Emotionally Scarred
I
wish I could use magic to stop people staring at me, or enchant myself to be
beautiful, but the powers I have are different. I’m not a real witch, no matter
what the other kids call me . I’m not a superhero either, despite
my powers. Heroes aren’t ugly.
The
lime-green shade of my new school’s corridors set my teeth on edge. Everyone
watched me, the new girl with the target right on her face. My sneakers squeaked
as I walked and I felt so completely conspicuous. Cruel laminate flooring. My
own body betrayed me as well. I was taller than most girls, which
just made me easier to spot. I wanted to love my bright red hair but I hated
that it attracted attention to my face.
Other
students stared openly and gossiped as they pretended to poke through their
lockers. A tide of emotion followed their stares, the usual mix of sympathy and
disgust that I was used to. That was my superpower — to sense how people were
feeling, so strongly I felt their emotions burrowing into my pores. I hated it.
I hugged my new textbooks close to my chest.
Chin
up, Emma. Don't let them get to you. You're beautiful on the inside.
I tried to believe that my outer appearance wasn’t important
and that real friends would like the real me no matter how I
looked. But my intelligence made me as much of a target as my face. So I tried to
act like everyone else, dress right, talk right, do all the right things. I had
gone from child prodigy to C average, stuffing tests on purpose, half-hearting
my assignments, giggling mindlessly, and pretending I actually like music where
dudes sing about their sexy bitches. Anything to just fit in.
This year was supposed to be better. Operation: New Me. I convinced
my parents to let me change schools. By convinced, I mean I was expelled from
my last school when I got into a fight with this girl who wouldn’t leave me
alone. I had a weird adrenaline rush and broke her arm. Oops.
A little extra begging on top and my plebian parents finally
let me have the mole, the bane of my existence, removed. This was no cute
beauty mark, but a brown blob of ugly flesh that covered half my chin. That’s
why I was the witch of my last school. Marked by the devil, dribbling sewage,
just plain gross; I heard it all from the other kids.
If they also knew I could read their emotions like some kind
of freak…
So I was off to a new school, and in between, I’d have the
mole removed. Then it was meant to be like in the books, where a group of great
friends would adopt me and the hottest guy in the school would fall for me. I
wouldn’t be teased. I would be happy.
The whole plan plunged into epic fail. My parents didn’t
realize I needed a proper cosmetic surgeon for the work, to actually make my
face look like the mole was never there. Sure the doctor removed the mole, but in
its place he left a jumbo pink scar like a deformed fetus.
I came to this new school with a plan, determined to be
positive anyway. I dressed up, smiled, and waited for people to ask, wow, where
did you get that scar? And I would tell them crazy cool tales of my heroism,
saving a baby from a pit bull attack, only to have a chunk of flesh bitten off
my face. I’d say it was nothing. I did what I had to do. Beloved school heroine,
here I come.
I didn’t have a chance. Someone knew someone from my
previous school and gossip of my mole, and the botched removal attempt, became
the new school joke. It took no time for a mortifying “before and after” photo to
make the rounds. Not one student would even talk to me. Their hateful emotions
seeped into me like poison running through an IV, chilling my veins, making me
ill. I hadn’t escaped.
My eyes stung. No way, if I cried in the middle of the school
corridors, it was all over.
I turned to face the wall and got lucky. There was a notice
board right there, covered in fluoro fliers for me to pretend to read while I
got myself under control.
Just breathe.
The corridor stank of
I
wish I could use magic to stop people staring at me, or enchant myself to be
beautiful, but the powers I have are different. I’m not a real witch, no matter
what the other kids call me . I’m not a superhero either, despite
my powers. Heroes aren’t ugly.
The
lime-green shade of my new school’s corridors set my teeth on edge. Everyone
watched me, the new girl with the target right on her face. My sneakers squeaked
as I walked and I felt so completely conspicuous. Cruel laminate flooring. My
own body betrayed me as well. I was taller than most girls, which
just made me easier to spot. I wanted to love my bright red hair but I hated
that it attracted attention to my face.
Other
students stared openly and gossiped as they pretended to poke through their
lockers. A tide of emotion followed their stares, the usual mix of sympathy and
disgust that I was used to. That was my superpower — to sense how people were
feeling, so strongly I felt their emotions burrowing into my pores. I hated it.
I hugged my new textbooks close to my chest.
Chin
up, Emma. Don't let them get to you. You're beautiful on the inside.
I tried to believe that my outer appearance wasn’t important
and that real friends would like the real me no matter how I
looked. But my intelligence made me as much of a target as my face. So I tried to
act like everyone else, dress right, talk right, do all the right things. I had
gone from child prodigy to C average, stuffing tests on purpose, half-hearting
my assignments, giggling mindlessly, and pretending I actually like music where
dudes sing about their sexy bitches. Anything to just fit in.
This year was supposed to be better. Operation: New Me. I convinced
my parents to let me change schools. By convinced, I mean I was expelled from
my last school when I got into a fight with this girl who wouldn’t leave me
alone. I had a weird adrenaline rush and broke her arm. Oops.
A little extra begging on top and my plebian parents finally
let me have the mole, the bane of my existence, removed. This was no cute
beauty mark, but a brown blob of ugly flesh that covered half my chin. That’s
why I was the witch of my last school. Marked by the devil, dribbling sewage,
just plain gross; I heard it all from the other kids.
If they also knew I could read their emotions like some kind
of freak…
So I was off to a new school, and in between, I’d have the
mole removed. Then it was meant to be like in the books, where a group of great
friends would adopt me and the hottest guy in the school would fall for me. I
wouldn’t be teased. I would be happy.
The whole plan plunged into epic fail. My parents didn’t
realize I needed a proper cosmetic surgeon for the work, to actually make my
face look like the mole was never there. Sure the doctor removed the mole, but in
its place he left a jumbo pink scar like a deformed fetus.
I came to this new school with a plan, determined to be
positive anyway. I dressed up, smiled, and waited for people to ask, wow, where
did you get that scar? And I would tell them crazy cool tales of my heroism,
saving a baby from a pit bull attack, only to have a chunk of flesh bitten off
my face. I’d say it was nothing. I did what I had to do. Beloved school heroine,
here I come.
I didn’t have a chance. Someone knew someone from my
previous school and gossip of my mole, and the botched removal attempt, became
the new school joke. It took no time for a mortifying “before and after” photo to
make the rounds. Not one student would even talk to me. Their hateful emotions
seeped into me like poison running through an IV, chilling my veins, making me
ill. I hadn’t escaped.
My eyes stung. No way, if I cried in the middle of the school
corridors, it was all over.
I turned to face the wall and got lucky. There was a notice
board right there, covered in fluoro fliers for me to pretend to read while I
got myself under control.
Just breathe.
The corridor stank of
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