But I'm Different (A Demi Lovato Fanfiction)

Chapter: Real Life Isn't a Backstage Pass

"You are gonna have to go at some point, Sab. You can't just be homeschooled forever."

That was the sentence that ruined my entire day.

Maybe my whole week.

Demi stood there with her arms crossed, like this was some serious courtroom drama and I was about to be sentenced to death. I slumped down on the couch, pulling my hoodie over my face like that would somehow erase me from this conversation.

"But Demi," I whined, voice muffled through the fabric. "You were homeschooled though..."

"Yes, but I had a personal reason." She looked away, and that was the only sign of weakness she showed. One second. That was it. Then her eyes were locked on me again. "Besides, you haven't even been to a school before, Sabrina. You've only had tutoring. I think it's time you try middle school."

"I am personally allergic to school."

She didn't flinch.

"End of," she said. "You're going. You might even end up liking it."

I snorted. "I will never like school."

And that was the end of that.

I stormed upstairs like every dramatic 13-year-old girl in a Netflix series, dragging my feet on purpose just to add extra sound effects to my tantrum. I flopped into bed, screaming into my pillow and kicking my legs like a toddler.

It was official.

Tour life was over.
Fun was over.
My freedom? Dead and buried.

Now I had to survive middle school. Like-actual classrooms. Bells. Lockers. People. Teenagers. Worst of all? Touch.

How the hell am I supposed to survive in a room full of kids who elbow, shove, hug, scream, and throw things for fun? It's like throwing a sponge into a blender.

I curled up tighter under the duvet, trying not to cry. I hadn't had to deal with any of this on tour. Everyone knew about my condition. Everyone was gentle. Careful. Demi made sure of it.

But in a school with strangers?

That safety net was gone.

I'd just be the new girl. The weird one. The one who flinches when someone gets a paper cut. The one who probably cries in the bathroom because someone smacked the back of their friend's head in front of me for a laugh.

No one was going to understand.

Next morning, I woke up to sunlight melting my eyelids and the smell of omelettes. Omelettes. Demi was pulling the "favorite breakfast" card. Sneaky. Very sneaky.

I wiped the dried drool off my face and the huge bear I was hugging, and stumbled downstairs like a gremlin just out of hibernation. Sure enough, there she was. Demi. Cheerful. Humming. Cooking like the kitchen was her stage.

"Morning," she chirped like nothing apocalyptic happened yesterday.

"Woah," I mumbled, yawning. "Someone's suspiciously chipper."

She grinned and plopped a plate of omelettes in front of me like it was some kind of peace offering.

I eyed the food like it might be poisoned. Then I took a bite. And another. And moaned dramatically like I was in a five-star restaurant. Because damn-Demi could cook.

For about six minutes, everything was perfect.

Until I ruined it.

"So, uh... what's the plan today?"

She didn't even blink. "We're going school shopping."

I almost choked.

"For what?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"I enrolled you into private middle school yesterday," she said, calmly sipping her orange juice like she didn't just drop a nuclear bomb on my life.

"There's a bus that stops two blocks away," she added, as if that was supposed to make me feel better.

I groaned. Loud. Dramatic. Fell out of my chair like I was dying of school poisoning. She laughed. I didn't. I wasn't joking.

The rest of the day was a blur of stores, checklists, and deep, soul-crushing eye rolls.

First stop: new bag.
Then folders. Notebooks. Pens. Highlighters. A calculator that looked way too expensive for basic math.

Demi held everything while I followed behind like a zombie, dragging my feet and mumbling things like "this is child abuse" and "I miss tour life."

We ended the nightmare with Taco Bell. Which kind of made up for everything. Kind of.

Back home, I collapsed face-first onto the sofa while Demi carried all the shopping bags upstairs like a warrior returning from battle. I was too dead to help until she came back down and gave me the look. So I groaned again, rolled off the couch, and helped carry the rest.

"Sort your stuff out," she said. "I'm taking a hot shower and pretending I didn't just spend three hours listening to you complain."

Fair.

I dragged myself to my room and dumped everything on the floor. The new backpack was kinda cute. Purple with tiny constellations and a matching pencil case. I sat on the carpet, slowly unpacking everything and organizing it into little piles.

The more I did it, the more real it felt. This was happening. I was going to be the new girl in some random private school.

What if they stare?
What if I flinch at something stupid and people laugh?
What if I can't keep it together?

It's not that I don't want to make friends.
It's that I don't want to get hurt doing it.

I sat there for a long time, just staring at the pencil sharpener in my hand like it held all the answers. Maybe I'd be fine. Maybe I'd find someone cool. Maybe people won't be cruel.

But my gut said otherwise.

I crawled onto my bed, face pressed into my pillow. I didn't cry. I just... lay there. Tired. Heavy. Like the world was suddenly pressing down too hard again.

I wasn't ready for this.

But I knew I had to try.

Because Demi believed I could.

Even if I didn't believe it myself yet.