Speechless(56)

                The thing is, despite everything going on—I don’t want to                     change schools. It feels too much like running away. Let the jerks that                     vandalized my locker and my car and harassed me think they can just run me off                     that easy? No. I’m not going to end up as one of Kristen’s little victims. I                     know the games she plays; she expects me to cave under the pressure and come                     begging for forgiveness, but it’s not going to happen. I’m not like those other                     girls she can scare into submission.

                When Mom looks at me again, her eyes are a little glassy, like                     maybe she’s going to cry, but I can’t tell for sure. It might just be the lights                     down here.

                “I know I can’t change your mind,” she says. The slightest of                     wry smiles appears on her face. “You get your stubborn streak from me.”

                I smile back as much as I can, hoping it’ll tell her without                     words what she desperately wants to hear. That this isn’t her fault. It’s like                     what those cheesy action-movie heroes always say before they finish taking out                     the bad guys: I started this, and I’m going to finish it. Except even in the                     movie of my own life, I’ve never been the heroine. I’ve never been Action Girl.                     I’ve only ever been Kristen’s supporting character.





                                      day four

                On the drive to school the next morning, in an effort                     to psych myself up, I blast Eminem at full volume. I got this album when I was,                     like, nine. I had to beg Dad to buy it for me on the down-low, since Mom had a                     ban on me owning any music she deemed inappropriate. Eminem definitely fell in                     that bracket. But Dad’s always been a softie, and even though he’s all about Led                     Zeppelin and Eric Clapton himself, he likes to think he still has the kind of                     antiestablishment streak that would allow him to procure contraband music for                     his only daughter.

                What’s really hard is overcoming the temptation to sing along.                     Sure, no one would know but me, and it’s doubtful I’d hurt anyone by spitting                     out lyrics alone in my car—no matter how vulgar they may be—but when I said I                     have something to prove, I didn’t mean only to the kids at school. I have                     something to prove to myself. That I’m not who everyone thinks I am. That I can                     stick to this.