I Believe . . .

• Lauren Lietzow, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2010

I believe the best part of life comes before.
I believe that most students at this school are stuck up.
I believe that books are a way to escape life.
I don’t believe that a cute guy will randomly say ‘Hi’ to me.
I don’t believe that writing this will help me in anyway.

I scribbled down the few words into my tatted brown notebook, Mum always wanted to throw it out; telling me it was dirty or it was made of the worst fabric that anyone could pick out to create a childish book. But my thoughts were different; they varied every day, like how the weather can change from a stormy night to a humid sweltering day; one where my toes would feel as if they were melting into the leather of my steel toed boots.

The bell chimed with its ordinary rhythm booming through the classroom corridors. Mrs Thornberry dismissed the class with a deep pitched grunt while she began to mutter to herself some calming words to keep her mind from going crazy at the other students that would always yell from the back of the class during the 5th period … the 5th period I’d always be stuck in with her. She’s always made such a hassle about how the students don’t behave and how she always has to try and swallow a mound of words that shouldn’t be spoken, by anyone.

I hushed my rushing thoughts before slipping out of the classroom with the pack of students that were huddled up the front of the room a few minutes ago. One small girl with blond curls anchored to her head took a quick peek behind her to see me with a pile of books and plain loose-leaf papers stuffed into a small navy blue binder. The girl turned back and hushed out a few whispers to the fellow students that followed her around like a heard of sheep … Ms. Blond-Curls was Little-Bo-Peep. A few other students peered around to gawk at me, including one brunette who had an arm linked around Ms. Blond-Curls. The young brunette had a small pointed nose, blue eyes and a splash of makeup covering her face. I remembered her from last year her name was Kayla, she was a mathlete with freckles and frost blue glasses that always use to slip onto the tip of her nose. Obviously she had ditched the glasses when getting a step up to ‘Popular’. Her freckles had been covered with a thick lap of foundation that spread throughout her face, mascara clomped on her thin eyelashes and a slash of bright pink lip gloss was smeared across her chaffed lips. She seemed different, giving me a fixed glare before she started off towards the field with Ms. Blond-Curls.

Shoving my books into my locker I caught a glimpse of a white sheet of paper, stapled to a single thread on navy blue sweater; it read “Loser”.

Oh, Great!