Being new gets old like cake frosting left in the fridge for too long. First it’s fun, snow on the ground in April, blue and squeaky school floors. A clean, clean room with a big window and all my boxes. My friends from home asking how cold it is, and if people wear snowshoes to run errands. The forest out back teeming with big rocks to stand on and even bigger trees to climb. Everything around me is a clean slate waiting to be painted on.
Soon, though, the house gets colder and colder at night, the mattress on the floor feels less like a bed and more like a mess. My room is drafty and bare, boxes half emptied. I trip over clothes that coat the floor like a slippery carpet. School is like a sea of turned heads and blank stares. They have enough friendly faces around, and mine blurs into the background. I am a ping-pong ball in a goldfish tank. I am new but nothing special, just short hair and baggy winter jackets. New friends become a dream that I can’t remember when I wake up. Too quiet, too boring, maybe I look sad. Thoughts like that chase my brain in circles and stir up dust and muck from long ago. Anxious whispers crowd around me after every word I speak. The slate that was clean and shiny drips with grey disappointment.
When the mud dries into soft soil and little green plants yawn every morning, that’s when the feeling of being new wears away. When you’re not the only one looking for directions, it gets easier to pretend you know where you’re going. Anxious voices clamor for attention, but I don’t always give it to them and that’s okay. I’m still the ping-pong ball in the fish tank, but I can paint myself orange and blow bubbles like everyone else.
Soon, though, the house gets colder and colder at night, the mattress on the floor feels less like a bed and more like a mess. My room is drafty and bare, boxes half emptied. I trip over clothes that coat the floor like a slippery carpet. School is like a sea of turned heads and blank stares. They have enough friendly faces around, and mine blurs into the background. I am a ping-pong ball in a goldfish tank. I am new but nothing special, just short hair and baggy winter jackets. New friends become a dream that I can’t remember when I wake up. Too quiet, too boring, maybe I look sad. Thoughts like that chase my brain in circles and stir up dust and muck from long ago. Anxious whispers crowd around me after every word I speak. The slate that was clean and shiny drips with grey disappointment.
When the mud dries into soft soil and little green plants yawn every morning, that’s when the feeling of being new wears away. When you’re not the only one looking for directions, it gets easier to pretend you know where you’re going. Anxious voices clamor for attention, but I don’t always give it to them and that’s okay. I’m still the ping-pong ball in the fish tank, but I can paint myself orange and blow bubbles like everyone else.
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