I have no friends. It just isn’t possible. It would take a pretty weird kid to touch me and murder their social life forever. Life is tough. It might be even tougher without friends. So what.
Every Saturday, my mom or dad wheels me to the park. We sit by the water and watch and feed the birds. One time half my class walked by, going wherever kids go, they looked at me, and not one of them smiled or said hi. But then one girl, the new girl, looked back and laughed. Then they all looked back, and laughed. I squeezed my bread bag until the crumbs were just dust. I felt like the dust just rattling inside the bag.
I closed my eyes hard. Then my mom said, “Jealous. They are all just jealous.” That’s her word, that’s always the word for children who are broken. I’m not sure she even understands it. Because when you’re not pretty or popular, and there isn’t even a chance of having any talent, what could they be jealous of, mom? You never really think.
There’s a tree in the park that’s the one thing I like. It’s just a perfect small tree that’s by itself. I like to sit under it in my chair and read. Or sometimes my dad lifts me and sits me on the grass. I want to be buried under that tree. I just haven’t told anyone yet.