Do you ever wash your hair?
You smell gross, like my great aunt. You stink, like wheat. Do you live in a cornfield?
Who did your hair? My god!!! No wonder everyone glares at you. It’s in the way, like all the time!!!
You look like a frickin’ disco ball. Man up, hippie.
Impressive, right? Within two months the school’s yearbook had made it my way, on accident. All over my face, my picture, my drawings, words were written. I just never got why they hated me. So, apparently, the kids aren’t too clear with their words. I could be a pile of sticks, which doesn’t make any sense. I could be a cigarette, which still doesn’t work and I hate the smell of smoke. Also, since when is a cornfield a bad place? Or smelling like wheat? I do wash my hair, all the time, in fact. My hair? I was born like this…How can I look like a disco ball? I wear tie-dye and corduroy pants.
So, I write inside the front of the book.
Dear anyone who ever reads this:
I wish you good luck. I hope that I will never be as cruel as most of these kids have been to me. I wish that they grow up. That you get a life, and stop beating on others.
I never understood why everyone hated me. Maybe it was because I got it.
Peace to all---have a better time than I did.
The flower I picked and put in my hair is still fine. So I place it in the book and leave it on the bleachers, where I found it. A student rushes in the gym as I gather my bags and start to head out. He’s popular, a big jock. I don’t know him at all and he doesn’t know me. He runs up to the bleachers, skipping a step each time. He snatches the book and looks at me. I glare at him and place my fingers in the peace stance before I head out.
Right then, right there; he gets it.