Megan
Okay, so I didn't tell them the truth. In my defense, I've been a coward for seventeen years and that wasn't just going to change overnight.
I know I'm not obligated, but I still want to be completely honest with them. There's a likely chance they'll get hurt, or upset, but if there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that a person's mind/emotion is almost impossible to sway.
Last Saturday, before Jazz could even finish composing her message, I told her that I changed my mind. I'll tell them next weekend. I'm not sure why I suddenly got cold feet. Maybe I'm a hypocrite. I'm supposed to come out of my shell, otherwise this city will eat me alive, but I'm not going to easily transform into a confident girl just because I managed to confess my true identity to one person.
Next week. I'll tell them next week. I'm NOT going to chicken out.
It is Monday afternoon. I still have on subject before I can go home aka the dorm.
Before dismissing our class, our male professor announces, "There will be a 50-item quiz tomorrow. Read chapters 5, 6, and 7." Everyone groans in unison.
At the mention of quiz, I nervously reach into the left pocket of my pink jacket. But to my shock and horror, my hand slides through a hole. My heart is beating fast with panic as I fumble my hand over my pink jacket, but come up with nothing.
No no no no no no no! This cannot be happening. It's gone! My four-leaf clover key-chain! It's missing! Fear floods my veins. This can't be real. I had it in my jacket this morning! ..Didn't I?
"Shit.. oh, shit," I curse, quickly gathering my books and shoving them in my pink backpack.
"What's wrong?" Mark asks, hoisting one handle of his black bag over his shoulder.
"My key-chain is missing," I say, crouching down to search under the table and my chair.
Mark's voice follows me as I roam the whole classroom, ducking beneath every chair and table in wild hunt for the small item. He calls out, "What's the big deal? It's just a key-chain. You can buy a new one."
Something inside me snaps like a thread, or a frail branch.
Gritting my teeth, I stomp toward the guy with blue eyes, long black hair, and sky blue jacket.
Fuming, I grab fistfuls of his black shirt that says STIGMA in white on the front, boring my brown eyes (still wearing contacts) into his.
My voice is low and uncharacteristically dangerous when I hiss, "To me, it IS a big deal, it will NEVER be JUST a key-chain, and it's insensitive of you to suggest that I buy a new one."
"Damn. Okay, okay. I'm sorry." Mark steps back after I release his shirt.
I shut my eyes and press my palms together, bringing them to my lips as I steady my breathing pattern to calm myself down. "Have you ever had something precious to you?" I ask serenely, opening my brown eyes, gazing into his blue ones.
Mark makes himself comfortable on a desk. He folds his arms in front of his chest and meets my gaze. "Define 'precious.'"
"Something you own that's priceless. Or someone.. irreplaceable.. An item that feels like a part of you because it's too important to part from. Something you can't bear to lose. You feel safer when you have it.. saner, like it gives you a semblance of normalcy. And when it's not with you or around you.. you feel lost.. scared.. vulnerable."
I glance at him, surprised to see that he's playing with the hem of his sky blue jacket.
"This is a gift from my younger sister," Mark says quietly, smoothing down the cotton fabric, then looks up, locking eyes with me. "She gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. It's the only thing I have left of her. She died of cancer when she was fifteen."
