Average

Chapter 1

The kind of love we think we deserve is the kind with faithful partners and hugs and kisses and good morning/good night texts and tweets just to show how much you love each other or maybe it's a bet on how many people will either think of how single they are or how sick they'll get if they read one more of your love-confession-posts. We think we have a person somewhere out in the world who was made just for us. We think partners will remain faithful and won't run off to the hot guy at the bar or the school slut. We tell ourselves all these things- and we believe it. We believe it so much that we're surprised at how heartbroken we are, how many tears are spilling from our eyes, how many times "I love you" was really just "I tolerate you." It's sad, really, how a loved one can go from best friends to strangers in 0.1 seconds.
I've experienced this so many times. The people I once knew- or at least thought I knew- turned into complete strangers: losing themselves in other love, or maybe it's drugs, or maybe it's the fact that they've found who they really are and I'm still trying the figure out my favorite color.
Popular girls- you know the kind who actually get Valentines from boys, not their best friends, and have all the latest fashion accessories but choose to wear sweats and slides to school and still look like $100? Yea those girls. They are the kind of girls guys want- pegging them as first on the hit-list guys have signed into the back of their brain.
Girls on the other hand are no better- being totally bitchy is our first act of self-defense. We're catty, we say bitchy things about other people behind their backs-but who doesn't?- and worst of all, we are weaker and more unprotected than men. We can't go anywhere without worrying about what other people think about us- our hair, makeup, nails, outfit in general- or if anyone is going to try to mug, rape, or kid nap us and do all of the above. The fear girls live through is greater than worrying about weather or not Kobe is going to make a half-decent shot, or if Calvin is getting drafted. It's bigger than the Super Bowl and more hectic than March Madness.
We worry about "Does he like me or her?" "Do you think he'd like this outfit?" "Maybe I should change?" But all with a straight face. Until we break down in tears, out legs deemed unable to support our weight, our hands rushing to our face to cover the redness and running makeup, our heart beating 500 miles a minute.
But only when we find the partner who makes us feel weightless, who makes our hearts skip a beat, who makes our stomaches feel filled-to-the-brim with butterflies, only then do we feel acceptable to society. We need that person to be there when we break, to stitch us back together, we want them and expect us to make us feel like the most important person on Earth.
We pretend we don't need this, or that we have never thought that we do, or pretend that we have a heart of ice that could never be melted, but that's about as real as Santa Clause.
I wish I could say that my morning started off with me waking up to a cute good morning text, followed by a stress-free morning and perfect hair.

But no. I woke up to the sound of my phone alarm blaring in my ear, rolling out of bed, and bruising my ass on a tangle of hangers that I had carelessly thrown on the floor next to my bed. I'm not sure why. Trudging to the bathroom, I bump into the wall 4 times while checking the texts my best friend Casey. Basically her ranting about her ex-boyfriend in California. He was always either smoking weed, Hookah, or bouncing from one girl to the next.
Guys like him make me sick. They think the love of weed and man-whoring-around is a good quality trait. Ehhh WRONG. No needs weed or chemicals to be happy- and if they do then they clearly have never been to Disney World.
I free myself of the stiff T-shit and cut off yoga pants I had fallen asleep in and stepped into the shower, letting the hot rain cascade me in warmth.
After I step out of the shower, I dry myself with a towel from the closet. While drying myself off, my older sister, Megan, barges in blasting 'Groove' by Jack and Jack.
Give me a break.
"Hey, have you seen my aux cord?" She asks, staring deeply into her pink iPhone 5c.
Oh shit.
I hid it because when ever she has it, she blasts her music in her iPhone stereo.
"Umm.. no I haven't. Check down stairs maybe?"
Megan stares at me with intense deep brown eyes.
And then I remembered.
Holy fuck I'm standing here in nothing but a cold, wet towel.
"WHAT IS THIS? AN INTEGRATION?! STOP GRILLING ME OHMYGOSHGOODBYE," I say quickly and bolt down the hall into my bedroom.
I threw on my undergarments, a pair of dark wash, high waisted tight jeans, a light teal varsity jacket, mint vans, a light gray silk scarf, an wrist of teal bangles and a matching purse.
Although I absolutely hated school, I often found myself "dressing up" for it.
Casey texted me again. I checked my phone and saw that it wasn't Casey, but Peter, a popular at our school that I became friends with over the years.
Peter- hey Rachel. I'm having a party on the 31st to kinda celebrate the New Year. If you can come, that would be great!
Omfg. I'm going to a party! We went on break the day before Christmas Eve and got off on the 3rd so I only had to wait for a little while.
7:25
Oh shit!
"MOOOMMMMMMM. CAN YOU MAKE ME A SANDWHICH?!!" I shouted, unaware my younger sister, Sarah, was still asleep.
"SHHHH. Peanut butter and jelly?" My mom called back. I ran to the stairs an nodded, then trudged to the bathroom and applied my makeup.
After 2 light layers of foundation, a few strokes of Falsies Mascara, and a thin line of eye liner, I finished my makeup and blow dried my hair.
I was the lightest of my family- lighter tan skin, lighter brown/ blonde hair, eyes that could never decide what color they wanted to be- my little sister says she actually likes my eyes, which gives me a little pride in my appearance.
My sisters and mother and father all had darker tan skin, deep brown eyes, and dark brown hair.
Sarah's was a curly jungle, Megan's was either straight or tangled, mine was straight and always curled at the ends no matter how many times it was straightened.
My mom said I get my looks from her father, but sometimes Megan says I was adopted or switched at birth- but neither are true because we have videos of our births (disgusting, I know) and I didn't leave my mothers side afterwards.
I scrambled down the carpeted stairs and grabbed my lunch and an apple and kissed my mother's cheek before grabbing my back pack and running out the front door.
I trot to the bus stop and just as I reach it, the bus does the same.
Some 7th and 8th graders shove in front of me and I just roll my eyes. I shuffle onto the bus along with some other 9th graders and check my phone.
Casey waves me over to her seat in the back. I make my way over until a 7th grader tries to trip me. I jab my elbow at them and he cried out as it makes contact with his arm. Joey, the 9th grader behind me, chuckles and I move forward until I plop down next to Casey.