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Fade
by Sweet Apocalypse
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I look down at the paper placed in front of me. The handwriting is immaculate and straight. In the upper right hand corner, a red B is scrawled, with the words 'good effort'. No smiley face this time.
Claudia thinks it's great. She would though with her C minus average. She never listens to those guidance counselors. She might listen to me, if I had the nerve to say something. She might. It's not that I'm not pleased with my mark. It is good. Just not great. I study, I take notes and I revise. But it seems that I'll remain an average student till I get my diploma. Alan Gray catches the look in my eye and asks me if I'm going to cry. I ignore him. But Claudia berates him. Half-heartedly of course, because she and Alan have one of those annoying on and off again relationships (not that I'm one to judge). Alan listens, not because of her magical way with the english language, but because her unique clothing style means she had to cut off the midriff section of her top. It's art.
She's good at art. I remember everyone in the baby-sitter's club was apparently good at something. Like Kristy was good at sports, and Jessi was a talented dancer. Me? Apparently I have nice handwriting, and am a good listener. Seriously, even Stacey McGill, one of the most sophisticated girls at school, with her lace lingerie and big Gucci sunglasses, was and is good at math. Yes, math. After becoming homecoming queen she'd probably get into some exclusive collage. Then she'll probably get into some fancy soritory. Everybody has this image of her. Not always nice, not always horrible. People just accept her as she is. I equate her to Lux Lisbon sometimes, though it's not fair on the latter. She's not like me. She's a somebody. I envy her. Stacey McGill isn't known as that 'crybaby'.
Though, I take that back. Stacey does cry. But normally in between classes in the girl's bathroom, so she can reapply her make-up. Normally so people can feel sorry for her. It's also normally about a boy. Sometimes she sniffles about her father or her diabetes (I swear she has it more under control than some). One time though, she thought she was pregnant. She was in hysterics as we waited for the microwave timer to go off (it was a stylish model. I'd hoped we done it right). She lit a cigarette. The toxic smoke blew in my face. I didn't know if it was a reflex action, or if she had lied to us, and hadn't actually quit three moths ago. I didn't know what smoking does to diabetes. Or to her unborn baby, if she were pregnant. I didn't have the strength to ask. I just perched myself on the closed toilet seat, while Claudia comforted her. I simply watched. These days, I don't know what to say. I was just there because I'm the sensitive one. The one you can trust with anything, because she would never tell. Even under the guise of torture, I'd be expected to keep my lips sealed.
I'm trusted with a lot of things. Especially my own secrets. Logan sometimes asks me what's wrong, and I give my obligatory smile and say, nothing. We're back together, because I can't say no. I can't say no to many things it seems. When I turn my back to go to class, Cokie Manson appears, with her default short skirt and manicured nails. She tells him how great he was at training. If she feels brave enough, she places her arm over his. I heard Stacey and her ex-boyfriend are back together. It was only a matter of time until Cokie moved on. I can't help but feel a tingle of regret, if nothing else. I could never do that to Logan.
And I'm too much of a pushover to say anything.
Kristy and Abby would step in and do something. Normally. Stacey would usually try to halt them. She can be such popularity wannabe sometimes. I don't know how much she truly cares about any of us. She'd only try to stop them because it wouldn't be good if she were friends with the people who tried to beat Cokie Mason up. But Kristy has these new friends (who really were Abby's friends first). I have nothing in common with them. I'm too self-conscious to hang around with them. If I do sit with them at lunch, I'm pushed to the edge of the bench, where I rack my mind in hope of finding something good to say. So my friendship with my first best friend has changed dramatically. We still go around with the pretence of best friends, but she doesn't tell me anything. Anyway, Kristy doesn't notice. She hasn't seen this change overtake me. We talk about the past when we have a rare conversation. I always have this knack of running into her. At the present, we're both a bit shocked about the latest gossip about Mallory Pike, a past friend of ours. We hardly see that girl anymore, though, so maybe it shouldn't be that much of a surprise. Even on school holidays, I seem never get around to visiting Mallory. Sometimes I get three houses to her house, before making a sudden detour. I could knock on Stacey's door instead, but these days it would just be weird. .
Anyway, apparently Mallory turned goth. Again, it shouldn't have been that much of a bombshell, really. But even Jessi Ramsey was (another girl I've long lost contact with). They used to be pretty close. But Mal dyed her hair black and began listening to Opeth. Her parents sent her to a therapist after they found her morbid poems hidden under her mattress, and her scars hidden under her sleeves. I told this to Dawn, lying on my bed with Tigger curled at my ankle. Dawn laughed, and said something about 'posers'. Personally, I think labels are stupid. Dawn is quick to label people. I'm only spared because I've known her since she was twelve. Besides lately she's turned political. She talks of bringing down Bush, and bringing in refugees. She has a twenty-one year old boyfriend, whom she met at some protest, but her last relationship was with Anna Bouvier, a fiery red head vegan. Then sometimes if we were alone (and we weren't on opposite sides of the country) she'd offer me a joint. I'd say no, and she'd laugh. Because I'm so much of a wimp, even my sister finds it funny. I don't want even want to imagine what others think of me. It's a wonder if I'll ever have friends again.
I mean, of course, I have friends. Kind of. I sit with them at lunch (Logan sits with the jocks now. I'm not too keen). They talk to me in class, and allow me to participate in-group work. But they never call me after class or invite me to the mall. If I ever question them apparently they were under the impression that I would be busy with my boyfriend. I don't what I expected. I'm still shy after all. I'm not like Abby or Claudia. I'm not interesting. Sharon seems a bit concerned. So sometimes I pretend I'm going out, or have a baby-sitting job, and just walk until I feel the blisters under my toes. These days I don't have the energy to talk to anyone. It's all the same.
I look down at my paper. I feel alone. Claudia is showing Alan her latest sketch. On my other side Erica is talking to Mariah about Pete Black's party last Friday. Sometimes, I feel invisible. I feel I fade into the background. Everyone has this stereotype of everyone else.
I guess this is my cue to start crying.
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