This is a piece I am planning to enter in a writing contest. It has to incorporate five words (the words underlined). If anyone has any advice for me, that would be great!
The Choice
2011
It is the pivotal moment.
The group of girls surges toward me as one vast body. White teeth sparkling, eyes alight, cackling like witches. I press against my locker, feeling the cold metal behind me, forcing myself to keep my eyes up.
They surround me, freezing me with their icy eyes. Picking apart every piece of my being. Tearing apart my flesh with hateful words.
“She’s so small and skinny. Must be anorexic.”
“Those glasses look like something my grandma would wear.”
“She probably does all her shopping at the Salvation Army.”
“Bet her biggest entertainment on Friday nights is reading her textbooks.”
“Freak.”
“Nerd.”
“Loser.”
I tense my face muscles, forcing the tears back into my eyes. I try to speak calmly, firmly, but my voice cracks anyway. “Stop it.”
Their laughter reverberates through the halls, buzzing in my ears. “Stop it! Did you hear that? She told us to stop it!”
The laughter fades as they saunter off, but it echoes in my head louder than ever. I sink to the floor, clamp my eyes shut, and pretend I am hurtling through outer space, flying past stars and planets and entire galaxies, soaring farther and farther away from the earth and from them.
2015
Life is so changeable. Four years ago, I was a shy, awkward, scrawny middle-schooler. Now, curves have emerged on my bony body, and my stringy hair has become soft and shiny. I’ve mastered the confident strut, the musical laugh, and the bold, determined gaze that are essential for popularity.
After being a loser for so long, my new life feels kind of surreal, like it’s happening in slow-motion. Sometimes when I stop to think about it, I can’t believe I’m doing what I’m doing. Like now. I’m striding down the hall, and my friends—yes, I actually have friends—are huddled together, smiling, waving. Waving at me.
I’m so caught up in the amazingness of this moment that I don’t notice when someone smacks into me. Sarah Milson. Short, blue-haired, chubby and pimply, with a habit of laughing uproariously at the most random times.
“Sorry!” she squeaks. “I guess I was moving too fast.”
I look down at her and flash my sparkling teeth. “That’s okay. No big deal.”
“Oh, thanks!” she gushes. “I’m so glad you understand.”
“Yeah. It’s probably a good idea for you to move fast. Might help you get that exercise you so desperately need.” I gesture at her pudgy belly.
A blank look comes over her, as if all the life has seeped out. She swallows and turns away, but then she just stands there, as still as grass trapped under ice.
She looks back. Her expression is steely.
“What?” I demand.
“You know,” she says slowly, enunciating every word, “I’m never going to be like you. Never.”
Then she turns with a toss of her hair and marches away.
A picture floats into my mind of Sarah, ten years in the future. Striding onto an auditorium stage, drawing every eye to her in her leather jacket and fishnet stockings. Speaking, almost shouting, about the importance of kindness and acceptance and belonging. Commanding audiences with her every word, making them listen, making them think. A visionary whose radical ideas could actually change the world.
Could this situation right now and here be Sarah’s pivotal moment—when she makes the choice between giving up and standing up? I had a moment like that, long ago. I made my choice.
But my friends are calling for me, loudly and incessantly. So I shake the image out of my mind and strut toward them.
14 Apr 2015, 3:56 pm
