Secrets

She didn’t know why she was surprised. Really, it had all been so obvious, so dreadfully clear, from anyone else’s perspective. But not hers. She’d been the blind fool this time, stumbling after them in hopes of acceptance, hopes that she could trust them.

The January park was cold, and the bench was positively icy, since it was early morning, but she didn’t care. The cold made her feel numb, and the numb hollowness inside was always more welcome than the pain. She would rather feel nothing right now. She could hear echoes of their laughter as they skipped and jostled away.

She didn’t know why she’d trusted them. She, who’d always been the odd girl out, had no reason to trust them- they were the sort of people who you could tell were two-faced; they’d smile sweetly at you, then stab you in the back. But, desperate for a friend that didn’t come from between the pages of a novel, she had lost all discretion.

It was for a project, some sort of literature assignment. Normally, she worked alone when given the option, but today she just didn’t feel like it. And then what had seemed like a blessing had happened. Khloe Baker, who knew full well that if she wanted a good grade, had to choose a bookish partner, had asked if they could work together. She had said yes, and at first it seemed that she’d found a friend. Her part of the work, a result of an eager effort to please the other, floated their grade to an A+. Well, all of it was her work, but didn’t friends help other friends? Khloe had admitted she wasn’t an excellent student. It had all gone so well- she’d started eating lunch with Khloe and the rest of the volleyball team, talking to them. No, what had happened was even worse; she’d started trusting them. They told her tidbits of their lives-which boys they liked, little things like that- and she kept them solemnly, expecting them to do the same.

They didn’t. The moment they’d told everyone kept replaying, on and on, around and around, in a loop, in her head. They’d broadcast it over the loudspeakers, spreading her humiliation so that even her teachers looked at her pityingly. She remembered when she’d let it slip- one walk home, when she told them that they were the only friends she had, and before, fictional characters were her only companions. She just didn’t get along with people. Was that so odd, so wrong? Evidently so; but she’d learned the lesson the hard way. Fictional characters, although nonexistent in the real world, always kept your secrets. They didn’t make you the laughingstock of the school. They didn’t walk up to you, after school, and just rub it in, like salt in the wound. No, not salt. Something much stronger. Hydrochloric acid, perhaps. Sometimes the people you couldn’t meet in real life were the best friends you could ever have. Moreover, they kept your secrets