Strange

7

I don't like Andrea. There, I said it. She's nasty and rude, my father adores her more than me and she's never had to go through anything horrible. It's like everything is perfect for her.
However, as I'm driving Andrea to dance I can't help but notice her furrowed eyebrows, and how her forehead is pressed against the cold window of the passenger side door. I can't help but notice the contemplating look in her eyes as she watches the houses and trees that we drive by.  I can't come up with words but I know Melisa has torn down her self esteem. I've always watched their interactions from a distance, like an outsider looking in. I keep my distance, trying not to infringe on their picture perfect family. I try to keep in mind that despite the fact that we live in the same house, breath the same air, we are on different planets. I don't belong on the polished hardwood floors, closed in by walls decorated with family photos. I don't belong near marble counters and fresh layers of paint. Its like the game "which one of these things is not the same," but with me in every  picture.
Andrea grew up with it. She was born into the life of cosmetics and gossip, relayed by house wifes with curly hair and fake nails that suck the life out of men who have more than a few dollars in their wallets. She was born into the sparkling wealth that her mom has built around her with lawsuits  and affairs, and of course Andrea has picked up more than a few of the behaviors she's seen.
It's a mountain of lies, but back home all that truth ever got us was a pack of cigarettes and the stale smell of old whiskey, sometimes not even that.

I'm relieved when she finally gets out of the car for dance. She doesn't say a word, simply slams the car door. I wait for a moment, watching her strut into the building. No matter what, Andrea refuses to let people see her with her guard down. She plasters on fake confidence, and even though I hate her I can at least respect that.

I shift my car into drive and pull out of the parking lot. Glancing at my gas gage, I make a mental note to stop and fill my tank.

Sometimes when I drive I zone out more than I should. I only got my license at the beginning of the year, when my father realized how long I had been driving illegally. He has more cars than he needs so that's at least a plus of some sort. I'm used to driving old Hondas, beat up fords with rusty gears and torn seats. Worn out suburus that were on their last miles. Whatever was cheap enough to buy but not fucked up enough to scrap yet.

Driving something new feels uncomfortable. Just another check to the list of things I don't belong with.

I pull into Seven Eleven and slip out of my car, stepping into a puddle and rolling my eyes as I feel the cold water seep through my sneakers to touch my feet, soaking my socks.

I jam my debit card into the machine at the gas pump. Insufficient funds.
"Bullshit", I mutter. After several more tries I decide to go inside to pay. This particular seven eleven is a bit of a dump. Homeless men and women sit outside and ask for cigarettes, dirt smeared across their faces. I keep my head down.

Inside, I wander to the back of the small store and fill a double big gulp with diet Dr Pepper before going up to the front desk.

"Alice? Alice is that you?" A voice behind the counter remarks enthusiastically. I glance up, surprised to see the ruffled brown haired boy from first period. Mr no name, irresponsible pencil boy.

"It is! How you doing?" He asks excitedly, cocking an eyebrow. He's in a sweatshirt, his hair is still messy but brushed off to the side.

"I'm fine." I say quietly. "Can I uh..."

"You need gas?" He inturupts. I nod, pointing to my car outside. I slide him a 20 and make a beline for the door despite his attempt at conversation. I don't look back but I can feel his eyes watching me as I leave.