Dear Diary,
Tuesday

    Mean Loreen tested my nerves today by acting like an idiot when she twirled her straight-from-the-bottle-blond hair with her bejeweled French manicure. It’s the acting stupid part that gets me. I know her IQ. Same as mine, 140 plus.  Mom simply wouldn’t accept having a moron for a daughter. 
Loreen walks through a room believing those around her aren’t worthy of her time. This delusion in itself is also another annoying aspect to her character. We used to be friends in grade school but when sixth grade came, she ditched the Barbie doll and then became one. She then considered herself too cool to hang out with me, so she threw our friendship in the trash and formed The Vanity Girls.
     You know it’s them when you hear their high heels clacking across the hard floor into home room; I have the pleasure of observing them from the corner where I sit. The Vanity Girls enter homeroom wearing miniskirts sans tights, hombre hair, eye liner smudged on so thick it resembles a raccoon, bright pink lipstick, and skinny as stick people. The irony here is Mean Loreen looks exactly like the Barbie doll she threw in the trash along with me.
    They hugged each other before sitting at their desks and once seated with their purses occupying most of their desks, they continued this routine by tossing each other air kisses until the Health teacher had had enough and hoarsely shushes them and points to the intercom overhead.  At this point, the Principal’s booming voice yelled, “Have a Great day and remember to be kind to one another. On that note, will Heather Hartwell, Grace Chin, and Loreen Blackwell please make their way down to the Principal’s office?”
    Imagine my curiosity when half the Vanity Tramps had been called to the office. Yes, I sat and waited with The Asians, who were smirking to each other, feeling exactly the same way I did. We all silently hoped they had committed another one of their pathetic attempts for attention. The last time this happened, they were asked to present an award to a dignitary who came to speak at the Veterans Assembly. They turned up wearing crop tops and short shorts. They were suspended for three days.  With any luck, it could be longer this time.  We waited.
Six minutes and fifteen seconds later, they returned looking totally wrecked, I mean like totally wrecked like they got caught in the seaweed and washed up on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean. Their foundation had melted and slipped down their faces revealing their fake tans. Altogether, a delight to watch but slightly horrifying when seeing what was underneath. Nothing.
    Heather glared at the classroom and said, “It wasn’t that big of a deal. Nobody really saw the pictures anyway.” 
    Jake the football jock laughed and said, “Well, if nobody saw you, then how come you Girlie Girls got called to the Principal’s office?”
     “Your selfies get leaked again?”  I said.
     “How’d you know?”  Loreen seemed surprised.
     “I didn’t till now,”   I replied and laughed.
     “Where’d you get your shirt, Loser?  Goodwill?” 
     I shut up and watched them pack all their makeup back in their Gucci knockoff bags and walk out of the room with forced composure to be gone a week. Later, rumors flew around the school but nothing too exciting came out of them.  I glanced down at my vintage Rolling Stones shirt that I had found in Dad’s closet. I loved that shirt. It had great sentimental value.

Dear Diary,
Friday

     Today I spent two hours with those I call the Musicals. They are an intense bunch who spend their spare time banging away at their instruments until every note is perfect. I mean I love my oboe, but I don’t sleep with it.  It’s not enough these girls work my nerves, but the teacher nearly has a nervous breakdown every time one of us misses a note. Today it happened to be me. She didn’t like my phrasing. Imagine bringing us all to a halt to criticize my phrasing. I mean how can you tell when you’re supposed to be listening to all of us at the same time? But I suppose if this high-strung prima donna instructor can hear my phrasing, then I should be listening to what she’s trying to teach me.
        To make matters worse, we got a new girl in our ensemble. She thinks she’s the top London Symphony hopeful. She spent today’s class complaining about not getting the solo. I mean we’re an ensemble. Hellooo! We are supposed to be a team not a supporting cast of vagabond musicians. I mean this newbie has her nose stuck so high in the air, yesterday she nearly rammed the bow of her cello up her left nostril.
        But as a whole, I like the idea of an all-girl ensemble. It’s just some of them act as though they are the reason music was invented. I have to confess, I do spend a lot of my evenings listening to the Mozart Oboe Quartet in F Major on my Ipod.  I drown my sorrows between the notes. While they may be teenage sorrows, they make me who I am and give me hope to be better than I am.

