Driving Myself Home On The Short Bus

Some days I’m one I.Q. point from ‘getting it.’

One day I’m doing great, making A’s, friends, and jokes.

The next I’m on the short bus riding home, tail between my legs, after the school counselor and principal called me in to explain some invisible social line I’ve crossed and why it’s not a good thing. I don’t understand.

I never want to to go back to school again, but I have to. Not because my parents or the government says I have to, but because if I don’t go, I’ll be a coward. I’ll forever be the girl who messed up in everybody’s mind. I have to go back to redeem myself.

I can say I’m sorry and take my swirlies and wedgies, but until I am heralded, I’m still the new low-man on the totem pole and none will accept my sincere words and take me seriously. I have to be there when the opportunity comes, despite the lunch dumped down my shirt or the secret note passing with dirty words and pictures scrawled on them.

It’s an uphill battle, fraught with humiliation and injury, but in time my scars will heal.

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