The Life and Times of a Girl Who Has No Clue What She's Doing

Hello, world, Anna here.

Yes, it is Anna Vera Weston.

What? You have never heard of me before? Well, do not fret; you're not the only one. It is hard for me to say that not everyone in my class knows who I am, and that's saying something, given the fact that there were twenty-five people in my eighth grade class. But, that's what you get for being the girl who sits in the corner and reads. And in case you didn't pick up on the hint, I'm that girl.

Right now, you're probably asking yourself, why am I reading this piece of junk that doesn't even deserve to be called a diary? Well, I can answer that for you in one very simple sentence: Because reading this diary will give you an idea of what it's like to be the girl who sits in the corner and her transition into what people might call a "socially awkward, but not eccentric girl."

Simple enough for you? If not, then I suggest that you put this book away and pick up another one, for my entire story will be made up of sentences like the one above. It's how I work, and it's how I will face the world, even if I don't want to.

Therefore, let us start our story. I suggest that you bring a box of tissues, for this might be a tearjerker. I also suggest that you start to notice my hints of sarcasm. It will save you from a lot of confusion in the end.

Day One of Being Clueless

The first day of school, back from the long summer break, can be classified as the worst day of the entire year. For parents, it is time to rejoice—"They're gone! We have time to ourselves again!"—but for children, it is known as the National Day of Sorrow. We put on our backpacks, sigh greatly as the last glimpse of summer whooshes away, and hope for Christmas break to come quickly and painlessly.

The start of the horror called "school" is also the worst thing that could happen to a social outcast. Summer has given these outcasts time to spend by themselves, letting them sit for hours on end staring at their computer screens. Sadly, I am one of those people.

And the thing is, social outcasts can't group together, take over the school, and convince the popular kids that everyone is equal, as they do in the movies. No, that will never happen. And you wanna know why? It's because we're socially challenged, even when it comes to each other. Social outcasts are afraid of other social outcasts. I know that sounds completely and utterly dumb, but it's the truth. The sad, sad truth, indeed.

Anyhow, the smell of sharpened pencils and new notebooks is enough to send any child—popular or outcasts alike—running towards the hills. And I mean that literally and figuratively.

Thus, when the bus pulled up in front of my house, in all its yellow, gas-spewing glory, I was not the happiest child on earth. I clambered up the widely spaced steps and sat down in the first seat. Due to the fact that it was still technically summer (Autumn didn't officially come until later in September, right?) the humidity was off-the-charts high. The bus seat stuck to my legs and the back of my neck, making it unpleasant to move around. This already screamed "Fun!"

The bus driver let out a guttural cough, trying to cover it with his arm. Pleasant, much? The kids that were already on the bus talked to each other nervously, wondering what would happen in the new school year. Then there was I, sitting in the seat reserved for kindergarteners, crossing and uncrossing my legs anxiously.

My day was off to a great start.

It got even better when I actually walked into school. The floors were clean, the walls were covered with posters, and I knew that none of this would last past the first week. Part of me was happy to be back, only because I knew what to expect and who to expect it from. It was as if I burned the roof of my mouth every time I had soup because I didn't wanna wait for it to cool. I knew that it was coming, but I did nothing to stop it.

Ah, the story of my life.

The thing is, though, that I'm in high school now. I'm amazed that I've survived this long. The school was big, but I was expecting it. Kids crammed the hallways, running to find their friends and their lockers. It resembled a pack of wild animals fighting over a fresh kill. What can I say—I'm filled with analogies today. But even though I joke, I have to admit that I was partially scared out of my little freshman wits. I felt as though all eyes were on me, and the upperclassmen were snickering and pointing at me (For all I know, that could have happened. I mostly stared at the ground and avoided eye contact as much as possible).

I was standing at the front of the hallway, waiting for the chaos to die down, when someone slammed into me from behind. I tripped over my own two feet and landed on my knees, in front of the entire mob of people. That wasn't exactly the entrance I was hoping to make.

"Sorry, sorry!" said the person that had oh-so-rudely knocked me over. I looked up to see Gretchen Finnery standing over me, her perfectly manicured hand resting on her hip. She tipped her head to the side, causing her blonde locks to cascade over her shoulder, as if she was trying to remember who I was. The little snot face. Now, you see, my Dear Diary, I'm describing Gretchen in such great detail for one reason and one reason only: She was the enemy. We had known each other since kindergarten and hated each other for even longer.

"Anne," she purred with mock sympathy. "I am so very sorry that I knocked you over."

So very sorry that you can't even call me by the right name, I thought bitterly. "It's Anna," I said as calmly as I could. I started to pull myself up from the ground. "And it is okay. I'm fine, thanks for asking."

Gretchen looked me over from top to bottom. She was probably dissing my bright yellow converse inside of her over-inflated head. I will admit, I looked nothing like Gretchen did—she wore all of the brand names that I couldn't pronounce and I was garbed in a tie-dye t-shirt from two years ago and paint-splattered jeans. Right now she was parading around in short-shorts and a blouse, and I… well, I don't "parade."

The spawn of Hades waved her hand around in the air. "Anna, that's right," she muttered loud enough for me to hear. "I always get that wrong. I don't know why. Maybe you just don't stick in my head."

