Lunchtime. The most dreaded time of the day. It is the time where once again my miserable existence as an untouchable slaps me in the face. Soon the chant begins. “She fingers herself” “She is such a s***” “God she is so ugly.” “She is fat.” “She is a pig.” Even the ones who I once called friends joined in. “She is gross.” “She is a w****.” “I can’t believe I liked her. She’s such a freak.”

My hands shake around the tray as the beautiful skinny girls morph into an ugly demon. “Look at you you’re such a loser. No one wants to talk to you. It’s probably because you spend all your time fingering yourself, skank.”

The waves of taunts, insults, jibes, sneering, and cold indifference threaten to swallow me whole. “You’ll never have any friends. Who would want to hang out with someone as fat and ugly as you are?”

My stomach threatens to tumble to the ground. “Hey guys I heard she fingered herself in health class the other day. Look at her. She’s such a freak. She doesn’t deserve any friends.”

My legs tremble, my heart pounds, blood rushes through my veins. Tears threaten to gush through my eyes with heavy heaving sobs. What did I do anyways? What did I do wrong? The answer is obvious. I don’t have that sunny blond hair, perfect skin, toned tan legs, firm arms, flat belly, small butt, small hips, tiny nose, thin lips, or petite figure that all the popular Brahmin girls seem to have. I have committed the crime of being an ugly duckling in a pond of beautiful swans.

Sixth period. The most dreaded class of the day; P.E. My thighs are considerably fuller than the other girls. My butt is huge compared to the size two toothpicks. My arms are nothing more than giant globs of fat. My head is large and awkward. Plus my clothes are cheap and worn unlike everyone else’s new state of the art brand name athletic wear.

Two of the blondest, skinniest, prettiest girls have lockers next to mine. Changing in front of them day in and day out is beyond mortifying. Their cruel, cold laughter mocks me every time I step in the room. They brush by my legs ever so subtly, snickering along the way.

“Fat a**,” one of them whispers. They burst into giggles as they stroll out of the room with their to die for legs.

“S***,” another girl mutters as she passes.

“Pig,” another one jeers.

And the chant begins again like scratched CD. My stomach twists and turns furiously. Lunch threatens to escape my throat. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before exiting the room. How I loathe the face that stares back at me. Why did I have to be so ugly anyways? Why did my hair have to be so frizzy, my nose so big, my shoulders so broad, my body so fat?

Suddenly a fire ignites in my stomach. I raise my hand ready to smack something. But the only one who has committed a crime is me.. It’s not their fault that I’m diseasing all the beautiful Brahmins with my untouchable ugliness. My fingernails squeeze the fat on my thighs until warm red blood trickles down my leg. The fire is extinguished.

My fourteenth birthday. Three brutal months of banishment. Nothing but the chill of lonlieness greets me on that dreary February morning. No one wishes me happy birthday. No one cares. The usual chant plays. Fat. Ugly. Pig. S***. W***. Skank. Freak.

“Don’t go too close to her,” one girl laughs. “You might catch her ugly.”

Yep, a real happy birthday. My present will be surviving lunch in my proper untouchable spot all by myself. If the wolves don’t devour me it’ll be a wonderful day. For once the blood pooling into my fingernail and the crescents left behind aren’t good enough. The fire is hungry for something more.

I trudge into my house, wishing that I were dead. Well maybe you can be. Filled with hope, I sprint into the kitchen, searching for the largest knife. My fingers brush over the cold cold metal. Fat. Slowly, I raise it. Ugly. All the beautiful girls sneer at me. Loser. S***. W****. Ugly. Fat. Pig. Freak. Ugly. Loser. Ugly. ugly. ugly. ugly.

The blade slices my skin. Thick, warm, blood drips on the counter. The girls laugh. You’re pathetic. Just end it now. You’re such a loser anyways. You’ll never have any friends. You’re so ugly. Stay away from me I don’t want to catch you’re ugliness. Die before you infect us all.

No. I’m not going to let you win this one. One day I will be a doctor and an author with a house over the beach and a family that loves me while all of you barely scrape by as checkers at Wal Mart. I blink at the nasty gash across my arms. What have I done? Why am I letting these girls turn me into the monster they think I am.

There’s a clank as the knife hits the floor. I race into my room, flop on the bed, and bawl until my eyes are dry, my sides scream in agony, and I’m half asleep.
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Freshman year of high school. Things were supposed to be better. But the chant is still there. The lie of me fingering myself in the hall still impedes my ability to gain any friends. If anything I’m rolling through the motions, praying that the light will shine.

I’m on props crew for The Miracle Worker. I”m still too awkward to even consider trying out for a part. On crew I can blend in with the shadows. No one will see me for the freak I am. One day at rehearsal, one of the Brahmins in middle school approaches me. By reflex, my stomach free falls to the floor, any food threatening to escape. Why did I have to be born anyways?

“Hey, I want to talk to you,” she begins. “I want you to know that you’re really pretty; you have beautiful eyes. You know you have a nice figure. I wish I had your curves. You could be a model, you know?”

“Uhhh, uhhh,” I stammer unsure of this ailein like compliment. “Uhhhh thank you.”

“And you’re nice and smart,” she adds. “I’m so jealous of you.”

“Uhhhh, thank you.”

I catch a glimpse of my reflection. My milk chocolate brown eyes aren’t that bad. My lips curve upwards a little. They glow when I smile. Maybe I’m not really a freak. Maybe I’m not really an untouchable. This is high school. One of the Brahmin girls called me beautiful and she wasn’t mocking or sarcastic. Maybe the hierarchy doesn’t exist. Maybe it never did.

Maybe it wasn’t just them either. Maybe I’ve just blamed them for something I have held inside of me for so long. Maybe I’m only ugly because I think I’m ugly. How stupid have I been? I have been trying to blend their voices with my own. The chant has been me all along masked by their sneering voices. But it ends today.

The next day at lunch I sit with other human beings (a strange concept). There is no chant today. Only mundane talk of classes, boys, and homecoming. And I am beautiful.