annellise

When we were in high school, my two-years-older-than-me brother was the ring leader of the drinking druggie cool crowd. I dreaded the parties my brother threw when my parents went out of town. His friends would knock and knock and knock on my bedroom door, trying to get me to join their teenage debauchery.

Gawky and awkward and geeky, my low self-esteem forced me to believe that if any of the cool kids spoke to me it was because they either wanted to befriend my brother or because they were mocking me and making fun of me behind my back.I usually hid in my closet reading and doing homework and wishing I had the guts to scoop my confidence off of the ground and dance and laugh and maybe even drink a beer.

But there was one party (ironically, it was also the last party because my parents came home while there were still cigarette butts on the wood floors and vomit in the fish tank) when I decided to find out why people said that parties were fun. One foot out my bedroom door, the house grew quiet and everyone stared at me. I tried to turn around and go back to my room, but a hand intercepted my arm.

"I'm Stacey. I've seen you around. Aren't you in my algebra class?" Stacey was the most popular slut in school, and no I wasnt in her algebra class. I took algebra in middle school, but I didnt tell her that; I just smiled and shrugged.

Stacey took my arm to the sofa in the family room, and introduced me to some kids who, until my arrival on the scene, were getting my dog high. I don't remember what they said to me, and I don't remember what I said to them, but I remember that they made me laugh and if they didnt like me, at least they didn't mind me hanging around. I regretted wasting all those hours hiding in my room.

I guess that brings me to my point. I've been hiding here on this site for a couple of days, feeling like I'm still a goofy fourteen-year old, only invited to a party by geographic default.