Flightless Bird

|1| The Makings of an Introvert

Iv'e never really understood why everyone tries so hard. I mean, it seems that the whole world is obsessed with fitting in. It's always about your image; how you present yourself to others and whether or not they approve of you. And if they don't, then you cry and sulk at home alone while they go on not caring. So, what's the point? You'll have more luck finding a rope that stretches to the moon than you will with getting everyone to like you. It's one of those impossibilities that I accept.

Though, I won't pretend to be above it all. I used to care, too, before my eighth grade summer. I'd waste my Christmas money and weekly allowance buying clothes I didn't like, just so, in school, people would see me as one of them. Needless to say, it never worked. When my freshman year of high school started, I was pretty much a completely different person. Or, I was still the same me, just not pretending anymore. I'm still not certain which one.

But, regardless, most people would refer to that first year as my ultimate social downfall. The one friend I did have left at the end of summer and moved to Georgia with her mom, because her moms' boyfriend lived there. I heard they later broke up and Cindy--my best friend--went insane. Honestly, I kind of expected as much. I envy her, though. She gets to live in her own self-made delusions while I'm stuck in reality. Sometimes I think I'd probably switch places with her in a second.

Another great event of my freshman year, was the death of my brother, Lucas Morrison Phoenix. He was 26 when he walked down the wrong alley in the middle of the night in his quest to get home to his family early, and ended up in the hospital with no money and a bullet through his chest. He died later that night after seeing his wife and two daughters, Sarah and Riley. We got the news the next day and ended up taking in my sister-in-law and young, rambunctious nieces for a year. They finally made it back on their feet during my junior summer. I was glad that they were finally able to move on, but I, unfortunately, couldn't do the same.

After that, both my grandparents on my moms' side passed away due to lung cancer. They'd both been smoking since they were my age. You think that would have stopped me, but, when I turned 16, I lit up my first cigarette in my bedroom while my mom cooked spaghetti for supper. Seems i'll be following in their footsteps. And, as if that wasn't enough, a year later my German Shepherd, Rambo, was hit by a car and my grades dropped like bombs.

So, now, here I am; 17 and walking through the front doors of my high school on my first day of senior year. It smelled the same way it always did, clean and lemony like it was just freshly mopped. It always gave me a headache, which is why I kept a few Tylenol in my wallet. I was set to fight my brain, but not everyone outside of it. One last year of torture and I was done. I couldn't promise to get through it on good terms and completely sane, but i'd do my best.

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My pencil seemed to be getting shorter and shorter the longer I stared at it. Mr. George, my new physics teacher, had been very slowly calling the names on his attendance sheet when Mr. Hamlet, the principle, interrupted him for announcements. His voice rang over the intercoms and as soon as he said, "First football game against North Shore High School," I zoned out pretty deep. In fact, I didn't zone back in until Mr. George's voice practically screeched my name from the front of the room.

My head snapped up and I blinked a few times. "What?"

Snickers fanned out across the classroom and Mr. George's face seemed to visibly redden. "Emily Phoenix, raise your hand if you are here."

Embarrassment settled in my stomach and seemed to weigh me down as I slid down a bit in my seat, away from the twenty pairs of eyes all aimed at me. Then I rose my hand.

The exasperated teacher sighed and inclined his head a bit. "Thank you. Now, since I have your attention, would you like to pass out folders to the class?" My eyes widened--hopefully not noticeably--and instead of declining the offer in order to save myself even further embarrassment, I swallowed the lump in my throat and rose from my seat. He handed my the folders and went back to talking. I set a folder at each student's desk, having to say 'excuse me' far too many times to get them to move their bags out of the isle.