CHAPTER 1
"Never measure yourself up to the world around you. Set your own standards and live by those, you'll never feel out of place in a place where everyone is out of place." -Lights
I’ve never really been “normal.”
Well, I think nobody has ever been considered truly “normal," if you get my drift. At one point in our life or another, we’ve been irregular. Unusual. Unorthodox. Unconventional. Abnormal. Unique, as a nice person would put it. I can think of a whole list off the top of my head.
In my world, there are two types of irregulars. There are the “typicals.” They’re the kinds of people that are only slightly unusual—they're the ones with the crooked teeth and braces; or maybe they have unsightly, frizzy red hair that’s always spiraling out of control; maybe they’re a nerd that over-indulges in reading and is constantly picked on by others.
Honestly, those kids have it easy compared to what kind of shit I have to go through.
Then there are the “abnormalities.” They can’t conform to the size of the room, because the room is too small for them—just like they can’t conform to society’s expectations, and, hey, most of the time it's not their fault. It really isn’t. They’re the ones that have dyslexia. They’re the ones who are forced to live with their senile grandparents because their parents are too childish to suck it up and be parents for them. They have a severe heart condition that could potentially kill them in a matter of months.
Like me.
“Gran, I’m leaving.”
“All right, Mikey,” my grandmother said with her slight accent. I could hear the clicking of her knitting needles even when standing from the kitchen two rooms away and with one earphone loosely protruding from my earlobe.
My name is Micah, I corrected her, silently despising my pet name. I sighed heavily, and immediately regretted it; my chest resonated with a dull, throbbing pain as my lungs expanded and withdrew. If air, the most substantial thing for everyone’s survival, is going to kill me, then what’s the point of trying? I thought sourly, tightening my grip on my backpack strap.
“See you after school." I paused. "Actually, wait. On second thought, I don’t need you to pick me up today. I have art club.”
I could sense Gran’s concern as she hesitated—yes, I could definitely hear that her needles had stopped their incessant clacking and clicking. “Why not?” she questioned.
Old people and their hearing issues. Honestly.
“I have art club, remember?” I repeated. She either still wasn't convinced or she hadn't heard me again, and her tone was sharper as she clicked her tongue and continued, "Tsk. Mica Lee, don't even think you're going to walk home. I simply won't have it." Her voice dropped an octave as she added gently, "Bad things happen to good people."
I held up my hands in denial. “I wasn’t, I wasn’t!” I protested. "Dillon’s mom is going to drop me off afterwards. I swear.”
“Hm…”
“Gran, please!” I said exasperatedly. “I’m going to be late."
“Fine, fine. Hurry or you’ll be late!” She obviously didn’t hear me—again.
Here’s another strange quirk about me: I’ve never been late. Even if I miss the bus, even if there’s traffic on the freeway, even if there’s a major car accident, I’ve never been tardy to school. Sure, there have been a few near misses, but there hasn’t been a spot on my attendance record (unless I’m pulled out of class for a doctor’s appointment). I guess I’m just insanely lucky like that.
