You are seventeen. At 12:12 the bell rings, ending fifth hour and you exit your creative writing class walking shoulder to shoulder with Ruby, scoffing at the group of prissy girls who sit in the back of the room as you pass them. Their makeup is caked, their hair is chemically fried and they wobble awkwardly in their strappy platform sandals. You think they�re idiots. They think you�re a freak, which is something you can say with confidence since that is what their ring-leader bluntly told you after you read your play earlier in the week. On Monday, they made you feel inconsequential, but now it�s Thursday. And today, you feel infinitely superior to them.
Walking out the door, you lean into Ruby and sneer, �I hate them,� and you mean it.
Down the crowded staircase where you always envision yourself falling and being trampled by the Nike-clad hooves of the herd, and through a long, similarly congested hallway, the two of you walk almost as if you were connected, as if separation is a dangerous thing. You, like every other person walled-up in this building, unconsciously operate under a �safety in numbers� principle, so you do what you can to avoid facing the foe alone. Eventually, the two of you push your way through to the cafeteria and cut in the front of the line where Megan and Karl are already waiting for you.
Karl greets you by squealing, �It�s pizza day!� You are aware of this, not only because you can see that pizza is being served, but also because every Thursday is pizza day and your week revolves around the anticipation of this occasion. You laugh at him, and he folds his arms in satisfaction, then shifts his weight to his right foot, preceding to check out the football player standing a few feet away. Nodding in the boy�s direction, Karl shakes his head, saying, �He�s so fine,� then strikes his model pose and asks you, �Do you like my sweater?�
You laugh because you love how stereotypically he behaves and nod your head because it is, indeed, a very nice sweater. You do not share Karl�s preppy fashion sense, but instead choose to keep things simple with faded black and denim. You are confident that you are your own, unique person, but you dye your hair red to look like Tori Amos, aim to resemble Clea Duvall with thick eyeliner and wear an Ani DiFranco inspired nose-ring. And while you are nearly indistinguishable from Ruby and Megan in your wannabe hipster look, you are confident that they are prettier and cooler than you.
Megan lays bare the root of your feeling of inferiority as she flies from one anecdote to another, talking about her art, her twenty-something boyfriend, her new tattoo, the cardigan she stole from the thrift store. All the while, smiling grandmothers are loading greasy pizza and canned fruit on your tray, which you top off with snack cakes and a carton of milk, and soon the four of you are organized around a table covered in pencil graffiti. When Megan�s stories end, the conversation does not stop but rather transitions into a forum for venting the week�s frustration. You eagerly lead the conversation because you constantly feel stuck�like you�re constantly trying to fight your way out of a straightjacket. It�s as if you�re outgrowing a skin you can�t shed and it�s getting harder to breathe and harder to move. But the more you talk, the more you spit the bitter taste out of your mouth, the more your friends agree, the more they sympathize, the better you begin to feel. And half-way through the period, you take a deep breath and you feel at ease.
By now the pizza is gone, and Karl gathers up the empty trays and takes them up to be washed. Ruby and Megan begin debating whether or not a certain boy in their art class is in love with Ruby. Although she denies it, Ruby clearly likes him, and she blushes and giggles whenever she says his name. Ruby is quiet and an intriguing sort of quirky and you can�t imagine any sensitive, artsy boy not being absolutely crazy about her. Now Megan sharing another story about her boyfriend and Karl is praising the physical attributes of one of his McDonald�s coworkers, but you�re only half-listening. You�re watching the clock and looking around the room, anxious and waiting.
At 12:50, you see Bridget coming towards the table, like she does every day, and your stomach tightens and your hands start to shake a little. �She�s coming,� you say and your friends grin and whisper to each other as she grabs an empty chair and sits down beside you.
�Hey,� she says coolly as you admire her Bob Dylan T-shirt, her plaid pants, her green shoes. You�ve known her since last year when you were her lab partner in chemistry, and since then she has invaded your every waking thought. It�s almost torturous. You feel like your brain has been sucked out of your head. Worse than the pain of the obsession itself is the feeling that nothing will ever come of it. You are certain that she does not look at you the way you look at her, and you feel humiliated by your inability to control the fierceness of your unrequited feelings.
Minutes before the end of sixth hour, Ruby, Megan and Karl launch into a discussion of weekend plans. While the three of them chirp at one another, Bridget leans towards you and suggests, �If you�re not doing anything on Saturday, we should hang out.� You nod, stunned, and the bell rings. She stands up, tells you, �We�ll talk about it tomorrow,� waves and walks away. Your friends scatter in different directions, and your momentary euphoria is swallowed up by the noise of hundreds of kids trying to get to one room or another.
The natural flow of the movement out of the cafeteria pushes you along with it, moving you closer and closer to the history class you know you won�t pay attention in. You�re back in the storm where everything moves so quickly, with an immeasurable intensity, so that at the end of the day, you�re dreaming of primal scream therapy and feeling like you would welcome the collapse of the sky. Caught in the middle of this place and in the middle of your own angst and frustration, you have to look forward to something. So you are constantly waiting for Thursday when the pizza is good, the ranting therapeutic and your lust for the girl made not so painful. What you perceive as your own truth is nothing more than these halls, this confusion and your 55 minute respite from it all.
You are seventeen. You feel mired in this madness, unaware that you are actually moving, not in this human current, but by yourself. You are moving towards eighteen, towards nineteen, towards twenty, towards who-knows-how-many years away from this moment. You are fast approaching the point where you will swiftly shed the child�s skin that you are stretching to its limits, and find yourself amazed at how good it feels to fully extend your limbs. You are seventeen, and your real truth is that you are unconsciously in the process of becoming much more.

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