I mean, there I was, trying to walk to my next class—not doing a single thing wrong, let me tell you—when the principal called me to his office.
If my mom finds out about this, I am so dead.
Right now I'm waiting outside his office. The secretary with the bowl cut told me to work on my homework. As if. There is absolutely no way I can't journal this right now. How else will I vent my emotions before going in there? I mean, I'm not exactly known for keeping my thoughts to myself.
I don't even know what I'm in trouble for. I haven't ever done anything wrong in school, except for that one time I wrote the quadratic formula on my hand before an Algebra quiz, but I didn't even use it! I felt too guilty, which was dumb, because then I practically failed that quiz.
Well. Actually. Maybe that whole "nothing wrong ever" thing was an exaggeration—there was that one time last month when I lied to Mr. Olsen, my biology teacher, and told him that I didn't get to my homework because there was an unexpected distant family death, and I was too sad to work on it. I mean, there was a distant family death, but it was some fourth aunt I'd never met, and I didn't get to my homework because after the funeral I wanted to hang out with Mariana, my best friend. And last week I asked to go to the nurse's office in gym class due to cramps, but I actually just didn't feel like getting changed out of my super cute, limited edition faux-leather Nine West ankle boots only to get hit in the head with a volleyball. And now that I think about it, yesterday I told this snot-faced girl in my class, Emma Taylor, AKA my arch-nemesis since the beginning of time, that I hope she flunks out of school so I never have to see her ugly face again, but I only said it because she was being mean to Mariana. I was protecting a victim of her cruelty.
Emma probably snitched on me like the baby she is, just happening to leave out the part where she knocked all of Mariana's books to the ground and told her that she was fat (a word that Mariana and I know isn't supposed to be negative, but it was the connotation that stung. I guess Emma never got the body-inclusivity memo). It's completely Emma's fault I'm sitting in this rock-solid chair. At least my new Maje tweed skirt won't wrinkle (best thing about tweed: wrinkle-proof).
Some middle schooler just came into the office and blew their nose right in my face. God. Sometimes, I hate my life. I hate math tests, which are totally unnecessary, because, hello, calculators. I hate being called to the principal's office for no reason. Most of all, I hate that my one true love, this completely amazing junior with shiny, swooping hair named Beau Johnson, asked Emma Taylor to the winter formal and not me.
I don't even know why she hates me so much. Sure, I'm a freak. I don't play sports or do well in school or have more than two friends, but I'm not hateable. I don't disrupt class or get extra homework for the whole grade. Mostly, I fail math class and feed my cat. What's so hateable about that?
And, like, sure, I'm mean to her sometimes, but that's just because somebody has to tell her when she's being a complete snob. I never even initiate conversations (okay, fine, arguments) with her.
Dr. Garcia just called me into her office. Ugh. I hope I don't get detention. More updates later.