Author's Note: I wrote this for English.
My teacher liked it (miraculously) and I'm kinda hoping you will, too.
Sometimes, being invisible is a power, not a curse.
No, I'm not talking about literal invisibility, as in something you might see in an X-Men movie (trust me, I'm not a mutant). I'm the kind of person who blends in so well with her environment I practically disappear, ala a ghost, I suppose. You might think that might suck, but I don't mind. Really, it's got an advantage on my part. Try picking your nose in public when you're the center of the universe. I won't go on and explain the feeling of humiliation you will surely experience from your insensitive and booger-free peers. Not that I pick my nose in public. No freaking way.
Ahem, moving along. Now that I've cleared up that I'm no superhuman, I would describe a typical day in the life of Invisible-But-Totally-Not-In-A-Stan-Lee-Kind-Of-Way Girl. After eating a cold Pop Tart, I left for school just as Mrs. Number Forty-Three next door is mowing her lawn, as she always does every morning. I haven't the faintest idea why she's like that, but I give her a friendly wave everyday all the same. Just because I'm invisible doesn't mean I have to be rude, you know. I passed by Mr. Number Sixty-Six's front yard and his collection of lawn deco (seven elves, three hot pink flamingos, and a not-so-happy-looking King Kong) on the way, too. They freak my little sister to bits, especially the gorilla. She keeps saying that he'll come to her room during the dead of night, tiptoe past her bed, steal Astronaut Barbie from the shelf, and finally ask her for bananas as ransom the next day.
"Kong doesn't play with dolls," I reminded her gently. "He likes climbing the Empire State Building. Plus, you know, that screaming blonde girl."
She didn't believe me though, even when I said King Kong couldn't care less about little girls like her, but whatever. Kids will be kids.
The only place I enjoy walking by was this yard owned by old Mrs. Fairbottoms. It was something out of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, as my mother would say. The flowers in the garden were spectacular: white chrysanthemums, sweet-smelling roses, forget-me-nots, and even a shrub of witch-hazels on one corner. I can already hear the twittering in Mrs. Fairbottoms' bird bath as I walked on. That place was basically a paradise, to be honest. Mrs. Fairbottoms has quite the green thumb.
Anyway, I finally arrived at school, where the kids shamelessly bumped me as if I wasn't there at all. I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered Room 27, otherwise known as Medieval Studies class. Making it in here was a miracle, really. Well, minus the slight pain on my shoulder, I'm still pretty much in one piece.
Mr. Deckard arrived ten minutes later, looking pained. He looked even more pained when Lenny Talbot suddenly spewed gold glitter all around him and happily cried, "Ooooh!" while he's at it. Poor guy. Mr. Deckard, I mean. He already has enough on his plate without dealing with hormonal and sparkle-loving teenagers. Soon, he calmed down, told Lenny to quit pulling a Tinkerbell or else, and started droning about the Hunyad Castle in Hungary. I wasn't listening, since I knew all about the castles already, the one in Disneyland California in particular. When your childhood heroine was Sleeping Beauty, you're bound to be infatuated with castles. In my case, at least.
I suppose you're wondering what's my golden benefit of being invisible, so I'll tell you. I like watching people, in a completely un-stalkerish way, I mean. I'm not really sure why, but I do. Their behaviours and reactions intrigue me. It's like watching monkeys at the zoo, you know? Except the specimens aren't that hairy and definitely less than likely to search your hair for annoying ticks. So, if you're a silent observer, what better superpower to have than being unseen? It's a gift, I tell you.
Example, due to my crystal clear hearing, I know that Cranky Liz is going to break up with Bradley What's-His-Name at precisely two o' clock tomorrow at the quad, or so she says to Redhead Vicki. My sincerest sympathies to you, Bradley, whoever you are.
I also notice that Billy Eckhart gets fidgety whenever Mr. Deckard is about to return a quiz; his left foot starts to tap faster, and then he continuously runs his fingers through his dark, curly hair as well. He's the expected valedictorian this year, so I kinda expected that from him. He didn't appreciate me telling him to try taking Ritalin the other day, though.
Mad Maddy Madison, as she is so lovingly called, is the nose picker I'm talking about. No matter how she gets jeered because of it, she still does it in public. The girl doesn't learn how to listen, I can tell you that.
Aside from her highly publicized booger-hunting, she also has the eerie habit of talking to herself, hence the derogatory nickname. Still, Mad Maddy is extremely fascinating to observe, even if she's arguing loudly with herself whether or not to get bright orange highlights for graduation.
Anyway, you get the idea. I know more about my poor tortured schoolmates than I normally should. It's a little empowering, I guess. But knowledge can be scary, too. Who knows, I might turn into a Satan spawn right at this moment and 'accidentally' slip to Bradley What's-His-Name that he's now added to Cranky Liz's Ex-Boyfriend List.
Now that is an idea. Still, I wouldn't do something like that. Satan is all evil and twisted, so I'm definitely not like him. For one thing, I have no tail protruding out of my butt, and pitch forks are not my accessory of choice.
Thoughts? Criticisms? Cookies?
Review, please. (: