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forward, the hands of fate shoving you toward a cliff, and in that split second where you’re forced to decide whether to leap or fall, a single thought breaks through:
I’m not ready.
Honestly, since my parents’ funeral, I haven’t experienced anything so alarming or dramatic. Passionate circumstances such as those are reserved for the outgoing and spontaneous. Which is why, for certain reasons, I’ve chosen to conduct my life in the exact opposite.
In all fairness, I’m a weakling. For years I sought to be the perfect example of strength, because I needed to be…because who wants to be weak? I vote in favor of feminism when it comes right down to it, but this is not about the battle of the sexes. This is about the battle of wills. And I’m the girl who can never say no when approached for a favor.
Regardless if I’ve been conditioned this way, that’s the true Are You Mousy? test. You’re either the type of person who stands up for herself and says no, or you’re the type who cringes while giving the offender with a smile a yes, of course I’ll stay up late and help my roommate work on her project instead of finishing my own.
I’d like to believe that when faced with a life-altering decision, if such a one somehow found me hiding in a bathroom stall, I’d make a logical leap to the right choice.
I’m practical that way.
But that’s the thing about pivotal moments: you usually don’t see them coming.
“She’s just…awkward.”
My hands halt mid-air right before the stall door. My body stills. The restroom stall seems to close in around me, the off-white Formica pressing in as a hum fills my ears. The silence stretches out, my breath too loud in my own head.
I stop breathing.
A splash of water hitting the marble basin, then the crank of the towel dispenser. “I like her, I mean. She seems nice, but that’s just it. No one really knows her. She’s so to herself. You see how she doesn’t talk to anyone? It’s like…she thinks she’s better than us.”
“I think she’s got major issues,” another woman—Chelsea—says. “I heard her brother’s been in and out of rehab for years, and she has all this family drama. So I think she’s just putting up a front.”
“Still,” Sophie says, and I press closer to the door. “That’s even more reason not to come across stuck up like that.”
I’ve known these women—well, not known them, known them; not on a personal level—for almost a year. Even though I knew I’d never be invited out bar hopping or to bridal showers, I thought we were close. As close as colleagues can be, anyway.
I should’ve realized—I should’ve seen it coming. When Julia made a spectacle about my submission, it put a target on my back. I’ve always been more of a lone wolf, but I would give the shirt off my back to help anyone. They know this about me. I help Chelsea almost every day with her computer dilemmas. She is terrible with any and all tech, and I never once made her feel stupid for not understanding networks.
“Should we invite her to sit with us?” Sophie asks, a tiny whine in her voice. “She might end up being our boss.”
Chelsea makes a pfft sound. “She hasn’t been here long enough. Anyway, even if that somehow happens, I won’t kiss her ass. I came to this party to have a good time. A little stress relief if I can get laid. I don’t want all her issues dragging me down.”
“Good point.”
“Besides, have you heard her talk about dating anyone, ever?” Sophie must respond, because Chelsea goes on. “Exactly. She’s a freak. She’s either a lesbian, has some STD, or is having the worst drought ever. So she can keep that tainted, bad luck cooch far away from me.” She laughs, and the other women in the bathroom join her.
The sounds of the party bleed into the bathroom, then I hear the door close, drowning out the thumping bass.
For a moment, I just stand here. Fighting back the burn of tears. I will not cry.
How high school is this? How stupid? I try to laugh it off, but there’s no sound to my voice, only the sharp intake of breath as I try to stifle a sob. I swallow the ache clogging my throat, blink a few times.
Finally, taking a deep breath, I unlatch the door and walk out to the empty bathroom. This really shouldn’t affect me. It’s always been like this. There’s just something about me that puts others off…and I swear, if I could figure out what it is… But I’ve been trying to figure it out my whole life.
In high school, it was the mean girls. The girls who ran in cliques and couldn’t dye their hair without first getting approval from the queen bee. Now, nothing’s really changed. Those same girls are just older. Smile to your face, give you a fake hug, then leave you in the dust as they flee being contaminated by “the awkward girl”.
Introvertitis.
It’s not contagious, but I get the same looks terminally ill people do. The “we pity you but please don’t touch me” look. Introversion is not a disease. But it’s plagued me my whole life just the same.
I run my hand over my dark waves, and even though I try not to, I look in the mirror. I’m pretty. And that’s not vain to admit. I’m no model, but growing up, you know if you’re pretty or not. I’m not drop-dead gorgeous. No, because those women are the ones other girls flock to. They’re so high up the ladder that everyone clings to them just to have some of their spotlight cast around them.
I’m just pretty enough to be hated. I’m a safe sort of pretty to shun. No real backlash if I’m ostracized. Also, I work damn hard. While Sophie and Chelsea and the other women in the office are bar hopping, I’m at home working on cases. And that also makes me a freak.
I don’t drink. I don’t party. And I don’t run in cliques. What I do do is stand in the corner by myself at company parties and hide in bathroom stalls.
