out. I can feel my nose turning pink and I tug on the frayed jean jacket I've had since I was fourteen. My mom had got it for me my freshmen year back when we lived in Oregon.

I take a deep breathe and will my feet to move forward, the tire swing feeling doesn't subside as I start to immerse myself around people. I feel like I do not belong. How many people here have found each other and themselves? I just have a jean jacket.

I shuffle to the front office, my boots dragging on the disgusting green carpet that reminds me of kale colored vomit.

The lady behind the desk is pale as soymilk. She has a glitter pink pen stuffed into her dark bun and her nude lipstick is ever so slightly skewed from her mouth landing on a mole the size of a chocolate chip.

"Hey there sweetie," She has a southern accent. I guess that she's from Alabama. "What can I help you with?"

"Um, I just need my class schedule," I say. I fiddle with the frayed strings on my jacket.

"Well, sure thang," She types something and I hear a printer making whirring noises. She stands and vanishes towards the back for a moment but returns seconds later with a warm piece of paper.

"Thank you," I say, grabbing it and quickly running out into the hallways that are trodden with people. I stare so intently down on my classes that I smack into somebody, a folder from their hand slipping and spilling papers.

I rush to the ground to gather the papers feeling embarrassed and lost. They're mostly sketches but they're good, better than I ever could do.

"I am so sorry," I finally look at who I bumped into and see that it's a girl with reddish brown hair, falling around her round face in waves.

"It's totally fine," She manages to get the rest of the drawings back in the folder and I hand her the ones I gathered. "Thanks." She smiles and stands, readjusting her backpack strap and books she's carrying. "I'm Fay!" She holds a free hand out and I shake it.

"Kaia," I say.

"Kaia, nice to meet you," She beams. "You new?"

"Yeah, I'm sure that's pretty obvious."