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The Diary of a Floor Tile

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Hey, Diary. It's me again.

Today, I woke up and brushed my teeth. I still tasted the flavor of dirty rubber sneakers. I washed my face in my bathroom sink and made sure to wash behind my ears because I keep finding week-old math papers back there, as well as broken pencils and a few rubber bands from freshmans' braces. 

I kind of want to start a clique. Or an interest group. I've been here since three summers ago when some football player started pushing one of those heavy weights along the last floor. Tore the poor guy right up. I figure three years is ample enough to get a VIP pass, at least. Yet, here I am, laying with my cold arms spread out across every hall of this school, waiting for my classmates to walk all over me like I'm not even here. 

Math class is my first. I don't have anything to write on. I haven't spoken to my mom in a long time, and even if I had, she still doesn't have any money. My dad lives somewhere on the Sixth Grade Hall, but that's at my old school, and I don't think he'd want to come here. Too many dirty sneakers.

English is second. I like English. I like words. I may not speak them, but I'm getting better at putting my sentences together to make proper sense. It's a bit strange. I guess you could say I haven't quite found my voice yet, but I honestly don't think I know where my mouth is either. Who would I talk to, anyway? The closest I've gotten to a solid conversation was when Krista Muldovan was pushed over by one of the mean kids during class change and she fell onto me. She told me, and I'll never forget it, "Ow." Then again, I'm not sure she was talking to me, but I would have answered anyway. We basically held hands, so we're pretty much dating. 

I don't like lunch very much. The cafeteria is big and dirty, and my classmates seem to consider me a trashcan. The worst part is that I am... insecure. My body is a bit discolored in parts, and I have old scuff marks on my wrists and legs. I guess most high schoolers are insecure, but I'm pretty much naked unlike them. I can't smother my insecurities and flaws in large hoodies and baggy jeans. I just am. Whether or not people notice, I don't know. But I try not to focus on that. 

Then there's History—I don't have much to say about it. I just don't understand the lack of information regarding floor tiles. I won't throw down the Discrimination card right away, but it hasn't gone unnoticed. 

And lastly, Science. Science has given me the most physical identity from any of my classes. I have freckles on the part of my arm that sits just under the window, strange white marks on my neck from the chair legs that don't have tennis balls. I have a mole or two on the side of my face where the desk is because the teacher always drinks coffee and never finishes a cup without spilling some. I have a bruise on my ribs from the time Jason Knihnicki dropped his crazy thick phone when he jumped up and down after getting asked out by the girl he liked.

Sometimes I overhear skinny girls calling themselves fat, and tall boys uncomfortable about their height, and people covering their birthmarks with concealer, but their friends always bump in and compliment them when it's due. Even if I don't have those friends, I can be my own friend. It's possible, anyway, even if it is really sad.

Tonight, when the lights shut off, I'll tuck my hair behind my ears and curl up into myself in the dark. I'll trace the cracks on my skin and connect constellations into the dots on the ceiling until I fall asleep, and when I do, I'll dream of friends and cliques and family and my cold lips will turn up as I drift far, far away from this school.

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