nefelibata (n.) | ✔️

four.

Present. September 3rd, 2018.

The day went by as expected- absolutely horrific. Not that I would have assumed anything less.

Because I am labeled as the gothic freak, I sat in the hall for lunch like a cliché loser and played on my phone. It doesn't bug me much anymore. I've gotten used to it over the years.

When Brooklyn took it upon herself to say that I became "goth" because I murdered pets for fun, that pretty much kept everyone away. It didn't help that my dog passed that same year. She couldn't handle anyone thinking that I ditched her, so she had to make sure that it looked like she ditched me.

I kept my earbuds in nearly the whole day, trying my best to block out the sounds of the absurdly annoying teens. The harsh looks from passing students didn't go unnoticed, though.

I'm not sure why I was a spectacle for all the students of Freeport High to acknowledge, it just didn't make sense to me. I was, though, thankful that I hadn't run into waterfront boy at all the rest of the day. Now all I could hope was that he didn't figure out my name by asking around.

Thank God I'm on my way to my final period, advanced Art class. Art is the first class I put down on my electives list, hoping that it would be put into my first semester. The teacher, Mrs. Conley, was practically my only friend in this entire building. Some could say that it's sad, but I honestly wouldn't have it any other way. She's so talented, and she knows what I'm trying to portray when even my dad doesn't.

She pretty much runs all of the Art classes here since this town severely lacks creativity or any artistic ability. I've taken four previous art classes with her, and she quickly became one of the only reasons for me showing up to this hell.

I was one of the first kids to get into the room, and I came in to see Mrs. Conley's nose stuck in a book, and her head turned away from the door. I took this opportunity to sneak up on her and clap my hands loudly in front of her face. "What the f--" She stopped herself and gave me a deep scowl before quickly turning it into a smile.

"Lena Wilson! I've missed you, dear. How was your summer?!" Finally, someone that actually gives a damn about me in this building. I hug her, welcoming the scent of dried paint and clay that fills my nostrils.

If you looked up the word "hippie" on google, a picture of Mrs. Conley is precisely what you'd find. She's in her 30's but still acts as though she's one of the teens, which for some reason I admire. She wore the most random outfits that didn't match under any circumstances, but no one questioned her. There was even a rumor that she came to school stoned after spring break last year.

"It was pretty good. How was yours?" I lie, but reciprocate my question onto her, ignoring the lingering eyes of my fellow students as they wander into the class.

She gives me a stern look before responding. "Now Lena, if we're going to be pals you're gonna have to be honest! Did you do anything at all this summer?" She insists on asking me again, and I look down in shame.

"Not really," I admit and she lets out a loud groan.

"C'mon Lena! I'm eleven years from halfway dead, and you can't even entertain the idea of leaving your house?" I roll my eyes at the dramatics.

"I left my house, Mrs. C. I just didn't bring anyone with me or go anywhere exciting." So technically, my life is a boring mess.

"Wonderful, Lena. Just wonderful. One day I will teach you to have fun. One day." She says with enthusiasm lacing her voice. I roll my eyes one final time and take the seat closest to her desk, and shocker, I'm by myself.

As the bell rings, a very frazzled, very unwanted young man comes in with sweat coating his forehead. Please tell me he is in the wrong place. Please.