mandie west

August-December of 2005 His name was Alex. That guy from my American History class. This I only found out by watching roll call a few days later, when I was in an inconspicuous enough seat that I could see when he raised his hand. Because I had to run the distance of two buildings and relieve my bladder, I was always the last person to come running through the door before the bell rang. And everyday as I stepped into my last class, as much as I hated myself for it, I always looked for him. And when I found him, he was already looking at me and smiling. Always . For the first month, I never smiled at him; always sitting as far away from him as possible. This was no deterrent for him. I swear he smiled at me even more. From August to December, that's how it went. I never saw Alex in the halls or at lunch, where I'd been taken under the wing of a trio of blond girls who had dragged me out of the library when they found out that's where I spent every lunch period. ...

August 9, 2005 It was the second day of school, but technically my first since I'd spent the entirety of the day before sitting in the library, trying not to make eye contact with the rest of the kids who didn't have class schedules yet. The bell had just rang signaling the end of third period. One more class to go, and I would be free like Willy. Passing periods between classes were eight minutes long. You would think that would be enough time to make it to your next class on time. But the hallways were a turbulent sea of teenagers; loud, sweaty bodies moving together in an angry slow dance. Everyone pushing their way through the wall-to-wall chaos, breathing down my neck. The school walls were busting at the seams, having never been intended to hold this many students at once. Trying to play nice in a new school, I was hesitant to shove my way through. And all this close bodily contact with a bunch of strangers felt vaguely violating. Getting to the other side of just...

August of 2005 Flying down the winding back road on the way to town, I was tempted to check and see if the wheels were actually touching asphalt. Marica, my step-mom, drove like that whether she was behind the wheel of a tractor, lawn mower, or currently, the Mustang. Effective for getting us to church on time on Sunday mornings or beating the crowd to town for lunch, not so great when where I needed to be was a brand new high school for the first day of my Junior year. A large high school with 900 something students. My last high school wasn't particularly small, but it was no where near that big. There were multiple levels and buildings connected by walkways. After registration, I'd nearly lost all my nerve thinking about this day. Nausea began slithering its way in between the angry butterflies in my stomach who had denied me breakfast. The awkward way I was breathing gave away my anxiety. My jeans were getting damp from my sweaty hands; I couldn't stop the nervous...

Somewhere in the summer of 2005 The threshold sent the flyaways in my hair dancing as I stepped onto the airplane. My life was packed in my backpack and every piece of clothing I had was being thrown into the luggage compartment below. I looked at no one as I took my seat by the window. I'd lived on airplanes my whole life, flying back and forth between my parents. My most intimate moments played out in busy airport terminals for the world to see. People would stare, as I tried not to cry because when I cried more tears poured down dad's face. Clutching my sister's hand in mine, I'd drag her down the jetway because one of us had to; leaving a man in the terminal, who'd lean against the glass window until we were in the air where he'd cave from the blow of the twin engines and cry until he could barely walk a straight line back through the airport. I hated these flying death traps. Forced to ride them since I was four, I'd be damned if anyone was ever ...