Clarissa Is.

I am more, I thought to myself. I am more than just a face. I am more than just a name: Clarissa. I am more than that. As I saw the African-American woman sitting next to me stare at me, I realized I just said that out loud.

I stood up from my seat. I pointed to the boy with flaming red hair. “You didn’t really want to see Wicked with your ma and grandma. I know that, you know that, and your ma probably knows that, too.” His mother clutched his hand and he stared at me, open-mouthed.

I swung my hand around to point at a man in a business suit. “You don’t have to be so important and formal,” I told him. “Just because you grew up, grew out of your old life, doesn’t mean everything has to be so god damn formal.”

I stared at a blonde woman with a black satin dress on. “If you want more than what you’re getting, then get it. Don’t sell yourself out on the first date. It’s your own fault you’re not feeling fulfilled.”

I readjusted my glance to the girls who had sat in front of me. I focused on the one who kept looking at me. “Stop being so stupid,” I said slowly. “and think for yourself for once. If they don’t see that you’re full of shit, then they’re thicker than I thought.” I glared at her, daring her to break eye contact. “But you know you’re better than them, don’t you…?”

After a long pause, the last girl finally spoke. “How do you…” she said carefully. “how do you know all of this?”

“Because,” I laid the words out like a deck of cards. “it’s just so damn obvious.”

I removed my hand from my sweatshirt pocket and pressed the gun to my temple. As everyone stared at the bloody, lifeless mess, I felt the one thing that I had never felt in my life.

Reality.