I'll stick you in the head. The girl was practically begging me to throw her back into Tartarus. I was about to tell her off with some snappy comeback, but she opened her mouth before I could give her a piece of my mind.

"Jennie!" she called to someone behind me. I spun around to see one of her minions sprinting over. And in case you have not seen a girly-girl sprint, it is pretty funny to watch.

"Oh my god," Jennie squealed. "Look at the text that I just got!" She stuck her over-priced cell phone in front of Gretchen's face and let out another squeal. Then Gretchen squealed. I think I puked.

Now, I could have stood there for half an hour, watching the squeal-fest, but my instincts told me not too. I was forgotten at the OMG. Not that that bothered me. The sooner Gretchen turned her attention elsewhere was better for my well-being—and her face, because I was pretty darn close to knocking her lights out (For the record, I doubt I would actually hit her. Sadly, I'm too chicken. But it's the thought that counts, right?). Not even bothering to glance back at the Pretty Committee, I walked off, thinking how now would be a good time to find my locker.

And therefore, I went on with my day, trying my best not to get run over by seniors.

It didn't take me long to realize that I had the worst teachers in the entire school. My English teacher broke out in song; my Science teacher blew something up just by touching it; and my History teacher could not pronounce America right. From the looks of it, it was going to be a long, long year. Emphasis on the long.

Lunch period was the best. I couldn't see over all the other kids and ended up in the salad line. What non-cheerleader girl wanted to eat a salad on the first day of school? I piled shredded cheese and salad dressing on the green leaves, which defeated the purpose of eating "healthy." I was standing at the checkout counter, counting my money, when, for the second time that day, I was pushed. And, of course, to my horror, the worst thing that could possibly happen, happened. I felt myself fall forward and cringed—this wasn't gonna end well. Cold, slime hit my face and I inwardly groaned. Needless to say, my face had landed right in my lunch—and into the mountain of ranch dressing that I had globbed on to it.

Laughter came from the jock that had knocked into me. Even the woman working the cash register was laughing. "I'm… I'm… sorry," he tried to say between laughs. Erg.

Slowly, I wiped the dressing off. It was coated onto half of my face. "On second thought," I muttered, "I think I'll get the soup." I left the plate full of destroyed salad and went straight to the bathroom. All of the girls that were examining their hair, rather than actually using the bathroom, recoiled at my face. What wimps. You would think that they'd never seen something weird before.

Welcome to high school.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted. I had never known school could be so stressful. I know that there are always horror stories about the first day of high school, but I never believed them—they were mostly myth. But then, I had my own bad experience, one that I will tell my grandchildren about, my Dearest Diary. It was that bad. I will never be able to eat a salad again—even if I was stranded on a deserted island with all the unlimited salad that I would ever hope for. Well, maybe I would eat it in that situation, but that's only because I don't wanna die. So, if I was faced with eating salad in any non-life or death situations, then I would refuse to eat it. Pinky promise.

Back to the topic of school. There was no way I was going to survive four years of this place. I was wishing for summer to come back, but I doubted that it would listen to me. Darn Mother Nature.

My parents, oh how I love them, wanted to know all about my first day of high school. I felt bad telling them that it was one of the worst days of my life and that I wanted to transfer to some place with a really fancy sounding name. So I flattered them. They would understand this when I told them later… at my wedding. My mom was so worried about me since I had a limited (read: nonexistent) number of friends. With her light brown hair, and warm smile, she was too pleasant to let down. Even though I had a dork for a mom—heck, I'm a dork myself, so I'm guessing I'm the pot calling the kettle black—she was one of the greatest people I've ever met. Though I'm seriously considering expanded my acquaintances.

They bombarded me with questions during supper. Mom had made my favorite meal, spaghetti, so, at the very least, that made me feel a bit better. I lied through my teeth, telling them that all my teachers sounded great and that kids seemed really nice. I even told them that the air conditioning was working and I was cool as a refrigerated cucumber—when, in reality, the school was a sweat-inducing sauna. They ate it up. And I've been told that I'm a terrible liar. Psh.

"How was your day?" I asked them, trying to get the subject off of me. Truthfully, I didn't really care about their days, but I was trying to be nice… and I trying to get the subject off of me. My parents seemed to avoid my eyes. I wondered if I had any dressing left in my hair. When they had asked me, "How was your day," I failed to mention the whole salad dressing fiasco. No need to open a can of worms, right? Right.

They both mumbled on about something that happened to them. Dad told some story about a stapler and someone going to the hospital, but I was only half-listening. Mom could have been talking about Hawaiian belly dancers for all I knew. I know—I'm such a loving daughter.

Then, something weird happened. My parents looked at one another. I was one of those looks. I had a feeling something was wrong. Did someone die? Were we losing the house? Was global warming the cause of the bad economy?

"Honey," my mother said, as she grabbed my wrist. "We have something to tell you. It's really hard for us to say this, but we've put a lot of thought into this, and we decided that it's going to happen. I hope you understand." She gazed at my father, silently pleading for help.

"Anna Vera," he said. "We're moving."

To be continued…

So, welcome to my story! First of all, thank you for reading it! The beginning chapters of this story are relatively short, but as the story progresses, the chapters will get longer.

I hope you enjoyed it!