13
Being thirteen is waking up at 5:45am on a Monday wishing your bed had swallowed you whole in the night like a great killer whale.
Being thirteen is tears streaming before you even open your eyes to the sound of your alarm clock. It grates your soul more than your ears.
Being thirteen is getting in your mom’s car anyway because the cute boy you sit across from in Spanish every day will make you laugh so hard you almost pee yourself in the middle of the telenovela. (You don’t. But you almost do.)
Being thirteen is falling asleep on the five-minute drive there because the sun hasn’t even fallen awake. No one is awake here. Except Mom.
Being thirteen is quivering in terror during Language Arts for Gifted Students because you’re just thirteen and you don’t understand what a stupid participle is yet. The teacher calls on you anyway. You get it wrong.
Being thirteen is sharing your Wordly Wise homework with the cute boy because he is the cute boy and the Universe has blessed you as his seatmate for five of your seven classes.
Being thirteen is having the best day of your young little life because the cute boy drew a picture just for you and if that isn’t love then what the hell is it.
Being thirteen is throwing your twenty-pound backpack on the kitchen floor when you get home and crying again because you suck at math and your last book report was shit and the cute boy still hasn’t asked you out yet even though it seems like you should be there already.
Being thirteen is everyone else in the class stealing the homework from the cute boy who you shared your homework with and suddenly the whole class stops doing their homework and waiting for you to give yours to the cute boy because he is the cute boy and now there is only one brain in the class of twenty-eight. Yours.
Being thirteen is having few friends but granting many favors because you can’t see the dirt on your own doormat and you can’t get the stupid kids off your doormat because you’re weak and can’t see that you are even stupider because you are the doormat and the doormat is you.
Being thirteen is hating yourself because the doctors don’t know why Mom can’t breathe and somehow it’s your fault because you’re just thirteen and an ungrateful bitch and a horrible human.
Being thirteen is forgiving the cute boy for only having half his homework done because every day he is saving your life.
Thanks for reading!
