Time May Change
My name is Krista; plain and simple. It's not short for Christine, or Kristina or anything, just Krista. And don't you dare ever call me Crystal or worse, Kristine. In the ninth grade some fool of a teacher made the mistake of calling me Kristine. He never made the mistake again. He must have been new, everyone new better. Kristine was my mother's name. But she's dead now, so there isn't too much to say about her. She died when I was six. It was an awful car wreck. I'll never forgive the man who killed her; my father. I don't have to worry about him anymore though. He was an alcoholic my whole life until he committed suicide when I was in tenth grade, on my sixteenth birthday. I don't know if he even knew it was my birthday, he never paid attention to me, it was my mother who loved me, and he who took her away.
I should be thankful I didn't have to go into foster care or anything. My wonderful father had remarried when I was in the fifth grade. I got to live with my stepmother and her brat child until I graduated and went to college. She spoiled her kid so much, I was the forgotten one in the background, but I didn't care. I guess in some way I was just trying to make the best of things. Whatever. I just didn't care about anything. I learned through time that it's better to be unnoticed than to be in the open. That's why I love college so much, I can have my freedom, or as close as I can get.
It's so different from high school. I had a pretty small school in the cold northern part of New Hampshire. There I knew everyone's name, and they all knew mine. Don't mistake me, I wasn't friends with all of them, quite the contrary, I hated them all equally, and for that they all knew who I was. I never talked to any of them, but I knew their names, I liked to know the field, I tend to observe a lot. I noticed a lot in that school that those half-brained fools would never pick up on and they knew it. They also knew not to cross my path. I found it almost amusing that eighty percent of the time a path would clear when I came down the hall. They never gave me trouble and I never gave them a reason to. At graduation I had nobody there to take my picture for me. The teacher in ninth grade who called me Kristine felt bad and tried giving me some graduation money or something. I told him to buzz off. I didn't need his money or his pity.
The one thing my mom left me was a good amount of money. That combined with a full time job was enough to get me into a pretty decent school out of state in northern Vermont. It's not the best, but it's better than what I had. I remember walking up and getting my diploma, I think the ninety year old guy who fell asleep during his speech got more applause than me. Nobody clapped for me. I didn't want their applause; I wanted them to go away. I didn't even stay for the whole thing, as soon as I got my diploma I got in my car and left. I didn't go out partying or out with friends, I didn't have any. Don't think I went home either. I went to the stables. When my dad remarried, I started taking riding lessons. I guess that was his way of saying sorry for ruining my life even more than before. I loved horses so much I continued taking lessons until he died. My lessons for the most part were just me paying the stable to let me ride whenever I wanted. I took a few lessons, but I believed that first hand experience was the best way to go. They weren't to thrilled at first, but I was a fast learner and they trusted me. Then my dad…well, I already told you what he did, the selfish jerk.
That's when I got a gob at the barn. Not the best cash, but I enjoyed it. The riders never talked to me but the horses did. I understand them and they understand me. My boss, Paula, always said I had a certain way with them. Now at college I ride at a nearby barn. I got roped into joining the riding team there and that's fine enough but I hate putting up with all of the stupid giddy girls. My riding instructor there, Frank, he must love it, thirty college age women at his finger tips. He is still in college himself, a senior this year I believe. His mom and dad own the barn but he does most of the work, including giving lessons. I remember my first lesson very clearly. No one asked me about my riding, if I had any prior experience or anything, they just tacked up a pony (yes a pony) and asked me to walk around the arena nice and gently.
The look on Frank's face when he discovered that I was a very experienced was worth every second of being treated like a green horn beginner. I rode western back then; I found it more relaxing, but Frank pulled me aside one day and said that it was a waste of my money to continue taking western lessons. So then I got out my high boots and breeches from the one summer I had spent showing. I conveniently forgot to mention that where as I was a self taught western rider, I had prior schooling in English and had a few ribbons to show for it. I took one English lesson and got pulled aside again. Frank said he was pulling me from the class. I thought I had done something wrong. He put me in the experienced group, the group that he rides in while giving the lesson. I don't like it there.
The girls in that class are more relaxed on the horses and they talk way too much. But not me, I keep my mouth shut; they do enough talking for ten people. My instructor thinks I am strange since I am so silent. He also yelled at me to 'smile for once' I didn't need to explain to him that there was nothing worth smiling about. I told him that I don't 'do happy.'
The people on campus are quickly learning not to talk to me. The girls on my floor avoid the halls when I am going to and from my room, where I spend much of my time. I once punched a girl out for looking at me cross. I had been having a really bad day though. Now when I walk to classes people don't even look at me. Some of them are starting to cross the street when I go by. I wish I could find that pleasing but part of me is saddened by it.
I suppose it is good though. This year, my sophomore year, while coming back from a play I had to see for a class I got cornered by some guys from school. There were about ten of them, all drunk out of their minds. It was both homecoming and Halloween night so they were all dressed up like fools. They cornered me in an alleyway near the theatre. They thought I was some unsuspecting girl they could get to go 'upstairs' with them. Boy were they wrong. Once they realized who I was they backed off a bit. Thankfully I only had to exchange a few 'kind' words with them to get them to let me go. I was glad to; I really didn't feel like having to clean and re-sharpen my knife that night. Things aren't much better now though, my switchblade is broken. I asked my step-mother for a new one for Christmas but I know I'll just have to go buy one myself. Last year I asked for new arrows for my bow and she got me a pair of socks. Did I mention they were the wrong size?
Even better, this year, I won't be home for Christmas, if you call it home. I don't know where I will be, but not there. Last time I was home we got into a bit of a spat and I left for school early, mostly because she told me to go back and not come home again, I agreed wholeheartedly. It was Thanksgiving weekend and everything was locked up. No dorms were open, the parking lots were empty, not a single sign of life and I was hours away from anyone I knew with nowhere to go. I had four days to kill in my car with no shower, no food, a bottle of water and a ton of homework to do. That brings us to the present; day three, late evening. The dorms will be unlocked tomorrow afternoon, so I only have to last one more freezing night. I've been using my bed sheets as my only blanket while wearing the heaviest socks I could find in my laundry. I'm an odd person, when I am awake and outside, the cold doesn't bother me, so I didn't have any warm sweaters or long-sleeve shirts to slip on, only one three-quarter sleeve shirt that I was wearing when I got stuck and my suede jacket. Everyone else is enjoying a nice Thanksgiving break; I'm stuck in my car freezing.