• “Uncool,” they say. What is cool? Belly buttons sticking out? Pants slipping too low? Money? Material stuff? Is cool really based on that?

    My heart raced, blood pounded in my ears, rushing to supply my angered mind, but I could say nothing to them. I just stood there, quiet, avoiding eyes, and avoiding the people behind those eyes.

    Cigarettes hung from their mouths, burning, taunting me with their lies, telling me it would all feel better once I took one. The people asked me if I wanted one. I shook my head, telling them that they could fill their lungs with smoke if they wanted to; at least I did inside my mind. I just walked away, like usual. “Chicken!” screamed one, others making that annoying chicken noise, to back the first up. I wanted to fade away again, but it was too late.

    I spun around, sucking a great gulp of air, “my choice!” I spat, my anger taking all of my concentration, leaving none for my fears. They laughed at me, bringing back the quiet, shyness, shame, and somehow, underneath it all, a sense of pride. I was embarrassed, as I continued with my exit, but, slowly, a smile trickled onto my face.