I take a deep breath and walk into school bracing myself for the looks inside I’ll get. All the girls with their perfect hair and makeup, who spend their summers at country clubs and tan perfectly, The girls who tie their hair with bows, who are on yearbook staff, and whose shelves are full of makeup and cheerleading trophies. No one is original. Everyone is in the same plaster mold from elementary school. But I, I screwed up their once perfect system. I am the northerner who wears her hair choppy and short, has black eyeliner, paints her nails black, and wears mismatched earrings. Whose paste white skin looks paler with her clothes which are so out of the norm anyway. With my long gypsy shirts and arm socks, overalls and combat boots I am defiantly not the southern belle beauty queen their parents trained them to be. The small, all girl Christian school in North Carolina was overthrown by me. The product of a divorce and an artistic mom who really doesn’t give a crap about anything I do. When I walk into class they’re gossiping about the latest celebrity or how their mommies wouldn’t let them get a mani-pedi. “dyke.” They whisper as I sit down and take off my messenger bag covered in buttons off of my shoulder. I take out a twizzler and eat it slowly, just to freak them out. I don’t really have any friends but that’s okay. Who would want to be friends with an outsider anyway?