Dear Diary.
Monday

       I know Diary by now I must sound like a spoiled suburban brat but…. isn’t that what everyone says about us? But if I can’t tell you Diary, who can I tell?  Today I encountered The Weird Ones. I really admire these freaky geniuses but socially that’s a whole other story.  I sat next to one in my AP World History course and casually commented on the book he was reading called The Life of Albert Einstein.
        “Hey, I read that.  What part are you at?” He stared at me. I could see his lips quivering as though going to actually answer, but then he grabbed his book, glared at me, and ran away.
         I questioned his social behavior and couldn’t let it rest. I turned to Grace Liu and said, “Is he okay?”
          “A human anomaly,” Grace said drily. “There are more in the back.” She rolled her eyes.
           I tossed my head sideways and heard two people debating over whether the seeds in a grapefruit are comparable to those of an orange and could they be cross pollinated to create a Gorange? I decided to wave at them when walking past. They threw their hoodies over their heads and moved underneath their own desks. I mean Diary, really?  These are the people who shape our futures. Some of them hid in a room and invented the electric car.
       Now that we’re discussing this, Diary, I’d like a real explanation on how such people manage to get through life. If they can’t say hello to a fellow classmate they’ve known for three years, when will they learn human interaction?  Or do they know, what they don’t know?  Or do they even care?

Dear Diary,
Wednesday
     My life was simply not worth living today. Gym class, need I say more. Oh, playing football with boys. What could be worse? A living nightmare. Coach Slummer started the football unit today in the rain. Not that I’m trying to be a princess here Diary, but I could hear my sneakers sloshing along the wet grass. She handed me the football and said, “Okay, go throw a spiral.”  Like I know how to throw a spiral just because I’m a regular suburban girl and, of course, all junior suburbanites know how to throw a football. Except, for the Vanity Girls. (Who are the teacher’s pet which is irony at its best).  They know even less about throwing a football than I do. 
     One day Coach Slummer yells, “Get your butts moving!!”  Then the next day she’s yelling, “Great work today!” I seriously belief the woman is bipolar. Whenever she screams, I can see the bags under her eyes growing as though somebody’s putting a boat load of groceries in them.  And here, Diary, I may be mixing my metaphors, but the woman’s seriously unhinged.  She even asked us periodically, “Come on, Sissies, are you keeping up with the boys?”  Why would we want to?
     I remember the first day with Coach Slummer, “Listen up, Pansies, I’m your new coach, and I am here to make your life a living hell!”  So now a semester later, I find myself on a miserable rainy day playing football with a bunch of Neanderthal boys.  So this must be what she meant by hell. I just didn’t know I would be dying so young.
     Then I saw my best friend Catherine and confidante, a shy girl easily frightened by Coach Slummer, who stared at Catherine with eagle eyes. Coach deducts 20 points off the day’s grade if you don’t participate, so I threw the football to Catherine, but she missed it. She bent down to pick it up off the wet grass when three varsity jocks ran to tackle her, slamming her to the ground. Coach Slummer immediately busied herself on the other side of the field to avoid having to deal with the catastrophe that was taking place. I, of course, sprang into action and ran to kneel beside my dear friend and confidant Catherine. I shook her but she appeared to be unconscious; then her eyes fluttered open. The boys ran to the opposite side of the field, so everybody would think ‘Clumsy Catherine’ tripped over her own feet.
     All the nurse gave her at the Nurse’s Office was an ice pack for her head. She could have a concussion! “Come back if you get a headache,” she called after us and then told both of us to go back to gym.
     Coach Slummer saw us walking onto the field and turned to the jocks and snickered. “Both of you dandelions will lose points from your blowballs.”  Of course, all the idiot guys taunted us with their laughter. Diary, you can’t imagine my embarrassment over being called a blowball. Later, Catherine and I looked up the meaning on the computer only to discover Slummer was referring to the fluff on top of a dandelion.  Still, though, we lost 20 points from our grade.
    Naturally, I wanted to make Catherine feel better. She had always been uptight about her grades and losing 20 points really knocked her off her pins. So I decided to take her to the Plainfield Mall.  We went to Fiery Fajitas for a bite to eat first. Once seated and ready for a good chat about the day’s events, I was disappointed to see Catherine pull out her Calculus book.  She buried her nose between the pages while I sat spilling my messy Fajita on my new blouse.
     “Do you ever stop with the calculator? We’re supposed to be bonding.” I can’t believe this crap flew out of my mouth. Now Diary, I wanted to say something else, but really I think people who use the S word and attach it to anger like they can’t express themselves without attaching this word to all expressions of emotions sound very limited in my mind, but then the other day I read people who swear have higher IQs. Go figure. A girl just doesn’t know what to believe anymore.
Catherine closed her book and said, “I have a test tomorrow and you know my parents. If I get anything less than an A+, my parents become all discombobulated.”  We both broke out laughing.  We shared favorite words like quirky, Neanderthal, pickle, squash, sassy, and scrumptious to name a few. 
     “After we finish eating, let’s go shopping for our Halloween dresses for the Walking Dead Dance.” 
     “Oh no, I’m not going. Too many boys. They smell; they are dirty and probably don’t take off their socks after Gym. Oh no, no, no!”  Catherine’s face contorted in disgust.
     “Have you ever seen a Hummingbird’s tongue?”  I asked, appearing serious.
    “You’re just trying to distract me.  Are you done with that?” Catherine reached over and grabbed the rest of my Fajita.  Catherine’s not exactly a size two, which may be the real reason she doesn’t want to shop for a dress.
     I shoved my plate in her direction.  “Okay, Pickles. Let’s go.” Catherine grabbed the Fajita and we headed into the store 2kool4U.

