My narritive!

In general, like many similar black-clad angsty teens, I have (had) a low opinion of myself. This stemmed from my rambunctious early years, where I acted like a boy and I read a lot. The latter was my escape from the brutal teasing that came with the former, though it turned into a joy of its own.
In middle school, which is notorious for its tendency to breed malicious girls, I was picked for exclusion. I was in the IB program, which is basically for smart people. As a result, I was in classes with more or less the same 150 people all through my school life. They didn’t like me. The program began in 6th grade, and I left it my junior year, sick of being the one not talked to, the one who never had partners, the one picked last.
Because of this, I grew up without a lot of friends. I started viewing everyone as having a higher status than me, and I would be subservient to anyone who showed affection or even talked to me. By high school, I managed to make tenuous friendships with some of my classmates, but the damage had been done. Once a cheerfully outgoing little girl, I became withdrawn, unhappy, thinking myself worthless, except for my skill at poetry. Poetry was my hidden talent—the one thing no one could beat.
From all my time alone, I developed the habit of watching other people have friends. There were some people who I particularly admired because they had some outstanding talents. I would stare at them, unnoticed, and enjoy their antics. They were always performing for the world, and I always got good seats. I thought I was enjoying myself, and I was—they were all very entertaining. But that didn’t make me happy. Every time I saw a joke pass between friends, a friendly hug, a slap on the back, I wanted to be there. What did they have that I didn’t? I couldn’t stand the isolation, the watching them have fun. By the end of freshman year it drove me into a deep depression.
I continued my observations of these people, and the admiration turned into a kind of hero worship that I kept to myself. One of the ‘Great Ones’ I felt I had a personal connection to was Chris. He came to school every day in his green trench coat, disregarding the ‘no coats’ rule, with his unruly long hair pulled back for convenience. He kept a harmonica in his pocket and prose on his lips, and would look back with laughing eyes as he walked out the school doors. He was a rebel, that’s for sure, but a genius in my eyes, with a natural mastery of wordsmithing that put me to shame. My poetry didn’t even stand a chance next to his, and tears would burn in my eyes as I struggled to emulate his skill and came up short, again and again. I would have hated him, but I didn’t know how to hate. So instead, I just envied and respected.
We had a common bond that I hoped might actually bring me in contact with him—chess. We were members of the small club at my school, and one day we ended up playing for several hours. We were just killing time before a school activity, but somehow, I was interesting enough for him to keep talking to me.
Someone found me interesting! That simple fact had me amazed. So, what did I do? I fell in love. When I got home, I thought of him constantly. We had talked about his writing over the chess game, and he had said he would give me a copy of his latest story if I wanted. Well, of course I did! But, meanwhile, I was going to go back to my own. Maybe I could somehow write something good enough to show him…
The next day, I saw him again, right after the final bell rang. He flagged me down in the hallway, one hand high above the crowd, the other clutching a massive pile of school things. Multi-colored paper stuck out at odd angles from textbooks, notebooks, a sketchbook, and I wondered for a second how it all stayed together. His trademark trench was draped over his arm. He was wearing the same shirt as the day before. It was just a regular t-shirt, but on him it looked amazing. I can still remember having to drag my eyes up from his wiry body, where his shirt hung loose enough that I knew he wasn’t showing off, and tight enough that I could see he was rail thin, almost frighteningly so. But the arm holding the stack was sturdy, and his bicep bulged as he shifted his books, fumbling through the papers to find something.
“Here! Take this. Read it, tell me what you think!” The corners of his mustache lifted as he smiled. I had to smile back, though shyly, as I took the paper-clipped bundle in my hand. I glanced down. It was his story. His hand was muscular, and when he pulled his hand away, his fingers brushed mine. Terror and delight sprang in my heart, and I froze, petrified. I forced myself to turn away, afraid he’d notice my immobility and slack-jawed expression.
“Wait!” He had to yell to be heard over the din of the crowd, so I turned back to him. I think that by then, I was shaking. He snagged the story back from my hand and scrawled something on the back. “My number. Call me, alright?” Without waiting for my answer, he turned away in a typical Chris-like swirl of trench coat and brown hair and skipped off, somehow plowing through the masses of students fighting for the door. I stood there, letting them flow past me, watching him go. I wasn’t even thinking anything. It was like my mind was speechless too. Eventually, I turned and went to my bus. As I made my way, a smile grew somewhere inside me. He’d given me his number. Chris had given me his number.

We talked for hours that Sunday. We got along well, shared random things, made fun of our teachers. We were just so comfortable talking that it all seemed so…natural. I’d never felt this before, this ease of communication, and I loved it.
I wrote poems about him that weekend. I wrote about how, as a writer, I feel things more poetically. Writers fall in love, in the storybook definition of the word. And I?
I was in love with him.
That Monday, I ran into Chris again. He invited me to come downstairs to his pottery class, and (feeling like a dog trailing his master) I followed. I felt just in awe, and very anxious, afraid I would now say something wrong and I’d lose this right to converse with such an amazing person. Through a strange coincidence, we wound up alone in the room. It was then that he handed me the poems he had written about me. His feelings echoed mine so much that I just froze, petrified. It was so amazing. Reading those words, I realized he looked at me with the same kind of awe with which I looked at him.
He called me an angel in those poems, you know. He stripped himself of all protection and left his heart raw and lying on the page for me to read. He saw me as pure, something beautiful, that he had no right to corrupt by being near. To idealize someone else, and then find that they idealize you, is something that shocks the brain.

He called me beautiful. My mind still reels at the thought. Years of trying to dress right, speak right, think right, and coming out feeling completely inadequate screamed in protest as I tried to comprehend it. It helped that he was just as amazed that I loved him and admired, even envied his cocky grace. Having someone there constantly telling you that you are beautiful does wonders for self esteem, and he was just what I needed.
He’s changed my life. Before him, I was a child, craving acceptance and attention. After, I knew I had it, from him, if no one else. And somehow, that was enough. Though time goes on and love’s whimsy changes, he gave me something that lasted. Through loving him, I learned that I was, in fact, a tolerable person. And I can live with that.

It’s amazing, you know. When you are sure of yourself, when you are comfortable, other people can tell. I’m in my first year of college now, and sophomore year seems a long ways away, but I can still remember how Chris used to put on spontaneous performances for the general public…
Someone would stop him in the hallway, and he would talk animatedly about something, making dramatic arm gestures (hand gestures just didn’t cut it) and moving his whole body—leaning back and forth, taking a few hop-steps this way, then that, wildly throwing his hands up in a parody of fear. He would jut out his chin, a snarl distorting his face, then pull back, arms out, fingers wide in a pushing away motion, looking completely affronted. “Some people put up with that kind of thing, but not me. Oh no, not me.” I was usually one of those who gathered to watch, silently depositing myself in a good vantage point, wishing with everything I had that I could be him.


The other day, I found myself having a passionate conversation with someone. As often happens, I went off in a monologue, and was just carried away on my stream of thought. I continued an animated conversation, unable to stay in my chair, gesturing wildly. There were a bunch of people around me, all watching my antics, laughing at my jokes, responding to my questions….
It was amazing. It seems like such a long time since those days of isolation and observing, though it really hasn’t been that long. And I really did succeed in emulating him, after all, and yet I succeeded for different reasons than I could have imagined.
Hey, did I ever tell you about that time………