Free

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I give myself one last look in the mirror, attempting to smooth my curly, blonde hair with no success. I sigh, frowning, then with a backpack slung over one shoulder, I trudge out to the bus stop.

I glance down at my aqua legwarmers against my paint-smudged blue jeans. The weight of pencils in my sweatshirt pocket and The Hobbit in my backpack comforts me, but doesn’t alleviate the butterflies in my stomach. You would think I’d be fine going to school by now, but the nervousness returns every morning before I board the bus. Apparently a week isn’t a long enough time to make friends.

I feel and hear the roar of the bus before I see it. As if in slow-motion, it halts before me. The driver signals the okay for me to board and I plod up the three steps. Before I can find a seat, the bus lurches into motion and I am slammed against a window. Around me boys and girls throw paper planes and shout to each other. Some kids run up and down the middle aisle, others stick their feet in front of them so they trip. Howls of laughter erupt randomly throughout the ride to school.

I stare at the kids. They seem so relaxed and comfortable around their peers. But of course they are. They have known each other ever since they were young. I’m the new one here.

When I walk into the classroom, no one looks up or stops talking. I don’t know what I expected on the first day I came to Cornersville middle school, but I guess I thought I’d be noticed more than I am. I slip into a vacant chair and read The Hobbit until class starts.

The teacher comes in, talks, then dismisses us for our next period. I answer

questions when I can and try to stay focused, but my mind strays to other things. The friends I left behind in New York the Montana lifestyle that is so drastically different from city life. Frankly, I don’t understand why we needed to move. Mom says it’s because life in the city was too expensive, but I think there might be another reason, unknown to me.

Before I know it, it’s lunch time. After a week of being here, I’ve grown accustom to sitting by myself in the corner. I guess it isn’t all that bad, but it would be nice if I had someone to talk with. The problem is that everybody already has their groups, because it’s nearly halfway through the school year.

I grab an apple and turkey sandwich from my backpack and dig out my sketchbook along with a few of my very favorite pencils. I observe the large room for a few minutes: about ten tables, each with eight kids, lunch ladies with pinched faces, students waiting in line to buy cold grilled cheese sandwiches. I roughly sketch these details on the paper, then bolden the lines with a rich, purple marker. Drawing helps me feel more in control of my emotions and surroundings.

I stop outlining when I notice that I have also put myself in the sketch. I sit at a table with my chin resting on my hands. I peer out the corner of my eyes and have a sad expression on my face. I rummage for a red marker from the depths of my bag and trace the sketch of myself with it.

I place my hands in my lap to contemplate my work. In the drawing, I stand out from the rest of the lunch room. It’s not like I tried to make myself look sad, it just happens. My heart somehow tells my hand what to do.

I yell, “I’m home!” as soon as I step through the door, even though I know no one is here. It makes me feel better, almost like I’m confirming that, at last, I’m free to do as I please. I grab the phone from the kitchen and dial Kim’s phone number. While it’s still ringing, I flop onto the living room couch.

“Hey, Kim!”

“Oh, hi, Alice. What’s up? How was school?”

I roll my eyes towards the ceiling and say, “Oh, you know, no different than yesterday… or the day before that… or the day before that. I feel so… different than everyone else. I don’t see why we moved. We were doing just fine in New York. Plus, mom has been much more stressed lately. I wish I could see you again.”

“Come on, Alice. You’ll be fine. You just need time to… adjust.” Her kind words have little effect on me.

“I’ve been adjusting for a week now! I’m beginning to think I should, oh, I don’t know, change? Not drastically, but just enough to be liked or make a friend.”

“Why would you do that? It totally defeats the point of making a friend if you’re not even going to be yourself.” Kim has always been like this. So practical.

We talk for several minutes more, then I hang up once I hear mom come home. She comes in, tosses her bag and jacket on a chair, then flops on the couch next to me.

Unlike me, my mom is fairly tall with brunette hair. Unlike me, she always wants to look good, with her hair curled and a suite-like outfit. The only similarity in our physical appearance are our eyes, both hazel.

She raises her eyebrows at my sweatshirt, legwarmers, and paint-messied jeans. “Is that what you wore to school today?”

“Yes,” I say. “It is, and I like it.”

She closes her eyes and purses her lips in disapprovement. “I’ve told you before, you need to be more aware of what you wear. Your name means noble, which is what I expect you to be.”

“My name also means truth.” Now I’m standing in front of her. “I’m sorry I don’t meet your standards.” I turn sharply on my heel and storm off to my room.

I slam the door loud enough to be heard from the living room to prove my point. Why can’t I just be fine with wearing what other kids wear or doing what other people my age do?

I thrust open my closet doors to reveal two narrow shelves on which I keep my art supplies: paints of various colors, a glass of paint brushes, sketchbooks, colored pencils, oil and chalk pastels, Sharpies, and charcoal. I don’t even try to keep it perfectly organized, but some may call it an “organized mess”. I grab a bottle of blue paint, a sketchbook, and a paintbrush. A glass of water and paper towels are already on my desk from the day before, so I sit down and start.
My hand hovers over the paper, but not for long. Soon, I have a girl with wind blowing her hair into her mouth. Her eyes look spirited, not held down by any burden or person. I realize that that is what I want to be like. Free. {/footnote}