Dear Diary,
Thursday
     I found my gown for the Walking Dead Dance. Catherine, however, seemed indecisive over picking out a dress without her mother’s consent. The woman had a battle-axe tendency in a conservative, clinched teeth kind of way. I mean, Diary, the woman cuts up her husband’s string beans. Once she even reached over to dissect mine. I looked at her like ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND. She seemed confused and put away her knife and fork.  And god forbid if Catherine’s neck line would be lower than her collar bone.
     It took me three hours after trying on a dozen dresses, but the only ones I could find were short and skimpy enough to cause Catherine’s mother to have a heart attack. I finally settled on one that accentuated my gray blue eyes and black hair. While inspecting myself in the mirror, I noticed the right side of my face appeared to be slightly uneven. I peered closer in the mirror and smiled. I then noticed one eye squinted back at me while the other remained opened and perfectly shaped. I realized at that moment people looking at me, saw an asymmetrical face.
     That’s exactly how I see life, completely asymmetrical. I shove these thoughts aside and get out my dress again and try it on standing in front of the tall mirror. I then notice my dress only has one shoulder strap, which hangs in a slant down to the bodice.  It also has a slit up one leg of the floor length skirt, not both, just the one. I am now convinced I live an asymmetrical life. In fact, it’s obvious, I prefer it. Upon further inspection of my dress, I wonder why I chose black and white when knowing they are not real colors but simply shadows. In order for a color to be a color, it must be a reflection of light.
     I wonder what Catherine will wear. Probably her grandmother’s cotton, midi dress.

