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Chapter 1 – Juliana
Rule number one: Keep moving. Look straight ahead. Don’t interact.
That was my first golden rule. Avoid eye contact. Never look long enough to get caught. And it worked for years after I established it.
I made a habit of being creative in the strangest ways. I invented my own rules and pretended they could protect me in the big wide world.
When I went for an early morning run, I sometimes even wore sunglasses.
I immersed myself in the fast hip-hop beats blasting through my Air Pods, ignoring any lingering glances or unnecessary conversation: “Hi!” – “I love your running shorts.” – “Are you an athlete?”
Ignorance was bliss, and when I smiled or waved back, it didn’t last more than a second. And at school, I repeated the routine and invoked the golden rule. Conversations with my classmates lasted only a short time and I kept mingling at a minimum.
Some had dared to question my social choices. I thought that life was better with fewer people around me. Fewer complications meant more joy. More peace. More… of all the good things.
But today it went downhill, and what I didn’t know at the time was that it was going to get much worse.
The details were hazy, and I couldn’t remember the exact reason, but the memory of the heated argument with Mr. McGuire remained fresh in my mind like a freshly squeezed lemon. Sour.
It had something to do with the topic of an essay given as an assignment and a few contradictions I had to the subject. He was the professor and I, the student. I guessed that should have meant something. I should have allowed myself to get intimidated and hide my face.
Oh, but no.
And fast forward, after that, the issue blew out of proportion, and I spent more minutes than I had trying to prove a point I was later instructed to apologize for.
My flat boots thudded on the concrete, sweat trickled down the sides of my face, and my hair—thick and wet—stuck to my forehead in the most ungraceful of ways.
As if things weren’t bad enough.
I gripped my phone, stared at the screen hard enough to burn a hole right through, and weaved my way through the busy pedestrian sidewalk in South Broadway.
“Ouch! Hey, kid. Watch it!”
I’d bumped into a lady, who had a lot of white hair, even if she didn’t look a day over forty.
My nose scrunched. I wasn't a supermodel, but I thought my height of 5’5ft was decent.
I thought about a comeback. Something to rattle her and make her gasp. Something like, “I am twenty, Lady Gaga wannabe!”
But... never mind.
I dodged the daggers from her narrowed eyes and hopped forward, offering an apologetic smile through clenched teeth.
I returned my focus to the screen, slipped past more people in the crowd, and took a deep breath.
My fingers went down on the popped-up keyboard. The missing detail in the email was an attached file of my essay. I skimmed through the documents, found it, and attached it to the apology note I’d drafted for Mr. McGuire.
Sent. Done!
With a satisfied beam, I tucked my phone into the small cross-bag slung over my shoulder and, in the process, caught a glimpse of the digital time displayed on the screen. My heart galloped like a racehorse, thumping against my ribcage.
Shit.
I was twenty minutes late.
I quickened my steps, my feet stamping on the concrete as I ran, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me to the nearest bus stop. The passengers stared at me as I flew partially into the bus and landed on my two feet.
I ignored them and settled into a patchy chair to catch my breath.
