somewhere in the middle

I

I quite often think about how I am most likely a fictional person. The first time I came to this conclusion was when I sat at a lunch table in Fenway High School, where I was required to eat lunch at a very specific time--11:30 a.m. to 12:00 p.m.--apparently by the author of my book called Sam's Life: The Biography of A Mentally Ill 17-Year-Old. I hated the saying, "You are the author of your fate and your destiny," because if that was true, my book would have had a different end--or at least a different middle.

Hundreds of voices shouted over each other in the cafeteria, so the conversations became mere sounds. That's why I never talked much. You speak and it means something to you but, to the other person, it's just a sound. Speak no words, make no irrelevant sounds. Anyways, as I sat under plastic (or glass I can never tell) cylinders spewing artificial light at me, I thought about how we all truly believed that we could write our own life story, that we truly had a hold on our own lives. In actuality, we are all identical beings in a vast windowless room that smells vaguely of bleach and garlic. I looked at my tray. Globs of food are separated into tiny compartments. Spaghetti, mashed potatoes, corn, and a cookie. Got to love public high school.

"Sam."

"Samantha Green."

"Hmm?," I didn't notice Hazel was staring at me. She had been going on and on for the last 20 minutes about something that didn't concern me (to be fair I was being a philosopher), but now she wanted my full attention.

"Sam, did you hear a word I said?" I shook my head no, Hazel just sighed. Wes, Hazel's boyfriend, stared at me while he ate a PB & J.

"Anyways, there's a huge party tomorrow night, to celebrate graduation, and we're going. The only problem is trying to figure out how to get there."

I've always hated parties. They're cesspools for dumb ideas. I mean have you seen what goes on at parties? People get drugged, raped, murdered, beaten up, arrested, you name it. The monotone bell rang and I stood up and threw my Styrofoam tray into the garbage can. Public schools need to do something about that, offset the pollution output, you know? Hazel rode my tail to my locker, her boyfriend not far behind.

"I'm not going to a party Hazel, you know that. We've already graduated and celebrated it. I am going to pick up some Panda Express and watch Criminal Minds until I fall asleep." Hazel looked at me like I spoke in hieroglyphics or some shit.

"First of all, anyone who can watch Criminal Minds and then go to sleep is-"

"Babe, didn't you watch The Conjuring Sunday night then go to bed?" Hazel shot Wesley a look, causing him to put up his hands in surrender. I shut my locker door and started to walk towards the study hall in the library.

"Second of all, you're not having a pity party while the whole class celebrates graduation. That's some loser shit."

"Hazel. It is not a pity party if it's something you enjoy doing."

"Whatever Sam," Hazel rolled her eyes, "I'm gonna get you to change your mind!" Hazel shouted from halfway down the hallway. 

I'm not going to that party. I don't care if the planets align and that party is where they keep the fucking Fountain of Youth, I'm still not going. I sit down in the study hall and grab my phone. I start scrolling through Twitter when I get a text.

Hazel: the party's gonna be fun. you're coming whether you want to or not

Me: hazel i do not care about some stupid party where the entire senior class, except for me, is going to collectively decide to do something stupid

Hazel: stupid = fun, sometimes sammy. just come, you will regret it if you don't

Me: no.

Hazel: yes sam you're coming idfc if i have to have to kidnap you from your bed tomorrow night.

Me: i'm not going to a stupid fucking party

I shut my phone off and looked at the clock. Two more hours in this hell-hole then I'm free. I hate that whole "high school was the best years of my life," BS. If you genuinely believe that four years of involuntary torture is fun, please speak to my therapist. High school was the biggest shitshow I've ever paid tickets for. I wasn't bullied or anything like that (Hazel would've murdered whoever it was the second it happened), I just never "fit in" I guess. I hate that though, "fitting in." To fit in is to conform, and I don't want to conform to society's idea of what I should be. I just want to belong somewhere. Somewhere where people understand who I am and what I go through. You're probably like "That's literally what your shrink is for," but my therapist would just tell my parents because I'm a minor. The monotone bell beeped, signaling the end of study hall. I walked straight to DC college algebra and sat down. One more hour to go.

"Come on Sammy," Hazel complained about my refusal of the party entirety of algebra.

"I am not going to the party. I want to watch Matthew Gray Gubler and Thomas Gibson profile criminals for 40 minute long periods and eat orange chicken." I said, turning to Hazel.

"Fine. Anyways, have you heard from UC Berkeley?" Hazel looked at me, sipping some of the iced coffee we just bought.

"No. Not yet. I'm not too worried about it 'cause I did apply late--which was totally on accident by the way. I just hope it wasn't too late, you know?"

Hazel nodded and looked at me, "I'm sure you'll get accepted, Sammy. You've been making A's since you came out of the womb." I looked at her, trying not to laugh which always fails.

I walked into my apartment and headed straight for the stack of mail.

"What're you looking for, Sam?" My mom turned to ask as I picked up the mail stack.

I went through the stack of mail: utilities, phone bill, Boston University, ULTA gift card, UCLA, NYU, Penn State, Bath & Body Works Coupon, University of Washington, and UC Berkeley.

"Bingo!" I grabbed the UC Berkeley packet and ripped it open. I started to read.

"Dear Samantha, Congratulations! I am delighted to offer you admission to the University of California, Berkeley for fall 2019! You have been admitted to the College of Social Justice and Public Interest."

"Oh my God. Oh my God." I smiled, putting my hand over my mouth. My mom stopped stirring the marinara sauce on the stove and looked at me.

"What is it, Sam?"

"I got in, Mom. I did it." I smiled and looked at my mom, a look of confusion spread across her face.

"Sam, It was obvious you were going to get into Boston U." She chuckled and returned to her pot of marinara sauce.

"No, not Boston U, Mom. UC Berkeley."