Irondad, Spiderson, And A Little Kid. (Discontinued)

Chapter fourty-two - to this day

Brandy's POV:
I walk into school, and knew something was up.

I sat down at the back of the class, and looked around, worried.

The social studies teacher, Mr. Damayo, wrote something on the board.

'Write or tell something in front of students, teachers and adults.'

I tense as I read it, and think about everyone staring at me. Everyone laughing at me. Everyone hating me.

I swallow hard, and look up at the teacher. He is staring at me, his face masked in worry and concern.

I quickly pick up a book and cover my face. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see Wade. He looks concerned as well.

"You alright, cat?" His hood is up. Covering his face. He thought he was ugly. But not to seem weird, but I think he's perfect.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just... have an idea for what I'm going to say for the thing. I'm just, scared to do it." I rub the back of my neck nervously.

"Whatsit about?"

I tense and stare forward.

"It's supposed to be the story of me and Buck, but reworded in a different way." I say quietly.

He nods, and smiles.

"Then I bet it's gonna be awesome!"

I smile, and shrug.

"I dunno."

<Time Skip to the event that I don't know what to name>

I step onto the stage. In front of everyone. Including my family. I was shaking from head to toe.

I take in a shakey breathe, and let it out even shakier.

"Hello. I am Brandy Parker. I will be sharing my poem I wrote. About, a certain event that I will not name. I-I spent a very l-l-long time making it s-so please don't judge."

I inhale once again. Exhale.

"I'm not the only kid who grew up this way. Surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme, about sticks and stones. As if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called. And we got called them all. So we grew up believing that no one would ever fall in love with us."

I pause and pick up the microphone from it's stand.

"That we'd be lonely, forever. That we'd never meet someone, to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their toolshed. So broken heart strings bled the blues, as we tried to empty ourselves so we could feel nothing."

I move around the stage as I speak making motions with my hands.

"Don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone. That an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away. That there was no way for it to metastasize. It does."

I look up at Bucky and the others. Some have tears in their eyes, while others have already fell down their cheeks. They're staring dead at me.

"She was eight years old. Our first day of grade three, when she got called ugly. We both got moved to the back of the class, so we could stop being bombarded by spit balls. But the school halls were a battleground, where we found ourselves outnumbered day, after wretched day. We used to stay inside for recess, because outside was worse. Outside we'd have to rehearse running away. Or learn to stay still like statue's, giving no clue that we were there."

I look down at the floor. Feeling tears well up in my eyes.

"In grade five, they taped a sign to her desk that read beware of dog."