Uncertainty

the hideout.

My friends and I never once thought about being popular, ever. Popularity wasn't something we dreamed about, because it just wasn't important. We all just thought, "hey, pink isn't our thing," so we just stayed as ourselves.

You're probably wondering what we all look like, and I'm going to tell you.

I have dim blonde hair, hazel eyes, and I'm way too skinny. It looks abnormal, I swear. I'm pretty tall for a girl, five foot eight inches. Maria is short, too short. She has long black hair, brown eyes, and doesn't look abnormal, as I do. Ainsley is about my height, shortish brown hair, and green eyes. Maxine is the only one who has blue eyes, and dark blonde hair. She's taller than all of us by about two inches. Yep, three of us are monsters and Maria is our prey.

As we sit here in our secret hideout, an old abandoned tree house that we found while roaming the woods, my friends are talking about old bands that don't even preform songs anymore.

Stupendous.

Sometimes I wonder why we always stay up in this tree house. Well, yeah, we want to be unnoticeable,  and this might be the best way. But sometimes I'd like to find somewhere else where we could just hang with other people like us. It'd be a whole lot more welcomed, I can tell you that.

"Sierra, tell them that Panic! At The Disco is way better than The Killers." says Ainsley, and I nod, just so she'll calm down and say something like:

"Two against two!" I laugh, because I knew she would say it.

Honestly, I love The Killers, but PATD is amazing too, so really I can't exactly pick. As they continue fighting, I look down, out of the tree house, and notice all the fall leaves. It's August twelfth, and we are out of school for another month, and I have to deal with these losers for a whole month.

Okay, maybe they aren't losers, but still.

I pull out my iPhone and plug my earphones into my ears. I turn on a stupid song I'd never even heard of, never mind remembered buying it.

For a while, I just imagine my only one dream. Becoming a writer. Writing is just, I don't know, it's different.

You sit down, in front of piece of paper, and that piece of paper is your's to write on. To write anything you want. You could write about a fairy stealing your tooth, and replacing it with money, and it would still be creative.

You could write about a big red dog's child hood years, and it'd still be creative. Really, anything you write about is creative, no matter what.

When I snap out of my fantasy, I notice that they are still fighting about it, and I don't know if I should butt in or not. It'd be the right thing to do, but I'd rather listen to music.

I look outside of the tree house once more, hoping just someone would burst into the woods looking for anyone to hang out with. Trust me, my friends are the best friend's you could ever have, but It'd be great to have someone enter our friendship.

I guess.

I hear leaves crunching, and my eyes shoot to the ground. Only a squirrel, great. I look back down at my hands in my lap, and then I feel a tap on the shoulder.

"Sierra, why do you keep looking outside of the tree house?" asks Maria in her left over Hispanic voice. I shrug, and she goes back to talking to them about Brandon Flowers or whatever.

About an hour later, we decide it's getting late, and we need to head home. We all live next to each other, so we can all use the same route home. As we start walking, I look up at the tree house, and I see how sad it looks. Maybe it had feelings, and us leaving made it either angry or upset.