Delusional

        Sharice is a monster. She even looks like one. Pig-nosed, greasy-haired, chap-lipped, big-eared, unibrowed, monster, Sharice. She’s been after my reputation ever since fifth grade when I was voted student council president and she only made secretary. It’s eigth grade now, Sharice. Get a life! I mean, just today that you hit on my boyfriend. This has got to be, like, the fiftieth time now, and I swear I almost rearranged that girl’s monster face.

        See, Tara, Sam and I were walking from social studies to math and we were laughing about how tacky Mrs. Robinson’s outfit was. Plaid….everywhere! On top of that, she had a massive wedgie. She’s droning on about Angina, or whatever that country in Africa is, and we’re just cracking up with laughter. She’d turn around and we’d just look at our notebooks or those “People of the World” posters that show those cartoon people in their costume thingies in Russia or Spain. They’re kind of creepy, actually.

        So, while we’re walking down the hallway we pass a blob of dweebs and guess who’s laughing like a hyena at my boyfriend, Brad’s, jokes? The crazy fake, obnoxious laugh was spewing out of Sharice who was obviously trying too hard to appreciate his humor. He’s not that funny in the first place, trust me. To him, funny is milk shooting out of Otto’s nose. Gross. I go up to Sharice and say, “Uh, what do you think you’re doing with Brad?” “What’s it to you?” she said.

        “A big deal, that’s what. You’re always trying to steal my boyfriend. Can’t you tell he’s not even into you?”

        “What’re you talking about? Brad and I have been going out for almost four months now. Get lost loser!”

        “Loser?!?” I raised my hand to slap her, but the bell rang and they rushed off to their classes. By the time I got to the end of the hallway to Mr. Willow’s class I could only hear my heels echoing off the metal lockers. I had to use the excuse “woman’s issues” sot that I didn’t get another tardy and he barely bought it. The only desk left was next to some smelly kid whose name I still don’t know. You see what she gets me into? Ugh!

        I might have slapped her after school if I didn’t have to go have another session with Dr. Wilson. She’s the best therapist I’ve had. She actually listens, you know? The only problem is that today she got all weird and flaky, talking about ‘image’.

        “Do you know what ‘image’ is?” she asks.

        “Of course! My clothes, my popularity, my friends, being head cheerleader; it all contributes to my reputation, which is ‘image’ right?”

        “I suppose. What about ‘self-image’?”

        “You mean like a mirror?”

        “Sort of, but it also goes deeper, through the skin. It shows you who you are inside. The problem is that a lot of teens have warped or broken mirrors.”

        I was getting pretty bored and started looking around her office at her pictures and stuff. Her family wears the Walmart collection, but they seem nice. I guess. She has all of those cheesy inspirational pictures on the walls with words like ‘perseverance’ and ‘integrity’ on them.

        “What do you think of yourself?” she asked. I totally spaced out up until that point.

        “Uh, popular, pretty, intelligent, stuff like that” I shifted in my chair so I wouldn’t fall asleep.

        “Okay, but go deeper. Ask yourself ‘Who am I?’”

        “I don’t know what you mean?”

        She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and rubbed some lotion on her hands, lavender and orange. “Well, think about it and ask your mom for help. Then try to look from Sharice’s point of view. Who are you to her? How does she view herself?”

        Now I was just annoyed. “Why should I care what that skank thinks?”

        “Just try it, okay? Let’s meet again next week.”

        “Whatever….”

        I thought it was pretty stupid, but I didn’t want to let Dr. Wilson down. My mom picked me up from therapy and was on the phone the whole time, so I listened to my ipod touch and looked out the window. She’s always been busy ever since dad left; working long shifts or going out with her friends. Dad tried to get joint custody, but she had a better lawyer and got full custody. She said he was a horrible, irresponsible man who cheated on her and drank too much. Honestly, I don’t know anything about that other than the drinking. He did drink a lot, but most of the time he was working or at least said he was working.

       When we pulled in the garage she waved her hand meaning I should just go inside and not wait for her. I went up the stairs, into the house, and grabbed a snack. There wasn’t much in the pantry, but the fridge had some grapes. I had some of those until Mom cam in. I asked her about ‘self-image’ and what she had to say was a lot better than what Dr. Wilson was saying.

        “Oh, honey, you’re a gorgeous, smart girl who has a lot of friends who adore you and a family who loves you. Your friends look up to you. That’s got to be a lot of pressure and responsibility. I’ve told you how much you remind me of myself at your age. I was popular too. The eyes were always on me, and I had to live up to a lot of standards. If I didn’t, I’d let down a lot of people. I had a Sharice too, you know. Her name was Sandy Atkins and she would follow me around, copy me, try to make me look bad, and even try to steal my boyfriends.”

        “Sharice just tried that today, Mom!” I told her.

        “But, you know what? As annoyed as I was with Sandy, and girl did I loathe her, I eventually realized how pathetic she was. She desperately wanted to be as cool and as popular as me, and it showed. She envied me so I just learned to pity her, and I would tell her I did too. That way, she didn’t succeed in bringing me down to her level, and I wasn’t as annoyed. It made life a lot easier.”

        “So when you look in the mirror, think about how great you are. Think about how well you can succeed; how smart you are. Remember to tell yourself all the things that make you who you are. Tell yourself that you’re so great that people wish they were you. Think of Sharice. To her, you’re her idol and when she looks into the mirror, she’s only reminded of how much she fails to be nearly as popular or as amazing as you are. She probably hates herself.”

       That made a lot of sense to me and my mom knows about these things. It made me think of a couple weeks ago when I made head cheerleader. When Sharice was trying out, she practically fell on her butt. She barely made the squad. I had to be her partner for one of the routines, and, you know what, I bet that’s how she made it. She’s lucky I didn’t let her fall on her back. I though about doing just that the whole time.

       Hey! That’s probably why she’s been after my boyfriend more than normal lately. She’s jealous of me because I made head cheerleader, and me having a guy as great as Brad must make it even worse. The poor girl’s delusional. So sad. I don’t blame her, really. In fact, if I was in her shoes, I’d probably be delusional too.