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The throbbing yet irritating pain that was coming from my foot awoke me from my sleep. Brilliant. First day of 8th grade with a broken ankle. People would think that I was a freak looking for attention and sympathy.
As if my life isn’t already horrible. I am accident-prone. I just moved from New Jersey to a small, suburban town in Southern California. I am not socially prepared for 8th grade, let alone in a new state, new town, and new school. What else? Oh, right. I can see things before they happen.
The sun finally rose, shining through my window. The light caused a portion of my hair to turn a shade of red and another light brown. I glanced at the mirror to find my reflection staring back at me, looking pale as ever. My eyes were bloated, lips were creased, and my cheeks were pink. A definite symptom of first-day-of-school phobia.
I wrapped my cast in plastic, just as the doctor instructed and somehow managed to get in the shower. I quickly washed my hair, using my favorite shampoo. The scent, however, did not help me calm down.
I dressed in my usual t-shirt and shorts outfit. I couldn’t wear jeans for another two weeks because of my stupid cast. It was sunny outside, (the California weather was getting on my nerves; it was so dry.) so I stuffed a hat in my backpack with all my other school supplies. Patting my hair with a dry towel, I looked at my computer that I had turned on a few minutes ago.
Woman_of_household: Eat your breakfast, and good luck at school, both of you.
Woman_of_household has signed off.
Football+foosball: Bye Mom. Have fun at work. We need paper bags, by the way.
Man_of_household: I’m leaving. Good luck at school, kids. I’ll get the bags.
White_cast_24/7: Matt, please turn off that music. Bye Dad.
Man_of_household has signed off
Football+foosball: I’m leaving, Vict. Have fun at school.
Football+foosball has signed off.
My family communicates through the computer, which is completely awkward to other families. But we’re fine with it. We don’t talk much, with the exception of Matt. He’s always blabbering about foosball, football, wresting, rap, his conglomeration and so on and so forth.
It’s hard to believe that we are actually related by analyzing our personalities. He is optimistic most of the time, a bit loquacious but not socially awkward, kind, pretty good looking with his short cropped hair, and very solicitious. We didn’t fight at all. We got along well, too well for a brother two years older than his sister.
I, on the other hand, am not a pessimist, but not an optimist either. I am pretty much in the middle. I don’t talk much. I am socially awkward; I could never really start a conversations without stuttering in the first five seconds. Unlike Matt, I was plain, because I never really cared about my appearance. My pale skin, pitch black eyes, thin nose, thin lips, and brown hair screamed “AVERAGE!” each time I looked in the mirror.
Fishing out an apple from the fridge, I looked around. The house was empty now; Mom and Dad were at work, and Matt drove himself to gym before school. I the one without a permit, took the bus to school.
Bus. School.
I had blocked every premonition that related or connected to school. Surprisingly, it had worked. Until now. I couldn’t resist anymore. My eyes drifted, not to sleep, but to unconsciousness and into my vision.
I could see myself falling, stumbling, and dropping my books. Algebra wasn’t bad, except the cranky old teacher, Mr. Stewart. Fortunately, the kids seemed nice. Unfortunately, the Gym coach did not. The school lunch today was vegetarian lasagna with salad.
I saw the school from a bird’s eye view now, from the left and from the right. Subconsciously, my hands searched and found writing utensils. I sketched a map of the school. I couldn’t locate the gymnasium; I assumed that it must be inside one of the school buildings.

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