We called them plastics, those girls who obsessed over makeup and popularity and hot guys. The term had been stolen from the movie, Mean Girls, but in our minds, it fitted perfectly, and so it was used. I remember laughing when they complained about feeling like they didn't fit in, and asking ourselves, 'why in the world would anyone ever want to do something like that?' Being normal was boring.
We were the type of friends who were loud and obnoxious and weird, purposely so, too, so that we could never be put into a single category. All of us grew up wanting to make sure we could never be stereotyped, and grew our own traits so nobody could mark us as average.
I was young, well, younger, at the time, and I had begun my struggle to find a place in the world. Still in the seventh grade, I was in algebra class, already finished with my work. My mind was spinning about, randomly going around and naming unique things about the people around me, something it always did on a normal basis, when my friend asked me what I was thinking about.
"People," I told her, "I'm thinking about people."
"What about people?"
"What separates them from one another."
"Alright, than what separates me from the crowd?"
I shrugged, "You're very energetic, and fun to be around. Plus you act crazy whenever you eat too much pudding."
She laughed at that, "Okay, so you have me down. So how about you?"
I rolled my eyes, "Well isn't it obvious, dear friend of mine, I have the world's best sense of humor."
She rolled her eyes, all in good humor, and went back to what she was doing.
For the next month I was wondering about her question. I had answered on impulse, not really meaning what I had said. Soon it began to bug me: how was I unique? What set me apart? I had always made sure to act as strange as possible, because it was fun and being normal would suck, but even then I was just another in a group of strange people.
I had always been a self-doubting person, so I was obviously able to name what made all of my friends unique, but couldn't do the same for myself. Within days that question began eating away at my brain, and I began to act different. I was becoming silent, and always in a bad mood.
I will never remember what was happening the day I found my answer, except the single event that gave me my conclusion. My friend came up to me in algebra once again and said to me, "Hey! Kennith! I answered that question better! You're different because you're twelve and you're a better mom than half of America!"
Somehow, she answered my question for me. I was always called the 'mom-friend.' After she said that, I began to carry around with me a sense of identity, a sense of being, because after twelve years of being alive, I finally knew who I was.
