Progressing through the hallways. One foot after the other. I'm staring blankly ahead of me.

Just get to class.
Just get to class.

"Ugly bitch."

At this moment, I know they've seen me. I ignore it.

"You fucked him. Fucked him hard."

Hold back. You do not feel. It does not hurt.
I keep telling myself the same thing everyday. I do this so maybe, just maybe, I will believe it; and then it will not hurt.

I approach a hallway and turn right. There's more of them standing against the faded white wall. They're wearing assorted band shirts: Hawthorne Heights, Underoath, Fall Out Boy. One of them wears a black and blue hat, cocked slightly sideways. An old best friend stands amongst them. He does not look at me.

I continue walking. One foot after the other. I'm staring blankly ahead of me.

"Get to class, pigeon toed."

Hold back. You do not feel. It does not hurt.
I keep telling myself the same thing everyday. I do this so maybe, just maybe, I will believe it; and then it will not hurt.

It does not hurt.
It does not hurt.

I turn the corner and enter my classroom. I sit patiently, waiting for drivers education to begin.

The same three boys pile into class. Assigned seating. They sit behind me.

Loud whispers; they say his name. They say my name. They are acting as if I am not sitting right in front of them. They are acting as if I do not get enough of this on a daily basis without their contributions. But they know I do. They know.

The bell rings, announcing the beginning of class. The talking continues.

"Easy, ugly whore."

"He dumped her ass right after."

"I hear she was a bad fuck."

If only they knew the truth. The truth as to what actually happened. But I cannot tell them, will not tell them.

Hold back. You do not feel. It does not hurt.
I keep telling myself the same thing everyday. I do this so maybe, just maybe, I will believe it; and then it will not hurt.

Class is over. I strap my bag to my shoulder and hug my books tightly to my chest.

I turn left out of the white hallway. Turn right.

I pass a table of kids, all with dyed black hair. Their clothing is almost identical to one another. There are two boys and two girls; the girls are both overweight and the boys are wearing tight pants and black band shirts. One boy is taller than the other. I hug the opposite side of the hallway. Maybe they will not see me. Wrong.

The tall boy speaks.
"You fucked him!"

The entire table snickers, and kids have stopped to stare. He has publicly announced it. I keep walking.

Hold back. You do not feel. It does not hurt.
I keep telling myself the same thing everyday. I do this so maybe, just maybe, I will believe it; and then it will not hurt.

The day drags on through lunch, improv, and English. It continues with new people each period, each whom I have never had a chance to personally interact with.

I arrive home and report to my mother that school was swell. She smiles and kisses my forehead. "I'm so glad things are looking up for you." I do not tell her. I do not want her to be ashamed. I do not want her to be aware of how pathetic I am.

I call up a dear friend; I tell him about my day. "Fuck that," he says. "You know it's not true." My heart rises; that's all I've ever needed to hear from someone. He tells me to wake up tomorrow, look in the mirror, and tell myself that I am beautiful. He tells me to say aloud, "I am Molly Miller. I am beautiful." I thank him; I feel temporarily reassured.

The next morning approaches. I wake up. Shower. Get dressed. I approach the large mirror imprinted into the wall of my bedroom. I stare at myself.

"I am Molly Miller," I say, "and I am beautiful. He thinks I am beautiful." I smile, and the girl in the mirror smiles back. I am ready to face the day.

School begins; it is easy. Drivers education approaches. The boys are in the same hallway waiting for me.

"You fucked him. Whore. Ugly whore."

I laugh at the children assuming authority over me.

I proceed to class. They continue.

I laugh.

The day endures.

"Easy bitch."
"Pigeon toed."
"Fatass."

I laugh, flattered at the focus being presented on my imperfections.

I go home. My mother asks how my day was. I inform her that it was swell - and this time, I mean it.

I call up my dear friend.

"Did it work?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply. "It did."

This attitude provided to me from my dear friend hasn't abandoned me.

I am ready to turn over a new leaf.
I am ready for the summer.

Thank you, my dear friend.
Thank you.

I am Molly Miller, and I am beautiful.