Free! Free! I was finally free! Free from the blue prisons on my feet. The earth squished between my toes, my feet feeling every stone, every stick, every bump. No more rules, no more curtseys and bows and calling people "My Lord and Lady"... I could do whatever I wanted.
I have watched all of the high school and middle school movies. Mean Girls, Easy A, you name it, I've watched it. But I never actually took them seriously. Plus, having a whole year of middle school behind me, I'm pretty sure that I know what I'm talking about. Apparently, though, some girls think that you're supposed to act like Regina George in Mean Girls. There's a group of girls at my school, about 14 of them, who refer to themselves as "The Group". I recently discovered that every girl has a spot and that this spot can be taken away at any time by the Queen Bee, Regina Apis (that isn't her real name but for privacy purposes, I'll just use the Latin name for "Queen Bee"). Come to think of it, "The Group" is just like a bee hive. There's the Queen Bee, who lays eggs, or in this case, creates little clones of herself. Then are female workers, or Apis Operatur, who are used as spies, and to find new recruits, and report any dangerous behaviour.
*DISCLAIMER*: this is not saying that I am necessarily happy or not about the new president. Dear Mr. President, I have recently read a lot of books in the genre of dystopia. That's greek for not good place. They started with utopias. So my advice to you is:
On my pin board, is a summary of my life. Parts that make me smile. Parts that make me cry.
A faded picture of a blond haired little boy, his blue eyes bright with joy. A stained, handwritten speech. My six-year-old handwriting slopes up and down, but the words printed in orange felt tip are deeper than anything I could write today. The torn off cover of a picture book. A business card. A Swedish Fish wrapper. And finally, a newer photo, a polaroid this time, of five girls.
Janet is put into a room. She looks at a window. Out the window, there are three happy kids playing. Janet, unknowingly, is looking at her past self, playing with her other friends. Here is what she thought.Janet: Look at them. So happy. I wish that was me. Was I ever like that once? Happy, smiling... lots of friends... not a care in the world? How did I get here, to this place? How did I go from a happy eight-year-old, playing in the snow, to a sullen sixteen-year-old, who is flunking school, who has lost her only two friends? I hope those kids never grow up. I hope they stay like that forever. I hope that they are anything but me. But.. now that I think about it, I so wanted to be sixteen back then. I wanted to be grown up. I thought high school was going to be like High School Musical, that people would appreciate my art... my music... me. I never thought about all the exams and essays involved, the social hierarchy.
VERITY My name is Verity Sunlight Reed, and I am 12 years old. That seems logical enough to put down. What else? My father's name is Basil John Reed, and I have two sisters, Season Arrow Reed, who is 10, and Lake Amethyst Reed, who has just turned 8. My mother died when I was 6, and, in case you can't do the math, Dear Diary, when Season was 4 and Lake was 2.
I can't think of anything else to write. Mrs. Turner says that a diary is supposed to be a record of your life. I suppose I could say this: when I grow up, I want to be a philosopher. Dad says that philosophy is a useless major, but I think he's wrong.
SEASON Oh dear. I don't know how to keep a diary. I'd better ask Verity, since she's already finished her entry.
Smoke fills the air, and bodies lie, groaning in the mud. That's one thing that never changes right? People will always die. Whoah. Whoah. Not so fast. That's not true, at least, not now. I'm an experiment. A short, fat man waddles over to me and takes my arm. "I am Neo. I will be your caretaker." With no further clarification, he walks me over to a path.
A girl stands in the doorway, two blonde plaits wound around her head. She clutches a single loaf of hard, black bread. A fox watches her from inside. "Please. Do you have any milk?" she asks. "For what purpose?" snarls the fox. "My baby brother has pneumonia. The doctor said to give him bread-and-milk pudding," she pleads. "Hmm. I'm not sure. What have you done to deserve milk from me? Why can you not use your own?" "Our cow is dry. Please. We need it." What do you think happens next?