I’ve been writing creatively for eight years now, and my love for personal writing surfaced soon after. I’ve always sort of played with the idea of typing up my old diaries and publishing them when I’m in my old age—when my childishness won’t matter anymore. But I recently wrote a prologue, one teetering between personal and novelesque, and I want to share it. I’m not looking for feedback—my life, unfortunately, cannot be edited. I’m always up for conversation, though!

I guess deep down I always sort of knew I was a loner.

I always try my best to avoid participating in conversation—when there’s a big group, I mean. And I’m pretty quiet around strangers, and usually stick to complimenting instead of offering a conversation topic.

Why? Because the last time I did it went a little something like this:

“Have either of you ever read Percy Jackson?”

“I abandoned it halfway through,” says one girl.

I get a blank stare from the other, and thus starts the awkward, deafening silence. The worst part is, when I walked up to them they were talking and laughing and having a gay old time. Enter me, and the conversation dies instantly. Sure, they did invite me to sit with them, but they’re also the two sweetest kids in my class. So an invitation from them means next to nothing.

See, recess can be the best, most social period—if you’re with friends, that is. I don’t have any of those—not in this state, not in my grade—so lunch, for me, is the scariest, loneliest hour of the day. I try to talk to people, really. But I don’t think anyone actually likes me. I’m smart, but that’s all they think I’m good for. Sometimes, people ask me for help—my classmates, I mean—and I get this warm feeling in my chest, and I point them in the right direction, and it helps. I help. But the warm feeling disappears when I remember: this kid has never tried talking to me.

I’m kidding myself if I think my classmates look at me like I’m one of them. No. To them, I’m an extension of our teachers, or a pretty face that’ll look nice beside them, nodding mindlessly to whatever they say.

I guess I’m like a Plan Z. To the kids in Riverbank Charter, that is.

You know what I find interesting? There was one, singular girl in my class who was new, same as me. We actually have a few things in common: we both like creative writing, and we both were homeschooled last year, and we’re both new.

Okay, three things. We have three things in common.

But she was never my cup of tea. Great person, but just not for me. Thing is, she found her footing in eighth grade. And she’s doing a fine job at adapting to a social atmosphere.

And for the first week, so did I. I loved school. I was getting things right and making friends. At least… I thought I was. It didn’t take me very long to realize where I stand. Like I said a while back—I am Plan Z. Maybe further than that. It’s possible I’m among the Greek alphabet at this point.

So come the second week, and I cry. I actually cry. In front of other people. It happened during recess. I went to sit beside the girls I’d deluded myself into thinking were my friends, but they didn’t want anything to do with me. I’m lonely—not stupid. I could tell right away, so I left and sat with Karen and Jake. They were finishing up lunch, but I didn’t want them to go away.

I didn’t want to be alone.

So I tried to keep them there, there at the back of the park, by giving them one of my snacks. It was a last-ditch attempt, but they appreciated it. They appreciated it so much that they gobbled up my food and left in record time.

And I was alone again.

So, naturally, I sank into depression. I kept busy by walking around, because I figured if I was moving, I wouldn’t have time to feel sorry for myself.

But I was wrong.

By moving from place to place, I only further cemented the image of each and every one of my classmates having fun without me. Each spot is filled. No room for the New Girl.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

So I slinked away to the lonely table in the back, and I started writing. Sometimes that helps. Other times, I just feel worse at the end.

It was one of those times.

But then, out of nowhere, the seventh-grade boy who always holds the door at recess eases into the seat across from me. And he’s quiet. And awkward. And curious.

About me. He’s curious about me. About how I feel. And I’m wary at first. But he’s also genuine—and that breaks me. I feel myself about to cry—

And then Karen plops down beside him and shoos him away. She says, “Thanks for keeping Leah company, James. You can go now.”

And he does, with a shy wave and something that’s half smile, half grimace. And then Karen drinks one long sip of water and takes off without a word, leaving me bereft and reeling. I know she didn’t like me very much—but that? That was despicable.

And now I’m mad. I was lonely and sad before, but now I’m mad, too. And it gives me an unexpected allergy to the slight wind.

I’m about to cry.

But I don’t. Because the tears that are inside me want to be loud and ugly, and I’m not one to be loud and ugly in public.

Some friends of mine from sixth grade found me eventually, and they, too, could tell I was different than normal. All the people I like are good at that.

And right there, finally, I let down my guard. I cried. Not for long, but I cried. And, surprisingly enough, that left me in a better mood.

A few days pass, and more problems arise. They snicker and they whisper and they curse and they have phones and they have social media and they pretend they have somewhere more important to be. They give me looks and they pretend I’m not there and they pity me and offer comforting smiles and it doesn’t help.

It doesn’t help.

Because I’m an optimist, and anything that anybody does is too easily exaggerated in my head. I think up fantasy realities where my classmates actually care about me, and they actually want to know what I think. Fantasies where I turn fourteen and get to have a party, and they sing happy birthday to me.

Fantasies where I go into class and I feel like smiling. I really feel like smiling. And I belong.

And that gets me thinking. All that is possible. I’m not dreaming of becoming best friends with Taylor Swift or having a pet dragon. People like me exist—just not in Riverbank. They’re out there—out in the rest of the world with their fingers blistered from writing so often and their noses buried in paperbacks. They secretly shake their head when the gossiping begins, and they know how to get around in the kitchen.

My people exist, and I’m going to find them. And if that means leaving Riverbank Charter?

Well, then. It’s time for me to meet the rest of the world.

that last look back, 

she noticed no one 

really saw she was 

leaving & that was 

when she knew she was ready for this 

whole new life