Dear Diary,
Friday
  You’ll never believe what happened. This guy at school, total jock, chiseled face, Roman nose with blonde hair type guy. Had never spoke to me before, but suddenly he comes up to me after gym and asks me if I want to go to the haunted dance with him. I got freaked out and said sure. I had no experience saying no, so I said yes. Later in the day, I began to have doubts.  
     I mean he’s a jock. Need I say more? Jocks strike me as loud, obnoxious, rude, and self-conscious. I’m convinced they cover up their doubts by playing sports. They must have been forced into being jocks by their fathers who were forced into being jocks by fathers who were forced into being jocks. See where I am going with this, Diary. The world appears to be made up of a progeny of jocks. 
     So this guy Brett who plays a defensive lineman, which he told me in the first five seconds of our conversation, probably only asked me out because all the Vanity Girls were taken. I just heard what I said and it seems shallow. I’m sure he’s a really nice guy, but he’ll probably turn out to be a jerk anyway. 
Brett insisted on picking me, up but my parents wouldn’t let me get past the door handle if they saw him standing on the other side wearing a tuxedo. So Catherine came and picked me up in her mom’s Ultima. God bless the old battle-axe for letting us use her car. (eye roll here Diary)  The Ultima didn’t turn out to be a luxury car. I mean really a Nissan when I know Catherine’s entire family wouldn’t be caught dead seen in anything less than a Mercedes. My dress got caught on the door handle and ripped the slit up another couple of inches but what the heck. Who would notice at the Walking Dead Dance.
     Once inside the small car, I glanced at Catherine’s pink and yellow sun dress and just felt sorry for her. I yelled, “Get outta the car. We got to fix this.” I dragged her up to my room and thrashed around inside my closet before coming up with something presentable for the evening’s gothic affair. I found a black skirt and top and then grabbed some dye leftover from my fifth grade tie dying party.  I painted purple, grey, green, and shiny black streaks from the waist to the hemline. Then I set to work giving Catherine’s makeup some gothic snaz. I brushed red eye shadow in her crease, black shadow on her eye lid, then blended together to create a nice gradient. I used a gel liner, extended it all the way outside the eye giving it a vampire look. I used a pencil liner and drew a streak across the bottom lash before fluffing out the look with a spidery pair of false eye lashes. I brought the liner into the corner of each eye and down a little.  I slapped some cream highlighter on her cheeks to make her appear even paler. I rimmed her lips with black eye liner and found some super red lipstick and filled in the lines. I’m no artist but it gave Catherine a total vamp look that was so convincing it could cause her mother to have a stroke. I decided a couple of bite marks on the side of her neck would be just the thing to complete the whole Goth persona Catherine had going on. I used tattoos I had gotten from the Dollar store. Then I turned Cath Dracula toward the mirror. She shrieked.
     I went to the dance in such a high state of excitement, I got over my animosity toward the Ultima and just felt elegantly dead. We walked in the door expecting to be greeted by our dates. The moment I stepped into the ballroom, I saw Mean Loreen throw her arms around my date and drag him onto the floor. The poor guy appeared flustered and glanced about for me and when spotting me, he wrestled free from Mean Loreen and came over smiling.
     Catherine said, “I guess he’s not such a jerk after all.”  She winked and pushed me toward Brett.

Dear Diary,
Sunday
     While driving back from the dance Friday in the Ultima, I reflected on why I didn’t fit neatly into any of the groups.  I thought on this all night. I realized everyone is a wannabe, but everyone’s everything, and everyone’s related to each other. If everyone is related to each other then they are special in the same way. I even considered Mean Loreen being the same as me but immediately threw out that thought, because I shuddered to think I could be on her level. I knew I was judging her, which puts me a notch below her level.  But I mean if a person decides to go to Olive Garden in her pajamas than who am I to judge. Same as Loreen, she wears short shorts, so what!  We can’t expect people to be one way, because they’ll expect us to be another way. Same with Coach Slummer, who in my mind is a hard pill to swallow but probably somebody else’s icing on the cake. Jake, the football jock, is still a puzzle I have yet to figure out. I think the Musical Girls are too high strung for words, embrace the pun. And I just know one day I will be thanking the Weird Ones for my electric Gorange car.
     Finally, while ruminating over this, my mind hearkened back to Dr. Seuss, who said, ‘Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind’.
                             Curtain Call, Diary.  I’ll Be Back Later