Lessons Learned In Life

I run my fingers through my long dirty-blonde hair, and then turn my iPod up loudly. Kids stare at me as I walk through the halls of Gaines Alternative Center, the girl with the black T-Shirt and the holey jeans and scruffy boots. I don't fit in here, their faces plainly state, even as the high-school boys check me out. A girl with black hair smiles at me, but an image of Bekkah Edenfield pops into my mind and I scowl. Past the teachers and pass the principal, blatantly ignoring the dresscode, and the policy against electronic devices. As my heart continues to pump blood way to fast, I start to defy my fear. I meet the eyes of every curious gaze, with a "Screw you" attitude. I walk into my class, where there are only two other students, Randy and John, cousins, waiting for me. As the blood rushes to my face as I am put in the spotlight, Ms. Andre introduces me to the two boys. Randy looks me up and down, and I feel like a cow on an auction stand, but John meets my eyes, and says hey. I give him a small smile, already hardening my recently broken heart against a boy I know I will want to trust. But I won't make that mistake, ever again. And at twelve-years-old, I rub my wrists, caressing the spots the handcuffs cut into them on October 21, 2005. 1

" Mrs. Naughton, can we see Chelsea Stratton please," a voice says. I look up at Dean Barlow and Deputy Anderson. " She will need to bring her stuff." A chorus of ooohh's break out as my class wonders what I did, and I snatch my bag up and sling it over my shoulder with a cocky smile. I am bad, I can handle this. We walk in silence to the planning room down the hall, and they lock the door. Deputy Anderson begins to run his hands down my shoulders, and I step back quickly, alarmed and ask what's going on. Dean Barlow informs me they have had a tip about illegal contraband, and before I can think to respond, she is dumping my backpack out, searching. But before she finishes, my hand comes out of my pocket handing them what they want. A shiny, sharp knife.2

I come out of my daydream when Ms. Andre asks me a question about the book. I glance down at the copy John had handed me and was relieved to have read it already. I look up and answer why the main character had gotten grounded. She nods as I explain how he had gotten kicked out of school for fighting, not knowing I was thinking of my self. I look over at John as the bell rings, and notice him watching me closely. I smile at him and ask him where we go next. He takes my hand and leads me to a cafeteria, not unlike the one at Gamble Rogers Middle School, but smaller, with the same smell and noise, with fewer people. They all stop and stare at me, and a boy yells, wondering what I am in for. Another says a remark I can't believe, and as I whirl in anger, John grabs me again. His hand is warm against my chily skin, like the sun onf an ice cube. I realize that's what I am, a block of ice. Cold to the touch and freezing your insides when you get to close to taste me. The real me. And once you get past the initial shock, you decide never to swallow it whole again. Too cold, too...much. He tells me to survive here, you have to be strong. Don't show emotion. We sit down, him with his food, and me with a millions thoughts running through my head. Strong, I wonder what that is.3

The phone drops to the floor later that night and I sit shocked. I can hear Bekkah on the other end, screaming at me. I don't pick up the phone again, but to hang it back up. And the last thing I hear is my best-friend, the one girl I loved the most, saying she was sorry I got arrested. Sorry she told on me.4

John asks me what I did, and I decide to tell him. After all, why not? So I spill the details, as his friends listen in. They all laugh at my stupidity, I had picked up the wrong jeans that morning, but were furious with Bekkah. They think it was low and catty, and wish me luck. I shake my head, my hair spilling over my shoulders, and deny it. I'm to good for that, I inform them, but she will get it back. And in that second, I know what it feels like to be 100% respected. They feel my pain, sympathize with me, but are letting me find my own way with their support. It is a great feeling, I am accepted. As I lean against the cold marble table, I listen to their stories about drugs and sex and breaking the law. I am intrigued by what they are describing, the euphoria of being high. They call me their new friend, their female counterpart. I am quick to inform nobody's my friend, and none of them would earn my trust completely. We could hang, we could talk, but they'd never get to know me. And looking into John's brown eyes, I can tell I was right. He is silently telling me they will be loyal to me, but they can never be trusted.5

I seem to be going through school at a fast pace. I am the strongest girl here, never angry, never sad. I laugh at jokes and make my own, say what I think, and I don't care what they think. I do my work and slowly become closer with John, and even talk to Randy. We actually begin to date, only to break-up. He says he can't be with a girl who doesn't trust him. If that's the case, he will never be with me. John and I are partners in crime, and he even introduces me to my first high. I like it, and want more. He laughs at my eagerness, but refuses. To dangerous, he is saying. 6

All this time though, as I am pretending to have fun, I am slowly falling apart. No one seems to know it though, I hide it very well. They are so sure they know me, and I tell them they don't. I have a poker face that would blow you away. Call my bluff, I dare you. I am always victorious in the end. This time proves no different, I am learning the rules, what is accepted. I am learning what I can and cannot do, but the latter is a very short list. I am surviving, living through the emails and the phone calls, the millions of questions. There is a time I go back to GRMS, and it is now. The end of the year, of my seventh grade life. I say goodbye and step on the bus, the thought of returning never crossing my mind.7

I am in eighth grade now, and walking these halls of GRMS yet again. It is a day in early December, about the 17th or so. I am sitting in home room, talking to one of the few people I trust before we leave on a field trip. The door opens, and I look up.8

I walk into the room, and John laughs. Welcome back girl, he says to me. I hug him and say nice to see you. Alcohol, and cigarettes at school, I say to his unasked question. The class of thirty looks at us curiously, and I shrug. He stares at me, and asks how. I tighten my mouth, then just say Nicole. He shakes his head, his hair falling cutely into his eyes. You have horrible taste, he informs me. And looking at his smile, I can't help but agree. As we walk to P.E., all the guys ask me where I am from. I tell them, and they laugh. GRMS is not a great school, they say this like I haven't gone there for three years. I nod silently as one of them mentions a friend of mine, irritating me. He has no right to say things about him. He is an awesome person. They pester me constantly, watching admriably as I hold my ground and take it, initiation. I say I was there the year before them, and they lay off. I'm old hat, I know the drill. I am cool, I am bad. I am a thirteen-year-old on probation. We are playing kickball in class, and John and I sit out to talk. He mentions Dean, a friend of mine from the year before, a true friend. His exgirlfriend is pregnant, he says, and it isn't Dean's. They have been seperated for four months, and Dean is a virgin. She is five months. I shake my head, I knew Kara was horrible, I say. The bell rings and we leave.9

As we sit in the cafeteria, I go through it all again. The questions, the rundown of what happened, only this time I walk out not only the strongest girl, but the strongest there. I hate the rules, despise authority and all it represents. I hate being silent about what I want to say, doing what they deem is right. So when I felt that overwhelming sorrow, I did what no one else was strong enough to do. I cried.10