The Nobodies

2. Maddie Has a Very Bad Day

Maddie

I know everyone has 'special darling quirks' like me, and I'm not special. There are things which make us all a little unordinary – for better or worse.

In my case, it's most likely genetic. Dad has an inability to walk past a car without checking for punctures in the tyres. My baby sister worries about hitting herself on sharp edges. She hates the feel of animal fur on our carpet.

I know this. I know what my nervous habits are.

Every day, I still wake up anxious.

I wash my hair at the same time each morning, scrubbing my head clockwise five times and alternating for another ten. I have to use the same pea sized amount of lavender-scented scalp-sensitive enviromentally-friendly shampoo. If I get it wrong, I smear the product back inside the bottle and start over.

If I don't have to start over, I tilt my head upwards. Always in the same angle with my eyes always partially shut. I feel the suds dissolve as the water chases it away – water that's always warm, never hot enough to give me split ends.

These are just the start of my daily rituals. If they're changed or taken away, I become very, very irritable.

After my shower, I always find a glass of orange juice on the kitchen bench waiting for me, courtesy of Darling Mother Dearest. Roughly five minutes into draining my glass of said orange juice, I will look for my school bag to and laptop. I will snap at my mother if I'm not able to find either of these items.

Darling Mother Dearest speaks in a way that capitalises everything she says. More often than not she'll snap at me for being stupid enough to misplace my bag again, everyday this happens, For Goodness Sake, Maddie – you're Not Twelve Anymore. I will find my bag at the top shelf of my closet, knowing Gabriele had hidden it up there for fear of anything red.

I get dressed in the dark – it's bad luck to look at my reflection before eight in the morning. I gather my belongings and meet my sister at the front door. We walk to the bus stop. This takes roughly nine and a half minutes. On Tuesdays and Fridays, Joe Yoole from next door is weeding his front yard. He was once an annoying divergent, who'd become absorbed into our routine with time. He calls out and waves; ever since we helped him find his cat, he's gotten it into his mind that my sister and I are his good friends.

"Morning, ladies," Joe from-across-the-street calls out. Tomato plants line his driveway.

He's a middle-aged man and we do not know him. We wave.

We reach our bus stop. My sister shudders at the glaringly red stop sign across the street. I wave to Chu Shu and Miguel – two people I can reliably call friends.

There's never much time for chatter, as our bus is always crowded. The lady with the shawl and black teeth sits at the front with her market trolley. No one is brave enough to sit with her. We usually stand in the middle and find something to grab onto, or if a seat is available, Gabriele sits on my lap throughout the ride. I will scold her for being underweight. She will be too preoccupied with holding her breath for as long as possible. She is a germophobe.

We arrive at our school gates in less than twenty minutes most days, but I'm generous. If it's snowing, or raining, or traffic is bad, I'll allow up to a twelve minutes delay. If ever this happens, I grind my teeth into little nubs until the world is right again.

Why? Because rituals keep me sane. They keep me normal. They can't be disturbed and they can't be tampered with.

I hate things I can't anticipate. They're a sign that something evil and horrible and dreadful is about to happen to me, that I have lost all control in a meaningless world.