Observer

Totally my fic. Not yours. Read and review, tell me if it's good or bad. Take less than a minute of your life and make mine happy because you cared enough to review.

            I wake up from the haze. I get dressed, not paying attention to what I wear. It's not like anyone cares or bothers to notice. Eat a little cereal, grab my pack, get ready to walk out into the world.

            I see the girl step out, same time as me. She's different from me. She's innocent, naïve, optimistic about the world. She's the one the others pick on. She's overweight, unsure of who she is. She dressed with care, I can tell. She's never had anyone tell her how pretty she is. Her glasses are too big, her appearance too oily. It puts off anyone who might want to talk to her. Her teeth wear braces; her body wears too-tight clothing.

            Me, I don't talk to anyone. I shoulder the pack and lumber towards the bus stop. The girl doesn't speak, simply follows my progress on the opposite side of the street. Middle school's hell, and the chick's got no idea about what kind. She lives, wrapped up in her delusions, thinking she's pretty and popular but she's not. She has as much outer beauty as inner, and I can only tell because I spend my time looking at others.

            So we're not so different, her and me. We're living in the same niche and only one of us knows it. The other kids don't like either of us, but she doesn't recognize the futility of trying to fit in with a crowd that could care less if you lived or if you died. She keeps living as cheerfully as she can, having a crush on a different preppy jock every week. She has a few friends, but she doesn't recognize which are the real friends and which are those who would run away from her if their consciences didn't get in the way.

            They all talk about her like she's not there, and she hears them. It hurts her, I can see that, but she laughs at their jokes and keeps going. At night she cries into her pillows. I can see the lights on in her bedroom past midnight, as she tries to reason out why the other kids don't like her. She comes to the conclusion that it's not as it seems and goes on. After all, kids are vicious. They harshly joke to show that they like you.

            We get on the bus, her and I. She immediately sits down behind the only other person she knows, another girl who's got a big heart. I sit in the back, still studying her. She doesn't sit beside the girl because she knows that the seat is reserved for that girl's best friend. She has a 'best friend forever' of her own, but she doesn't realize that her BFF is trying to lose her. Her happiness is a delusion. We arrive at school and she can concentrate on her work. She doesn't do so well academically, but it proves a distraction for her.

            I see in her in Spanish class, passing notes with one of her few friends. The teacher doesn't see; she only sees a group of quiet, well-behaved students. The girl's got a new crush, on a boy she's known forever. It's a dramatic, good change for her. The jock-boys think it's fun to flirt with her during class, getting her hopes up and dashing them. This boy, one of her few friends, is a better choice. He's a chivalrous type, one who'll hold open a door for her and sit by her during class. He won't drag her along like the others she's liked. He doesn't like her as anything but a friend, and she'll soon learn not to ruin beautiful friendships with dating.

            The girl's in orchestra, and I see her play the viola. She's good, too good. The others hate her for it. She uses music to forget during the lonely afternoons when other girls' girlfriends call for a little time at the mall. She goes to viola lessons and school, but otherwise she stays home. Nobody she knows calls her socially.

            I see her on the bus ride home, sitting next to a boy that just moved here. Good, or so I think. He's concerned, he says, that he won't get a seat. So would she please save him one? She's ecstatic, thinking that the foreign boy likes her. The boy, however, is concerned about sitting next to someone he doesn't know. He just uses her, forgets her name when she's out of his sight.

            I see her walk home, shoulders hunched, alone. As I sit on my front steps, waiting for my mom to come home, I trace her movements through her house. She stays far too long in the kitchen; she's forever trying to lose weight and never succeeds. She goes to her viola and plays for hours.

            Before I go to sleep, I see her at her computer, typing furiously. Good, I think, she's a writer. She plucks words out of the air and weaves them together, into a beautiful masterpiece. After a while she stops to cry, slowly lulling herself to sleep with the exhausting sobs that wrack her body.

            So it continues through middle school, day in and day out. I feel sorry for her, but what can I do? You can't be friends with someone that you constantly feel sorry for. She doesn't need another person pretending to be her friend. She wouldn't talk to me anyway. She thinks like the popular crowd so they'll like her, and thus won't touch me with a ten-foot pole. So what is a person to do?

Another chapter coming, soon! I promise! Read and review, should I keep going?