For the Love of Claire

Chapter 1

         Sometimes, I feel utterly alone in this world. Sometimes, I sit in my room in complete silence and hear that ringing sound in my ears that drives me crazy. Sometimes, I feel bad for myself, and then feel stupid because I know I shouldn’t. I don’t have it all that bad. I’d like to tell my friends my problems, but there’s two things wrong there: I don’t have a friend who would understand, and even if they could possibly understand, I wouldn’t know where to begin. That would create holes in my stories, and holes only cause confusion.

        Don’t get me wrong, I’m generally a happy person. I have a decent amount of friends, I laugh, I go to the mall, and wear pink. I feel like I have two personalities sometimes. One day, I’ll spend hours with Camille and feel normal. We’ll talk about school and boys and friends and try on prom dresses in our favorite stores. Other days, though, all I could ask for is time for myself. When I’m by myself, I think about everything. Everything that’s wrong and the few things that are right. That’s how I’ve gotten to know myself. That’s how I’ve become my own best friend.

        I guess that makes sense. Who else could know you better than you? Who else could truly feel all the happiness or pain you’re in other than yourself? I know my every thought, and I still have some self-respect. So, I’m compatible with myself, and that’s more than some can say. I like having my friends, and I’d probably die without them, but I’d feel terrible for anyone who ever had to know what goes on inside my head. 

        I have insecurities. To start with, my weight sometimes bothers me. I know I’m not fat. I’m not skinny, but I’m not fat. I hate it when girls have an inch of fat on their stomachs and they start obsessing over losing it. It’s those girls who make statuses on the internet about how everyone is beautiful. They’re also the ones who make me feel like I’m not. Because, really, if everyone is beautiful, why do they have to try so hard to look better than everybody else all the time? I weigh about 160 pounds and I’m 5’10”. I know, tall for a girl. I have curly red hair that I leave curly all the time. Even though I know every other girl fries theirs straight. I mean, I’d be comfortable with who I am if personality determined your looks. I’m not mean to anyone who’s not mean to me, or anyone who’s not extremely obnoxious and annoying. Being nice can be a downfall though. I have lots of those.

        For the past two years, I’ve been sort of angry with myself. I’m only sixteen and I’ve been falling in love. I’m the smart, sensible girl, who makes the right choices and knows the difference between true love and a crush. I’m the girl who laughs at couples who confess their love for each other within the first week of getting together. That was until I became a different girl. I became a girl who actually fell in love. The only difference between me and the other girls my age is that I never got the boy. Not one of them. Not one boy has been mine and I’ve been nobody’s girl. And that’s where my anger started. And my desperation.

        You could say I changed the year I met Sam. It was two years ago at auditions for a musical. He didn’t go to school with me; this was at a community theater that I’d belonged to for a while. We only met because we both ended up singing the same song at the audition, me right after him. We both chose “Dancing Through Life” from Wicked, which was the show we were auditioning for. I would have sung one of Elphaba’s solos, but I didn’t want to look (or sound) too desperate for the role. It felt so weird singing someone else’s song. And the worst part was that he sang it better. So, after I finally made it off the stage, I tried my best to avoid him. He was attractive, with his dirty blond hair and grayish eyes and cute upturned nose, but I couldn’t possibly face him after accidentally stealing his song. But Sam didn’t ignore me. He followed me out of the auditorium and tapped my arm once we made it out to the lobby. “Hey. I’m Sam.”