PICK ME?

Sep 2

"I might be fat, but that could be changed you know? But you, you're ugly; and that'll stay forever."

I'm pretty sure you could swap "fat" with any other pejorative word, as I don't quite remember what I told that kid back then. But apparently, he didn't like it and just decided to say something he genuinely thought about me.

I find it strange that I'm now smiling, looking at those words.

How is it possible that I still remember the moment so vividly?

From the expression on his face to mine- his was almost pride, happy with the effect of his retort; and mine was a sudden realization, the confirmation of something I've always deep down felt.

My throat is a little dry. Why am I always avoiding drinking water? I have to adopt healthier habits.

I apparently don't know how to write in a secret diary because I'm describing my current actions... But isn't it my personal notebook? I guess I can do what I want.

Now, dear me, I don't want you to get emotional and start sobbing. I know you're not that type of person; but just in case; I want you to remember that twelve-year-old me didn't cry afterwards.

Because; the words didn't break something that was alive. They simply broke a foolish hope, and we both know that we're better off without it.

Isn't that why we often thought, "Maybe they feel pity for me," when strangers stopped us to tell us that we had beautiful eyes?

We wanted to tell them, didn't we? That if we really were pretty, we would have made friends back then; that if we were pretty, boys wouldn't talk to us just to talk about other girls, and girls wouldn't talk to us at all. And why am I including you in this?

Pardon me, I lost my train of thought, but I'm sure you know it's not intentional.

At least I might lose the intruder's focus in case someone is ever tempted to read my private thoughts.

But the notebook is black, and there isn't anything written on the cover, so I don't think my mother will be tempted to open it.

Okay, I'm focusing now.

Since I'm going back again, I wanted to remember one lingering memory from that time.

So, I'm going to write what I remember, and, oh my... it's, for some reason... maybe grudge? Extremely vivid.

One day, during French lessons, Benedict, my seatmate, suddenly decided to talk to me. It was weird because she had never greeted me so cheerfully. I was taken aback by her enthusiasm, but I nonetheless replied:

"Hey, I'm good, what about you?"

Oh my, it's so vivid I even remember her expensive perfume going through my nostrils when she sat next to me that day.

All the kids at that school, or at least the girls, seemed to have different variations of the same perfume. All except me, that is.

It smelled like money, but... money didn't have any smell, and neither did that perfume unless you were close enough to recognize it.

That had even become a random skill of mine: identifying rich people on my way back home, only following their perfume. It was useless, yes, but I didn't want to just walk in silence with myself.

"Do you know about the party?" Benedict asked.

Of course I did. "What party?"

"THE PARTY, in the house down the road. Everyone will be there, you know?"

I wanted to raise an eyebrow. It felt suspicious to me that Benedict was inviting me to a party. I asked myself why she would randomly invite me to a party and just... why? I knew she couldn't even stand the idea of sitting next to me in class, so why the sudden change?

"I see, but why are you asking me to go?"

"Because Max will be there and his friend too. They asked me to bring someone in."

I felt good when she said that. I even remember smiling. I thought she considered me important enough to introduce me to a boy.

I thought that finally, I could also have a glimpse of what it felt like to be held by a boy... and, oh boy, it is painful to see how clear it is to me now, looking back, what a hypocrite I was.

I did not care about boys, my feelings, my happiness, or theirs. I cared about something less honorable and I also was curious about THE PARTY so, that night, I laid all the dresses I owned on my mattress.

Most of them-and by that I mean three of them-were dresses my mother had bought for me. Hence, I only had to pick between the two remaining dresses, and the short pink dress won.

I remember making sure I had done the dishes, that I had cleaned the house, and cooked a meal before I could go to school.

I really didn't want to give additional excuses to my mother to be mad at me in case I came home late.

My parents were still sleeping, probably exhausted from what they'd done last night—and by that, I mean fighting and seeing a twelve-year-old psychiatrist.(If you understand what I mean you're really me)

But it is common knowledge that psychiatrists were never tired, isn't it?

So there I was, getting out of home at seven AM to take the bus for school.

The teachers had let us finish early that day, and we all just walked towards the house in front of the school.

It was one of the houses someone's parent was building, and it had two floors. There were tiles on the floor, ceilings; it only lacked lighting.

"Is it a crémaillère?" I thought to myself while changing in the bathroom alongside the other girls.

Due to my mother's strictness, I could only wear dresses; but I wanted to tell her that dresses were extremely dangerous, even more dangerous than jeans were.

At that moment, I wanted to show her the dozens of girls in this bathroom who were definitely ill-intended when they purposely chose to wear dresses and skirts at this party.

The "dance floor" was full of teenagers.

The first song was one of Rihanna's songs. That's a broad description, I know, but... I just want to explain the vibes, and I have a selective memory, okay? But yeah, that was the vibe of the party.

Benedict insisted that I go dance with her. But I refused. I'd just started to feel uncomfortable thinking about the idea that I came for a boy.

What if he was sitting somewhere assessing my body while I moved alongside the music? What if he suddenly felt the urge to dance with me? I didn't even know how to dance!

She insisted three more times, but I refused, and she seemed pissed.

"Just follow me when you see me heading there."

She said pointing towards a room before going back on the dance floor.

I stayed in the back, looking at the scene. The song had changed to a slow song. The lyrics were something like "I feel the desire" or "I want you to be my future."

That was not the kind of thing twelve-year-olds should listen to. That said, I was into rap at that moment, so I'm really cocky to judge.

I looked up to see twelve-year-old Benedict being offered a drink by her seventeen-year-old boyfriend, and as they headed towards the room; she looked back, as if she wanted to say: "Follow me."

I suddenly felt the urge to drink alcohol too. Maybe it could give me the courage to follow her.

I started feeling dizzy, trapped; people kissing on the side, someone who had passed out on the floor in a corner. I looked down at my black flat shoes and at my pink dress, in which I'd just spotted a hole.

What if the guy spotted the hole too?

I mean, I'm sure he would start a rumor, and I didn't want that.

Leaving the party seemed to be the only solution so I decided to leave the party; went to change into my uniform as fast as I could, and then I left.

The next day, when I went to school, the general director interrupted one of our classes and started talking. I was spacing out until I overheard the words "party," "alcohol," "party." I directly came back to earth after the third one.

Apparently, someone had recorded the party and sent the footage to the director. It was very explicit, and he was going to sanction every student who appeared in the footage. He would also call their parents.

My heart uselessly hammered against my ribs at the idea of my parents discovering that I was at a party. But then, when the director started reading the names that were on his list, he didn't call me.

But he called Benedict.

I was a little happy because Benedict seemed angry at me, and I didn't want to sit next to her that day.

Students later nourished the rumors that the person who sent the footage was trying to take revenge for something or someone. And I'm sure that story ended in court.

I've seen wild things happen at that school. Things I can't even write about in this notebook because I simply forgot about them.

But apparently, I hadn't seen enough, because five years later, here I was again, back at that same school.

Now tell me, when you; nineteen year old me, finish reading the next two years of journal entries; have the most real version of yourself written down on paper, Who are you?