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The Cool Clique
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TITLE (EDIT)
The Cool Clique |
DESCRIPTION
I actually did some reasearch for this, interviewed a few older friends... they don't understand it anymore than I do.
[837 words] |
AUTHOR
Pearl S |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I'm a teenager; I like to write, play music, and read old English manuscripts.
[November 2002] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (14)
Everything's Routine (Essays) The frightening realization that people live their entire lives like gerbils running in their wheels, and sometimes come away empty-handed. [662 words]
Makes No Difference (Poetry) Not the Sum 41 song. [120 words]
Not Who I'm Supposed To Be (Poetry) I said it was poetry but it isn't really. I don't know what to call it, but it's the feeling you get when everyone knows you should be more than you are and they're right. [373 words]
Nothing Much (Poetry) - [328 words]
Snowing In April (Songs) - [346 words]
Sounds Of Silence And What I Can't Say (Poetry) - [358 words]
Special (Short Stories) - [1,338 words]
The Masochist Boy (Novels) A neglected teenager confronts his addiction and depression with the help of an insecure friend. [35,178 words] [Teenage]
The Waves (Songs) - [160 words]
Watch Out, Henry! There's A Hole In That There Bucket! (Short Stories) The English Essay I Had Way Too Much Fun Writing. [4,772 words] [Teenage]
We Are Connected By A Net Of Faith (Songs) I guess the title doesn't say much, but this is my feeling about the coming war with Iraq. [296 words]
White Washed Walls, A Collection (Poetry) Acollection of verse: White Washed Walls: Something that came to me while I was sitting by my window... it was a bitter kind of day. Empty Wind-blown Streets: Pieced together from different hospital... [707 words]
Why I Got High, Ran Away, And Just Generally Screwed Myself Up (Poetry) A thought that popped into my head today. I think it might actually explain something. I don't know, I just want it to be out there. [34 words]
'ms. America' (Songs) If Ms. America was a typical American woman... [287 words]
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The Cool Clique
Pearl S
Do you know what hurts?
I want to be let into your little group. I like the things you like. The things you say I find interesting. The things you do I find fun. I want to be let into your little group. Why not? I’m more like you than any other.
But you won’t let me in.
At first I didn’t understand; I thought it must be me. I thought I wasn’t cool enough, I thought I wasn’t popular enough. I thought I must be strange. I thought I must be pathetic. You say that I’m pathetic.
I want to slap you.
So I tried. I let you do whatever you wanted with me. What’s mine is yours. What’s yours is not mine. You do not share with me. When you and your group start talking and I walk in, you start talking someplace else. You walk away.
You won’t let me in.
So I asked my mother what to do. My mother says I’m not trying hard enough. She says I must talk only about what you find interesting. My mother says I must do only what your group is doing. She doesn’t know that every time I try to talk to you, you stare me down until I feel worthless. She doesn’t know that each time I try to speak, the words die in my mouth. I stand like an accused or a beggar; you sit like a queen or a police man. I stand in silence, pleading to you with my eyes. You sit in silence, glaring at me, another unwanted fly.
You won’t let me in.
I’ve done everything for you. I laugh at all your jokes. I say what you want to hear. I like what you like. You hateful person, don’t you realize everything I’ve sacrificed for you? I’ve sacrificed my mind and my identity. I’ve sacrificed my opinions, my interests, my time, my music, my grades, my money, my food. I’ve given it all up for you. And what have you given in return?
Nothing. You’ve given nothing. You won’t let me in.
You’ve taken taken taken. Once I was crying. You asked me what was wrong, listened without listening, and walked away. Taken taken taken. You laugh at me and mock me, you and your entire group. You talk to me only when there’s no one else to talk to. You call me pathetic and tell me that I can only dream about fitting in with the rest of you. Then you laugh, and I laugh with you. When I don’t laugh, when I bend my head and scurry quickly away, you say I am being too sensitive. In your eyes, nothing I do is of any value or any consideration.
I wanted to be your friend. I liked you. I thought you were interesting. I just wanted to be your friend.
And what do I have now?
I have nothing.
Nothing.
I have no identity. I have no interests. I’ve thought about drugs, but I don’t have any money left to buy them with. Don’t you realize what you’ve done to me?
I have no friends. I have no friends. You step on me and use me, but you are not my friends. The rest of the school has a nametag for me now: “Wannabe.” I used to have a choice of a few labels, a few groups I might have fit with. Now I have only one.
Are there others like me? I’ve looked, but I don’t see any. Oh, I see the other girls in your group. They do everything I have done. They scramble in their search for the right words to say, they give you whatever you want, pay homage to you like a queen. But you let them in. You talk to them, and they listen. And I walk past, and the group—queen bee and all her little workers—laugh at me.
And that hurts.
I thought that maybe I’d move to a different high school, a different city. Start all over again. Pick up the ashes of my identity; patch it back together with scotch tape. This time, I would protect that identity with all my heart. There would be no sacrificing. There would be no stooping. I would respect others, but I would not try to fit in. I would have no friends. I would have no peers. I would graduate, and then what? Go through the rest of my life that way?
It used to be that people respected me for who I was. But now I no longer know who I am, and no one respects me. No one takes me seriously. No one listens when I talk. No one speaks to me or laughs with me. I am alone like a caged dog. Every now and then some one pokes me with a sharp stick, and some one else laughs. Then they leave me.
And that hurts.
I have nothing left now.
No, that is not true.
I have one thing.
Hate.
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READER'S REVIEWS (6)
DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"Read this a couple times Pearl and it seems you captured the angst many probably felt going through their teens. Things have a way of evening out and suffering can be a great motivater. Nice work." -- Just A Guy.
"thanks...i hope i didn't scare anyone, but i try to get these things down so i can understand them later and prevent other ppl from feeling the way i did" -- pearl.
"u took the words right out of my mouth. how could you get inside my head so perfectly. after a while, i just think - why do i want to be like them? it's not doing me any good to try so why try at all? don't bother, don't stoop low and beneath urself for s/o else who won't even give u the time of day. i think it but when i'm actually in the situation, i can't overcome my desire to be 'one of the group'... i'm sure u know what i mean. " -- miriam.
"lol miriam...you have no idea how funny it was to see your review here. i guess i never realized how many ppl have the same problem. and the point is, no matter how much their behavior may turn you off at times you still half wish you could be them. lol we have to deal with a lot of the same junk, dont we?" -- pearl.
"My gosh! i learnt a long time ago that trying to be someone you're not doesn't work. It gets annoying when you're trying to hard. I know ppl like that and they drive me nuts. The adults don't always understand what you're going through. But you're story was great!!" -- turaliz.
"that story was so touching and i know exacly how you feel. i also know a certain someone who is like that well its a good story" -- sara , wagga wagga, nsw, australia.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2002 Pearl S |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
January 2003 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2339
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