Done For

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Her eyes lit up like the sun in the summertime. Her cheeks rosy red, flushed. Body language, flirty. All attention focused on him as the simple conservation turned into instant chemistry. She knew it wasn’t meant to be but she still believed that one day, even just for a second, he would feel the same way. Hoping for a shot, she continued around him, striking conversation, flirting, making it obvious of the attraction towards him that she possessed. But still, nothing. He felt and still feels nothing towards her but a shallow friendship. And is all she wants, for now. “Dreaming with a broken heart.” She loves John Mayer, after only a recent discovery of his extraordinary vocals, she added him to her mental playlist. This wasn’t any innocent crush, this was a secret love.



Who knows?! Does everybody know?! I don’t know?! What am I suppose to do?! Panic attack moment. Breathe in and out. Over and over again. Staring at the mirror, she comes up with a list of people who she told and who found out using her cup-quake lip gloss she got from Vicky’s secret. Down the left side of the t-chart, she lists name after name. As the names add up, about half the 8th grade knows. She moves her hand over to the right side of the t-chart and finds herself more nervous than ever guessing who she thinks knows. To her surprise, she doesn’t write down the boy she likes. She could have sworn just a minute ago that she knew that he found out she liked him. But the doubt in her mind flowing through her brain vessels prevented that thought from being written down. And so on she continued writing names down the list until ¾ of the 8th graders names were written down on the list. Instead of this list calming her down, she threw another panic attack, assuming that now every name she had written down had known her dirty little secret.



She’s done for. Everybody knows. Nobody says anything. Silence and staring is what people achieve everyday as she passes through the hallway. Secluded, she finds solace in reading. She runs to the library on the second floor of the William o’ Shea building and picks up the first book she sees when she enters the room. The book is called the vagina monologues, she loves it. And the day goes on and on.





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