their black leather team jackets with the red sleeves and the fighting badger on the back. The stoners stand off to one side, baggy pants and dreadlocks their own kind of uniform. The cool kids are easy to spot, the girls dabbing at their sparkling lip gloss, fluffing their manes of hair, dressed perfectly, while hangers-on orbit around them like they are caught in a gravitational pull. These kids glow.
I cannot figure out for the life of me how to put together an outfit like these girls do. I can never seem to find that adorable top or the perfect pair of jeans. And even if I do have the “right” clothes, forget about wearing them the way these girls do. I simply cannot carry it off. Rachel says it’s about attitude. Clearly I have an attitude problem.
I study them, each and every group in turn, and wonder, how do these kids find one another? How does someone decide, I’m going to be a stoner or a goth or a princess or a jock? Why haven’t I found a place, a definition? Would being a part of the group chase the loneliness away? Or does everyone feel as scared as I do?
A part of me aches to be in one of those cliques, laughing easily, knowing exactly where I’m supposed to be, knowing exactly who I am. Categorizing, classifying is so easy, so certain. Yet, I’m here on the fringe, on the outside, a watcher.
Soon the field is crowded with students from all four classes,and the chanting, singing, shouting is echoed by the rattle of waving grasses and chirruping crickets.
Rachel squeezes my arm tightly, her fingernails like a hawk’s talons. “There he is! He’s here! How do I look?” she squeaks. I follow Rachel’s gaze to see Josh with his baggy jeans and unlaced sneakers shuffling up to the fire.
“You look fine,” I tell her, shaking my head, feeling lame.
“Just fine?” Rachel asks, her eyes filled with panic. “Do I look fat?” She really looks scared now.
“You look great,” I say. I smile and nudge Rachel’s shoulder. “You should go talk to him.”
“Really? You really think so?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“I don’t know…” Rachel looks down. She seems so vulnerable, so frightened. And I see her, really see her, probably for the first time since school started, and I realize—sort of surprised by my own surprise—that she looks good. Rachel has always been a little bit plump, but the suntan she cultivated over the summer and the blond streaks in her hair give her a pretty glow. “I just want this year to be great, you know?” she says softly.
“Yeah. I know. Just go on!”
“What if…He’s so cute. He probably won’t want to talk to me. Don’t you think?” Rachel says doubtfully.
“Rach, you’re cute! I bet he’ll be happy if you go over to him!” I am trying to sound cheerfully confident.
“Well…” Rachel pauses. “All right. Will you be okay here by yourself?”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Just flash him your gorgeous smile.”
“’Kay, wish me luck!” Rachel sings out and starts off toward her target.
I watch Rachel blend into the thickening crowd. As she disappears, I wonder if I’m weird for not liking any of the boys in our class. If Nate hadn’t died, would I be as carefree as Rachel and all the rest of them? Would I be able to jump into the fray and dance and laugh and be happy? Why does this thing mark me, anyway? It’s like the other kids can sense it—well, I figure most of them know, anyway. But it’s not just that they treat me strangely. It’s me, too. Acting different. Feeling different. Nate hardly even talked to me anymore…Why has his absence, his death changed everything ?
I keep to the edge of the crowd, listening to the jocks singing fight songs and the murmur of conversations and the crackling of the flames. Suddenly, a tingle creeps down my spine, and I look up. Like I’ve been shocked, my eyes meet another pair, across the field. In the graying light, I can just make out who it is. And as the realization sets in, I step
I cannot figure out for the life of me how to put together an outfit like these girls do. I can never seem to find that adorable top or the perfect pair of jeans. And even if I do have the “right” clothes, forget about wearing them the way these girls do. I simply cannot carry it off. Rachel says it’s about attitude. Clearly I have an attitude problem.
I study them, each and every group in turn, and wonder, how do these kids find one another? How does someone decide, I’m going to be a stoner or a goth or a princess or a jock? Why haven’t I found a place, a definition? Would being a part of the group chase the loneliness away? Or does everyone feel as scared as I do?
A part of me aches to be in one of those cliques, laughing easily, knowing exactly where I’m supposed to be, knowing exactly who I am. Categorizing, classifying is so easy, so certain. Yet, I’m here on the fringe, on the outside, a watcher.
Soon the field is crowded with students from all four classes,and the chanting, singing, shouting is echoed by the rattle of waving grasses and chirruping crickets.
Rachel squeezes my arm tightly, her fingernails like a hawk’s talons. “There he is! He’s here! How do I look?” she squeaks. I follow Rachel’s gaze to see Josh with his baggy jeans and unlaced sneakers shuffling up to the fire.
“You look fine,” I tell her, shaking my head, feeling lame.
“Just fine?” Rachel asks, her eyes filled with panic. “Do I look fat?” She really looks scared now.
“You look great,” I say. I smile and nudge Rachel’s shoulder. “You should go talk to him.”
“Really? You really think so?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“I don’t know…” Rachel looks down. She seems so vulnerable, so frightened. And I see her, really see her, probably for the first time since school started, and I realize—sort of surprised by my own surprise—that she looks good. Rachel has always been a little bit plump, but the suntan she cultivated over the summer and the blond streaks in her hair give her a pretty glow. “I just want this year to be great, you know?” she says softly.
“Yeah. I know. Just go on!”
“What if…He’s so cute. He probably won’t want to talk to me. Don’t you think?” Rachel says doubtfully.
“Rach, you’re cute! I bet he’ll be happy if you go over to him!” I am trying to sound cheerfully confident.
“Well…” Rachel pauses. “All right. Will you be okay here by yourself?”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Just flash him your gorgeous smile.”
“’Kay, wish me luck!” Rachel sings out and starts off toward her target.
I watch Rachel blend into the thickening crowd. As she disappears, I wonder if I’m weird for not liking any of the boys in our class. If Nate hadn’t died, would I be as carefree as Rachel and all the rest of them? Would I be able to jump into the fray and dance and laugh and be happy? Why does this thing mark me, anyway? It’s like the other kids can sense it—well, I figure most of them know, anyway. But it’s not just that they treat me strangely. It’s me, too. Acting different. Feeling different. Nate hardly even talked to me anymore…Why has his absence, his death changed everything ?
I keep to the edge of the crowd, listening to the jocks singing fight songs and the murmur of conversations and the crackling of the flames. Suddenly, a tingle creeps down my spine, and I look up. Like I’ve been shocked, my eyes meet another pair, across the field. In the graying light, I can just make out who it is. And as the realization sets in, I step
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