Habit

Chapter 3

Just a few minutes before her first class would start, Camila found herself at her locker looking at herself in the mirror. She examined her own features and wondered if she was as much of an open book as many of her peers. Even after she re-touched her heavy make-up, the thought lingered as she made way to English.

English was her favorite subject and class for different particular reasons. One being that Lauren was in it, and the other was that she strangely found comfort in that class because although she couldn't call herself a favorite, her teacher didn't look at her in the same condescending way that everyone else she knew would.

Camila sat at her usual seat in the far end corner, one because it was closest to the door, and because she could continue her usual evaluation as to who was who. Camila loved reading people, and was often pretty good at it. The only person she couldn't entirely figure out was Lauren, and that was one of the reasons why she was so drawn to her. It gave her the idea that underneath her superficial persona, she was different.

As soon as she sat down, her earlier thought came back to mind. She thought about the saying that talks about how people don't normally go looking for scars, unless they themselves have them. She wondered if she always took note of the pain evident in people's eyes because she herself felt so much of it. She pitied the people who, like her, pretended to be people that they clearly weren't.

She shook the idea out of her head when Lauren walked in, and she instantly felt flutters in the pit of her stomach. She looked away to avoid the girl's usual eye roll and scoff. She never quite understood why the girl hated her so much, but I guess it all had to do with how intact Lauren was with her values and morals, even if Lauren did forget about them when she'd verbally abuse her.

Soon enough, Miss Lovato walked in and her smile glowed as she took in the presence of everyone in the room. There was something about Miss Lovato that made you feel safe-understood. Camila never really had a particular relationship with the teacher, but she knew that the connection was still there, with the feedback she'd give her from her writing to the way she'd send her comforting smiles that almost said, ''you'll be okay.'' The class went through its usual routine with everyone having free writing that most of the students used as some sort of diary but not Camila, she wrote poetry. She never liked to tell someone exactly what she was feeling. She was a bigger believer in the idea that less was more-vagueness.

Camila's POV :

After, Miss Lovato would read an excerpt of her current favorite book and then she'd explain how it could relate to everyone in the room, and lastly, she'd collect the homework that everyone had over the weekend. She wasn't one of those teachers that made Mondays suck, she gave everyone a sort of misleading hope that Mondays were okay-then second period would drag in and Mondays would suck again.
Today she read an excerpt from a book she said was called Shatter me, by Tahereh Mafi. She never took the time to ask us if we read the book, nor would she explain what the book was about because she wanted us to reflect on what'd she'd read to us without putting the actual plot of a book in our heads already. I watched intently as she read, because I loved every written work better when she'd read them, they moved me. The excerpt read,
"You think that because I am unwanted, because I am neglected and-and discarded-"
My voice inches higher with every word, the unrestrained emotions suddenly screaming through my lungs. "You think I don't have a heart? You think I don't feel? You think that because i can inflict pain, that i should? You're just like everyone else. You think I'm a monster just like everyone else. You don't understand me at all."

I didn't know what the book was about, and I almost didn't want to know because as the words spilled, my breath caught in my throat and I looked around, and some people reacted the same way while others sat unfazed. As Miss Lovato's voice gripped onto each word, I closed my eyes and saw myself. I saw myself hearing what everyone would snicker about me. I saw myself smiling and pretending that their words would go unheard, and although they thought they were being discreet enough, they never were.

I saw myself sitting alone in a janitor's closet, waiting for that day's boy to exit. I saw my pain, and for the first time, words existed that somewhat spoke what I wanted to yell at everyone who would look at me in the ways that they would. I so badly wanted to tell them that this wasn't me, that they didn't know the real me, but isn't that what everyone tries to convince everyone of? That who they appear to be, is hardly ever who they are? It was a waste of time. Everyone was a waste of time. Everyone but one-or two in Miss Lovato's case.

As she finished, Camila didn't fail to see the mili-second that Miss Lovato's eyes flicked in her direction, but before she could react, the bell rang. Everyone gathered their things, but Camila found herself glued to her chair. She swallowed the knot that was building in her throat, and slowly stood up. Just before she walked out, Miss Lovato spoke up. "It's going to get tiring, you know?'' ''W-What?'' "Pretending to be someone you're not. It's going to get tiring. If it hasn't already.'' Camila shifted her gaze down to her feet and she slowly nodded before looking back up at her teacher, and she didn't have to say it, Miss Lovato knew just how thankful Camila was that someone could see past the fake smile. Miss Lovato's features softened because although she was bold enough to tell the younger girl that, she always hoped she was wrong. Even if being right, is obviously better in this case. "It does get tiring, but sometimes it's easier. And I do have a habit of choosing the easier way out. I'm sorry,'' Camila said just before walking out. She wasn't entirely sure who she was sorry to, herself or everyone who had to be a part of the Camila Horror Story. She wondered if her life would best fit in a drama section, or perhaps a horror one? Her question could easily be answered; everyone around her would relentlessly categorize her life in the comedy section.

She was a joke.