bitter-asan-unripe-lime taste of my whole stupid life has already exploded in my mouth.
Kolaite kicks the class into gear; in the seat beside me, Katie Pretti tugs her sweater sleeves over her wrists and halfway down her hands, hiding her thumbs. She sighs and leans back, with that look, you know? That look of being tied up, like it's not really her sweater sleeves she's tugged on, but handcuffs. Like she's not the one who put the cuffs on-no, it was some unseen sadistic s.o.b. who kidnapped her out behind the QuikTrip yesterday afternoon when she stopped in for a cherry Icee. Because everybody knows that's what high school really feels like. It's being handcuffed. It's being held against your every last will.
As soon as she sighs, George's hand reaches for her back. He sits one seat behind her, like he does in every class they have together. George, blue-eyed, blond-haired. Georgy Porgy. Beautiful and untroubled and smart and light and sweet and easy as a boy in a cheesy '80s TV show-Kirk Cameron or Scott Baio. Don't worry, man, it'll all work out soon. I mean, it's already 7:49. George Conyers only kissed one girl, lucky Katie, and never made her cry. And the minute he starts to scratch her back, her whole face changes. She's not in jail anymore.
Asinine class couple. Why the hell did I even bother with school today?
I'm just so sick of being around so many people with nothing wrong, nothing-they have no clue what it's like to really lose sleep over anything-that suddenly I'm writing again, even though I swore I wouldn't, I wouldn't ...
"Aura? Aura, dear?" It's Mrs. Kolaite, looking at me with this false, put-on worry. I swear, she's applied it to her face like mascara.
"Yes," I say, scooting up in my chair-where'd they get school chairs, anyway? Things might as well be made out of bricks. "I'm following along fine," I blubber, flipping the shiny pages of my textbook back and forth.
Because the thing is, when they're not treating us like gypsy scum, the teachers are all looking at us in this condescending way. I mean, they think we're capable of hacking into the computers to change our grades, and they practically nail their purses to their chests because they think we're crafty enough to sell their identities over the Internet, but they don't think we could ever grasp something as simple as a freaking metaphor?
How's this for metaphor, Kolaite? Sanity is a sonnet with a strict meter and rhyme scheme-and my mind is free verse.
journalmg can be useful in keeping track of a schizophrenic family member's behavior. Often, the changes are so slight, families can be caught offguard by a psychotic break. Journaling can help family members nip said psychotic break in the bud.
appy birthday, pretty girl," Brandi coos in her Betty Boop voice as soon as the door flies open. She smothers me with a fakey-poo, sorority-sister-style hug and kiss, then gives me enough room to step inside the downtown loft apartment she shares with Dad and Carolyn.
School's been canceled for some sort of teacher betterment crap, and I can think of about a million things I'd like to do with my free Friday other than coming over here-like, say, putting my head in a vice or getting all of my toenails extracted one by one. But it's my birthday, which means it's time for Dad and Brandi to pretend they can be labeled Really Good People Who Are Hip To Hanging With Keith's Other Daughter.
As the door falls shut, Brandi lets out a squeaky "Whew" while she smooths some bottle-blond flyaways toward her ponytail and flashes her enormous neonatal eyes at me. "Caterer just left. I swear, I didn't think he was ever going to get here."
"Caterer?" I say, my feet going cold. "I didn't want some awful party. I told Dad that. Isn't it just us?"
Brandi nods. "You, me, Keith, and Carolyn," she agrees. "But how often do you turn sweet sixteen?" She waves a hand at me, shakes her head. Tugs at her blouse as though she's just so frazzled between the baby and the
Kolaite kicks the class into gear; in the seat beside me, Katie Pretti tugs her sweater sleeves over her wrists and halfway down her hands, hiding her thumbs. She sighs and leans back, with that look, you know? That look of being tied up, like it's not really her sweater sleeves she's tugged on, but handcuffs. Like she's not the one who put the cuffs on-no, it was some unseen sadistic s.o.b. who kidnapped her out behind the QuikTrip yesterday afternoon when she stopped in for a cherry Icee. Because everybody knows that's what high school really feels like. It's being handcuffed. It's being held against your every last will.
As soon as she sighs, George's hand reaches for her back. He sits one seat behind her, like he does in every class they have together. George, blue-eyed, blond-haired. Georgy Porgy. Beautiful and untroubled and smart and light and sweet and easy as a boy in a cheesy '80s TV show-Kirk Cameron or Scott Baio. Don't worry, man, it'll all work out soon. I mean, it's already 7:49. George Conyers only kissed one girl, lucky Katie, and never made her cry. And the minute he starts to scratch her back, her whole face changes. She's not in jail anymore.
Asinine class couple. Why the hell did I even bother with school today?
I'm just so sick of being around so many people with nothing wrong, nothing-they have no clue what it's like to really lose sleep over anything-that suddenly I'm writing again, even though I swore I wouldn't, I wouldn't ...
"Aura? Aura, dear?" It's Mrs. Kolaite, looking at me with this false, put-on worry. I swear, she's applied it to her face like mascara.
"Yes," I say, scooting up in my chair-where'd they get school chairs, anyway? Things might as well be made out of bricks. "I'm following along fine," I blubber, flipping the shiny pages of my textbook back and forth.
Because the thing is, when they're not treating us like gypsy scum, the teachers are all looking at us in this condescending way. I mean, they think we're capable of hacking into the computers to change our grades, and they practically nail their purses to their chests because they think we're crafty enough to sell their identities over the Internet, but they don't think we could ever grasp something as simple as a freaking metaphor?
How's this for metaphor, Kolaite? Sanity is a sonnet with a strict meter and rhyme scheme-and my mind is free verse.
journalmg can be useful in keeping track of a schizophrenic family member's behavior. Often, the changes are so slight, families can be caught offguard by a psychotic break. Journaling can help family members nip said psychotic break in the bud.
appy birthday, pretty girl," Brandi coos in her Betty Boop voice as soon as the door flies open. She smothers me with a fakey-poo, sorority-sister-style hug and kiss, then gives me enough room to step inside the downtown loft apartment she shares with Dad and Carolyn.
School's been canceled for some sort of teacher betterment crap, and I can think of about a million things I'd like to do with my free Friday other than coming over here-like, say, putting my head in a vice or getting all of my toenails extracted one by one. But it's my birthday, which means it's time for Dad and Brandi to pretend they can be labeled Really Good People Who Are Hip To Hanging With Keith's Other Daughter.
As the door falls shut, Brandi lets out a squeaky "Whew" while she smooths some bottle-blond flyaways toward her ponytail and flashes her enormous neonatal eyes at me. "Caterer just left. I swear, I didn't think he was ever going to get here."
"Caterer?" I say, my feet going cold. "I didn't want some awful party. I told Dad that. Isn't it just us?"
Brandi nods. "You, me, Keith, and Carolyn," she agrees. "But how often do you turn sweet sixteen?" She waves a hand at me, shakes her head. Tugs at her blouse as though she's just so frazzled between the baby and the
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