Thursday, December 11, 2008

Sequacious

sequacious \sih-KWAY-shuhs\, adjective:
1. proceeding smoothly and regularly
2. disposed to follow, especially slavishly

"You follow her around like a puppy dog," they say. With a growl. A sneer on their faces. Like I sicken them. And I don't know what to say in response, so I don't say anything. I hardly ever say anything at all. Ever. Only to her. I don't have any other friends. Which is fine by me. And even with her I don't have to say much. Or if I do, it's a script we've gone through so many times before that I barely even have to think what comes next. With other people though, it's different. It's gotten to the point where I've developed an almost imperceptible stutter when I talk to someone that isn't her. I can tell that others are beginning to notice it. Even in classes, I try not to raise my hand to answer questions too often, but just enough as to not raise suspicion or draw unwanted attention to myself. But of course, that's all I tend to do. Attract attention. And not the good kind either. It's all whispers and stares and glares.
I'd like to say it's because they're all jealous of me, but I know that's not it. And I couldn't care less what they think of me. I'm just tired of the remarks, the looks, the assumptions. They assume I'm just like them. I mean, honestly, at the root of it all, they must assume I am just like them, and therefore believe that they can judge me by the same standards by which they judge themselves. But that's where they've got it all wrong. I'm nothing like them. Nothing.
That's why I prefer her company to anyone else's. She knows I'm not just the same as her. I'm not special. She's special, but I'm not. She's amazing, and I'm lucky that she lets me walk with her to school and back to our street again at the end of the day. Lucky that she lets me sit with her in the cafeteria and share the contents of her lunch box most times when I've got nothing. That she invites me to her house after school to do homework and never asks when I'm going to go home. That she let's me in when I climb up to her window on the really bad nights, and stay in her room until I calm down. Lets me crawl into her bed with her when I'm afraid to go back, because I know it won't be over yet.
And in my bones I know that if I could, I would follow her forever, because she lets me cry and holds me when I shake so bad from sobbing.

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