Broken People by Scott Hildreth Page B

up from his phone as he punched in the numbers.
    “What do you have so far?” I asked.
    He held out his phone, showing me the number. I reached out, and deleted one of the sevens while he held the phone. With his other hand he reached over and touched my arm, sliding his hand down my arm until it stopped at my hand. Cupping my hand with his, he spoke, “Pleasure to meet you, Britney.” He smiled as he looked into my eyes.
    “I’m sorry, Marc, I have to run and meet my family. Shoot me a text okay?” Reluctantly, I pulled my hand slowly from his.
    He ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair again, turned, and walked toward the door that led to the parking lot. I stood and watched him until he went through the door. As he exited, he held the door for a family as they entered. Smiling, he spoke to them as if he knew them.
    A long moment passed. My phone beeped. I reached into my purse, and pulled it out. After swiping in the password, I looked at the screen. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Britney. I miss you already. I cannot wait to see you again. Happy Birthday, Marc.
    I programmed the number in as “Marc.”
    Yes, I liked this boy. Alot.

Chapter 5
    Fuck oatmeal

Mic HELLE . By the time I realized that the alarm was going off, it had been going off for three minutes. As I often did, I had fallen asleep after being up late on the internet. Scanning photos of tattoos that I find interesting is a means of escape for me. It gives me the ability to dream. To dream of what is depicted, and that one day I could, like the people in the photos, have the freedom to express myself through a tattoo that I designed myself. The time that I spend admiring the photos allows me to forget the rules and regulations of my typical Egyptian family for a short period of time.
    Beginning when I was five years old, my family started traveling back and forth between the United States and Egypt.  As with many Egyptian families, my family dreamed of living in the United States, working hard, raising a family, and being successful. The problem, in my opinion, was with the last portion of that dream. Being successful and raising a family. I would prefer successfully raising a family . The burden borne by an Egyptian high school kid in my neighborhood in New Jersey was grand. We were expected to be adults in almost all respects, but we were treated as children, and constantly reminded of the fact, that we were children.
    Seven months from now, I will be attending Villanova University. Upon completion of my education there, it will be on to Drexel University for medical school. I am, and not to my disliking, going to follow in my mother ’s footsteps and become a doctor. I suppose that this was expected of me, but ultimately, it was a conscious decision that I had made. The thought of being a doctor satisfied me greatly. Helping people. Saving lives. Making a difference. Saving something . Doing what so many others cannot. Not everyone has the capacity to go to school and become a medical doctor. I do, and I intended to do so, and do it well. I did not have this desire just because my family expected it, but because it was what I wanted to do. It defined me. Me being me.
    When I was around eight years of age my family moved to the United States full time. Following my immediate family moving here, most of our extended family relocated here in a very short period of time. And here, in New Jersey, we reside. A few of our family members remain in Egypt, and from time to time, as our schedule allows, we visit them.
    Living my life with an open mind, I try to look at things realistically, and without bias, I find myself frequently spending a significant amount of time looking at the many sides of a new topic that is being discussed, be it by my friends or my family, and not giving an opinion.  I will take a tremendous amount of time to think about the subject, and look at it from each possible point of view. Generally, I try to look at