Platial | Who and What's Nearby
Platial | Who and What's Nearby
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Today was the first day that I walked out of my house since I’ve been home. It doesn’t take long before I’m ready to scream at the top of my lungs that I just want to get the fuck out of here! There are a lot of bad memories associated with home. In fact, the reason why I went to school was just to get away. High school was hell. No, I wasn’t a nerd. I wasn’t harassed. But it was the worst time of my life. I went to a small school. My graduating class was 74. Small. We started our freshman year with 140 kids. You’d think as a small farming community, it wouldn’t be as corrupt as it is.
I first learned about sex when I was in elementary school and not from the sexual education instructor. We’d sit in the back of the bus and I’d listen to my guy friends talk so vulgarly about the act. It never hit me to mind or ask how they knew so much. Years would pass and I would realize that they’re all just perverts. It’s like some kind of gene they’ve all got. I’ve been boy crazy since preschool (yes, preschool), so I never went through the “Ewww! Cooties!” phase. I remember buying Valentines to give to each of the kids in my class, but when I was filling out the To:’s, I always chose my favorite cards to give to the boys I liked the most. They were my weakness. They are what broke me down. In junior high, sex was just common knowledge. In 8th grade, I learned about alcohol. I’d listen to the guys in class talking with the girls (that kissed the most boys) about the past weekend. They’d always laugh in the corner about how “cool” it was. Nearing the end of junior high and starting our freshman year in high school, my class really started going to hell. It started with marijuana, but Triple C’s were the most popular. By this time, every single weekend there would be a party happening in someone’s basement or in an open cornfield. By this time, I was spending every weekend at Kearstin’s house. We’d stay up all night and eat pizza, watch movies, and lip sync and dance around her room to the best songs on the radio at the time. Lame, right? But thank God that’s where I was. Before the first semester of our freshman year ended, Stacey got pregnant. By the time we were seniors, 11 of my classmates would have kids. Some dropped out, some didn’t, but all but one is struggling to survive today.
I decided to cut through the high school parking lot to get to the other side of town. I live about four and a half minutes away from school. The memories came flooding back before I even turned into the parking lot. Classes had just let out so students were trickling slowly out the doors. As I neared the pedestrian crossing, I saw her. For three years, she’d been a part of both of our lives, I just didn’t know it until it was too late and he conveniently failed to tell me he was in love with her, too. High school drama, right? It never fails. She made my life a living hell. Without speaking a word to me, without looking at me, her existence made everything from my senior year in high school throughout my freshman year in college (keep in mind, I took a year off after graduating) pure hell. She was the all-American bitch perfect at everything. Co-star pitcher on the school’s softball team as a freshman and starting volleyball player, again, as a freshman. Later, after finding out the truth, I’d ask him if it would have made a difference if I were an athlete. He claimed it wouldn’t have, but I know better. Three years of my life, and this rich, perfect, Daddy’s little princess, took away the one good thing I had going for me (at least at the time that’s what I thought he was). There she was, in front of my car, with her little white visor and her French braid sticking out underneath it, her glove under her arm, and those stupid sunglasses with the lenses that you can’t see through. If you try, you only see yourself. She is just the start, and surprisingly only a miniscule part, of why home is such an awful place to spend my time. But with the mere sight of her, I think of him. I think of us. I think of what we did. I think of the nights I would pick him up in this very spot after football practice, after his track meets, after school, and on that day. As she walks by I remember that the entire time I was struggling to survive with my decision that I had made because he claimed to love me and he promised me the future, he was fucking her on the side.
Today was the first day that I walked out of my house since I’ve been home. It doesn’t take long before I’m ready to scream at the top of my lungs that I just want to get the fuck out of here! There are a lot of bad memories associated with home. In fact, the reason why I went to school was just to get away. High school was hell. No, I wasn’t a nerd. I wasn’t harassed. But it was the worst time of my life. I went to a small school. My graduating class was 74. Small. We started our freshman year with 140 kids. You’d think as a small farming community, it wouldn’t be as corrupt as it is.
I first learned about sex when I was in elementary school and not from the sexual education instructor. We’d sit in the back of the bus and I’d listen to my guy friends talk so vulgarly about the act. It never hit me to mind or ask how they knew so much. Years would pass and I would realize that they’re all just perverts. It’s like some kind of gene they’ve all got. I’ve been boy crazy since preschool (yes, preschool), so I never went through the “Ewww! Cooties!” phase. I remember buying Valentines to give to each of the kids in my class, but when I was filling out the To:’s, I always chose my favorite cards to give to the boys I liked the most. They were my weakness. They are what broke me down. In junior high, sex was just common knowledge. In 8th grade, I learned about alcohol. I’d listen to the guys in class talking with the girls (that kissed the most boys) about the past weekend. They’d always laugh in the corner about how “cool” it was. Nearing the end of junior high and starting our freshman year in high school, my class really started going to hell. It started with marijuana, but Triple C’s were the most popular. By this time, every single weekend there would be a party happening in someone’s basement or in an open cornfield. By this time, I was spending every weekend at Kearstin’s house. We’d stay up all night and eat pizza, watch movies, and lip sync and dance around her room to the best songs on the radio at the time. Lame, right? But thank God that’s where I was. Before the first semester of our freshman year ended, Stacey got pregnant. By the time we were seniors, 11 of my classmates would have kids. Some dropped out, some didn’t, but all but one is struggling to survive today.
I decided to cut through the high school parking lot to get to the other side of town. I live about four and a half minutes away from school. The memories came flooding back before I even turned into the parking lot. Classes had just let out so students were trickling slowly out the doors. As I neared the pedestrian crossing, I saw her. For three years, she’d been a part of both of our lives, I just didn’t know it until it was too late and he conveniently failed to tell me he was in love with her, too. High school drama, right? It never fails. She made my life a living hell. Without speaking a word to me, without looking at me, her existence made everything from my senior year in high school throughout my freshman year in college (keep in mind, I took a year off after graduating) pure hell. She was the all-American bitch perfect at everything. Co-star pitcher on the school’s softball team as a freshman and starting volleyball player, again, as a freshman. Later, after finding out the truth, I’d ask him if it would have made a difference if I were an athlete. He claimed it wouldn’t have, but I know better. Three years of my life, and this rich, perfect, Daddy’s little princess, took away the one good thing I had going for me (at least at the time that’s what I thought he was). There she was, in front of my car, with her little white visor and her French braid sticking out underneath it, her glove under her arm, and those stupid sunglasses with the lenses that you can’t see through. If you try, you only see yourself. She is just the start, and surprisingly only a miniscule part, of why home is such an awful place to spend my time. But with the mere sight of her, I think of him. I think of us. I think of what we did. I think of the nights I would pick him up in this very spot after football practice, after his track meets, after school, and on that day. As she walks by I remember that the entire time I was struggling to survive with my decision that I had made because he claimed to love me and he promised me the future, he was fucking her on the side.
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