Living to Loving

Chapter 3

*Gemma POV* 

Tuesday has rolled around once again, as has the support group. Right after choir, my last period. I slip in to the classroom.

I sit down in the back of the soprano section, circumambient by people I don't want to be around, as usual. Bella sits at my feet, just like always.

"Miss Gemma?" My choir director, Miss Carr says, stretching her neck up to see me.

My chest constricts in anxiety. I don't like to be called on. In fact, I find it downright repulsive. "Yes Miss Carr?"

"Would you come down for a moment?" Miss Carr asks.

Did I do something wrong?

I can hear the "Ooooh someone's in trouble," oscillating around the room. It only makes the nervousness inside of me intensify. I'm sure it's seen blatantly on my face. I don't like being called on. I don't like being talked to. I don't like social interdependence, period.

"Class, please be quiet," Miss Carr says, waving her hand. The class quiets. Miss Carr is venerated. She's everyone's favorite teacher. She's sweet and patient, but when you test that patience it's not pretty.

"Hi Miss Gemma," Miss Carr gives me a sweet smile and hands me a paper. "There's a solo competition in about two weeks. I only send three students every year. You play an instrument, right?"

I nod.

"Which ones?" Miss Carr gives me an encouraging smile.

"Guitar, drums, and keyboard," I say quietly.

Miss Carr nods. "Ah, the band instruments. I think you would be an amazing candidate then. Your challenge is to mix a song, all your own. It can't be a recording of a recording. Everything has to be yours. If the judges like it, they'll send you to the state competition. Ten people go to the state competition. I think you'd be an amazing candidate for this. All the information is on here. I hope you'll look into it."

I nod. "Thank you."

"Your welcome," Miss Carr smiles again. "Good luck, Miss Gemma."

She says it as if I'm going to do it, even though there's no percentage or fraction of me that has any desire, even preliminary, of doing a competition like that and she should know it. I don't do competitions. It stresses me out, and I'm stressed enough on a day-to-day basis.

I walk back to my seat, my head ducked pensively, ignoring the immensely envious stares I get from my peers.

I'm not doing it.

I sit down and we go through warm-ups, and our song list for the school musical. Miss Carr keeps shooting me encouraging looks, like they'll prompt me to participate in the competition. There's no chance I'm going to. I don't like the spotlight being on me.

When I get up I duck my head like always and let the students surge around me.

"Hi," a girl says, walking-or practically skipping up beside me.

"Hi," I mutter barely audible, and start walking at a faster pace. Leave me alone, my mind shrieks at her. She doesn't heed my mind, regrettable to me. Apparently she's not a mind reader. I don't like her.

"I'm new," the girl says.

I can see that. If you had spent even a meager two months at Britain High you would know not to engage in conversation with me. But I keep my mouth shut and keep on walking.

"Sweet dog," she says. "Can I pet her?"

"No," I say. I glance at her and keep walking.

"What's got your rope in a knot?" The girl says. Her accent sounds like she's from South Carolina. She talks like it too.