The Outsiders
Part A: The Grass is always Greener
It seems like everyone has a plan in life.
Here in Diagon Alley, where I sit, seemingly everyone has somewhere to go, someplace to be, someone to meet I feel like the only person that does not. I wait for the world to begin turning again for me, for time has seemingly stopped.
School shopping has always bored me. You do it every year, over and over, repetition and traditions bestowed upon you. Robes, quills, ink, books Guaranteed on every list. More often than naught, it gets strangely blurred, like a wrinkle in time, and this year seems like last year, and you cannot tell the difference between the ages. I may as well be five years old and buying sweet pink ink and the newest Avaliene Doll. Times show no distance during school shopping days.
Then there's the saying; "I'm going to reinvent myself this year!" You go to school supercharged, positive you'll be the "it" girl. This truth tells itself to every teenager after they tried You can't. You end up drifting like debris on the side of a river to the shore of your past friends, helpless against the current. You will never reach the other side.
"Genevieve!" My mother, walking down the street looking like a mix between a lady and a tramp, yells my name. She has curves like hills and high leather boots that rise up to her knee below her shortened robes that "clunk" when she walks, like Godzilla with a tan and a "twenty-four-inch-waistline-thankyouverymuch". I turn slightly, acknowledging her presence.
"Yes, mama?" I say her name in French, my home language. As a Beaubxatons student, French is my language premier.
"Oh Genevieve! I found zese robes for you! You must come and look at zese beautiful zings!" She says in her marred English accent. She flicked back her whitish hair, a trademark for a veela. I didn't inherit all of the beautiful genes that I'd have liked. I'm a nobody today. What will I become tomorrow?
After a short trip to the robe store, we stop for lunch. Just across a small gate, separating restaurants, I see three teenagers my age.
Look at them smile! Their faces, laughing and smiling and their eyes dancing They are a circle of friends that truly love each other. I wish, I wish
Stop! Don't wish for something you can't have! I remind myself, frowning slightly, yet something about them draws my eyes like a magnet back to them.
"Who are you looking at? Oh zat! 'E is 'Arry Potter! 'Is friends, zey are on ze cover of ze Daily Prophet!" My mother exclaims, noticing my gaze.
"Where?" I ask.
"Here!" She hands me a slightly crumpled issue of today's Daily Prophet. I smooth it slightly, reading the short article. The boy with dark hair is Harry, the girl is Hermione, and the red haired boy is Ron. Hermione and Ron are currently dating, it says, and they are all the best of friends.
Hermione The name rings around in my head. How I wish How I wish to be her! Perfect grades! Perfect friends! Perfect boyfriend! Perfect life.
But I understand that no matter how hard I try, nothing will break their circle of friendship. I tried, failed, and never tried again. As non-moral as it may seem They have a plan in life, don't they? Hermione fiddles with her fork as Ron cracks a joke and pats her on the shoulder. She smiles slightly, the corners of her eyes barely crinkling, then resumes playing with the fork. Then, as if magically, our eyes meet. I turn away, blushing frantically, and pretend to be engrossed in my mama's lecture about how this year at Beauxbatons will be my best, but my eyes wander. There they were again.
The scene was perfect, and it was right there, like a fantasy movie playing in front of me right there! How I wish to go out and touch them! To say hi and be invited to sit! Everything to work out perfectly If I could only be her! It's just on the other side of the gate
Yet I am an outsider.
Part B: On the Other Side of the Fence
He cracks a joke I didn't hear and slaps my back. I pretend to be listening, and I laugh, just to reassure that I was listening, and resume to my fascination in white plastic sporks.
My life, as I know it, is miserable.
Just today, my picture was printed on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Mother read the article, and immediately cut out my picture and placed it strategically on my refrigerator. She smiled, merrily, and read the article, handing it over to Father, who reads it and smiles.
"So you have been working, eh? Your grades are perfect as usual! But this boy" He grunts, then coughs, patting me on the back.
"Don't let this boy bring down your grades!" Mother says, pursing her lips together till they were white.
"Oh, it won't. Our daughter is perfect. Right honey?" Father smiled.
I put on my best fake smile, my straight teeth glowing in its deadly amount of Day-Glo and 10,000 watt cherry lip-gloss. They are taken aback, and resume breakfast.
No one realizes the pressure.
Sometimes, I feel as if I'm standing in a tinfoil submarine at the bottom of the ocean with my fingers and toes plugging up holes. The pressure in there is so strong, I can barely think straight. Any second, without warning, my submarine will blow into pieces and I will be enveloped in the serenal abyss of the chilly waters, but only for a moment
That's when I have to come back to shore and explain to my parents how I failed in keeping the submarine intact and moving. I'll explain how I was a failure and how everything blew up in my face, and they will just stare at me, wondering what went wrong with their perfect daughter.
So I laugh at Ron's jokes, smile at just the right moments with my fake Day-Glo smile, messing with a spork that isn't vaguely enticing.
I give him a peck on the cheek, reassuring him that I love him on the outside, a bit of 10,000-watt cherry lip-gloss smudged on his cheekbone. But I don't love him. I'm not sure why I'm even with him. I needed someone to help me plug up holes in the submarine all he accomplished were more holes.
So I sit here, wondering if my life is really worth living. Wondering if there is an underwater sanctuary for people like me that I could just swim to. Someone I could talk to
I notice Harry staring at me. I blush slightly, wondering what he's thinking, and resume trying to perfect glazing over my eyes. He frowns. It was then I knew
He saw right through me.
Clear as crystal, he did. I knew it. He frowned deeper, searching through my worries like a card catalogue. Could he join me on the ship, or could he build me the sanctuary?
I glance over at the restaurant next to ours. A girl and her mother sit at a table. How I wish to be her! Her mother is so fashionable and nice, she herself is rather pretty I bet her parents don't put her in a high pressure cooker. I bet she doesn't have a boyfriend or in my opinion, fake boyfriend. I bet she has more dependable friends than she can count on her fingers I wish I knew her. I wish I could meet her mum and tell her how awesome her boots are. I wish I wish I were her. Our eyes meet, for one second, and we are engrossed in each other's lives, then we turn away, embarrassed for staring. Only a gate separates us from meeting
Yet I am the outsider.