Britta hadn't liked junior high. At first she'd lamented the lack of extra curriculars to pick from and how her friends always chose to sit near the front of the cafeteria.
The back wall of the cafeteria was made up of clear glass panes, revealing a breathtaking view of the mountains that made this town famous.
Then her friends started spending half of lunch in the bathroom while she waited with their half eaten meals, admiring the back wall from afar.
The kids in this town took no notice of the geography and Britta wanted so badly to be different.
Today, she stands in front of the mirror she'd found hung on her wall several weeks after her grandmother succumbed to lupus.
Of course she had pouted and wondered aloud why she, the lone granddaughter, was bequeathed the universal symbol for vanity. Why hadn't either of her brothers received a mirror?
And so she double checked to make sure her door was closed as she admired her striped crew neck T-shirt, paired with cuffed jeans and combat boots.
She ran her fingers through her hair instead of combing it and repeated her personal mantra – this one was a gift from her psychologist. "Britta, you are cool, Britta, you are capable."
She swallows hard after she says so three times. The words taste rather bitter.
The youngest Perry, Niklaus, sits on Britta's left. Her older brother, Erik sits on her right.
They look like little blonde, hyper realistic Babushka dolls. Niklaus starts off the breakfast banter.
"Britta, grunge is dead."
In between mouthfuls of cereal, Britta claps back.
"Just as well, because it was a massively white centric subculture."
Niklaus dribbles milk from his chin as he scoffs at her.
The car pulls up at the school gates, and Britta steps onto the pavement.
She feels her weight tip forward and backward with each step in the exact same way it had before.
She looks up – the American flag flapped round with the wind, and it seemingly aligned with the flow of her breath.
She felt in sync with the world, and that was how she knew high school would be no better.
The other girls from her junior high were divided among the tables in the corner, and they made eye contact occasionally.
Britta felt she was better off, so she paid no attention. In time she'd make friends.
A girl with a long orange braid approached the table and paused. She looked as if she were considering taking a seat, but 5 seconds passed and she walked on, towards a table at the front.
She smiled sweetly at the inhabitants – a girl with bleached hair and a denim jacket, three girls wearing T-shirts tucked into high waisted jeans and a girl who had sewn bottle caps on a tank top, positioned over her nipples. And they pulled up a seat for her!
Britta didn't have to think for a second about what she did next.
She carried her tray over to the table and stood before the girls. She looked them right in the eye.
"Hi, I'm Britta, can I sit with you please?"
The girl with the bottle cap nipples scoffed. "If you want."
She pulled up her own seat, between the orange braid girl and the bleach blonde. The rest of the girls treated her like she wasn't there and continued their discussion. Which happened to be about their local animal welfare group's latest campaign.
"I just think the streaking all the fur coats with fake blood was a bit much."
The girls nod in unison and Britta speaks up.
"No, no you're missing the point! It takes the life and liveliness of the animal, like, the blood and forces it back together with the fur and the commercialization of the animal. It's supposed to open their eyes!"
One of the girls snickered – that was the bottle cap nipple girl (again). Most of them just looked like they'd been forcefully interrupted. The conversation continued as if she'd said nothing.
