Not Everything is Like the Movies

(Trigger Warning: substance abuse, slight mention of sexual assault, mental health)

"I've got a plan, journal. By the end of the week, I'll make 5 new friends. Or, I'll try." This is going to be impossible, I thought. Every day I will have to make a friend, and right now I have none. Football athletes were not an option, nerds were not an option, popular girls were especially not close. 

I sighed, pressing the tip of my pen inside and outside my mouth.Bryce Lantz is having a party on Wednesday that I could go to if I wanted; there I would make lots of friends if I was cool enough. I'm gonna need a makeover, since today is Tuesday.

 Makeup wasn't exactly my specialty, so I decided to ask my mom. This is phase one of a three phase plan. I needed to be ready for the party in a day, so this should work accordingly. If not, then I'll be ready to embarrass myself in front of all my classmates.

 "Hey, Mom?"

 "What do you need, sweetheart?"

 "There's this party, it's tomorrow, I was wondering if you could do my makeup for it. . .?" I gave her the most adorable puppy-dog eyes I've ever given anyone, and she almost never says no when I pull my dogs out; she was the easiest to pull. 

 "Of course!" she exclaimed, immediately showing me different looks on Pinterest. "I think we should figure it out tomorrow," I said. She nodded and tucked her phone into her pocket.

 Now it's time for phase two: Operation Kohl's trip. "I'm gonna shop for an outfit if that's alright."

 "Go right ahead. Make sure you bring a coat, the snow just started falling a couple minutes ago," Mom warned in her jokingly stern voice. I agreed, chucked my jacket over my shoulders, and took the stroll to the store.

 Nobody would believe me if I told them that this store had the most beautiful dress ever. Even better, I could pretend it was expensive.

 The dress was turquoise and had silver sparkles all over the bottom and chest area, with pleats sealed around the top of the flowy skirt. I bought it for thirty bucks, a pair of heels for ten, and a faux Gucci bag for five.

 When trying my clothes on, some mall rat glared at me. "And what is your problem?" I asked her.

 "You're gonna look like some prissy people-pleaser," she said. To be completely honest, she couldn't really talk because she was like a demented version of Billie Eilish. "Maybe that's who I'm trying to be," I said defiantly. The lady shrugged, and handed me a leather jacket. "This would suit you much better."

 "I don't think so! That is an atrocity. Bother me again and I will call security."

 "Whatever, just trying to help a lost cause." She turned and went on her way, throwing her middle finger up at me.

 I couldn't believe that woman believed she could sway me with her bad fashion choices. Although, maybe she was right, because I'm sounding like a diva.

 The next day, about an hour before the party, my mom did my hair and make-up. I did. had luscious red lipstick, purple eyeshadow, and twin braids conjoined in the middle to form one. Dumb Lila Miller will be jealous when I pop out of the closet with her boyfriend. 

 "Have fun, sweetie. Remember, no-"

 "I know, I know. No alcohol, no drugs, I'm not twelve, Mom." She kissed both of my cheeks and held my hands. "I know. You are so grown up and I am so proud of you.

 The last and final phase is phase three: go to the party and have everyone drool over me. 

 When I arrived, I got immediate attention from the boys, who were catcalling me and wondering who the mysterious new girl was. Internally, I screamed, but on the outside, I pretended to be great, like all the other women like me. But I was more perturbed than I was comfortable. 

 One of them pulled me onto his lap, even though I had firmly said no. It was Bryce; he had told me that I was just being delicate in the most slurred voice I'd ever heard. He offered me wine and I politely refused, to his great dismay. 

After most of the boys fainted after drinking too much, I ran straight home, crying in my ball gown. Maybe not everything is like the movies, and not everything should be.

When I came back home, Mom pulled me in a hug, seeing my dripping mascara. "What happened?"

 "I'll tell you later. But right now I need to finish my diary entry." She let me walk away and I ran to my room.

 "Dear journal," I started to write. "Life isn't like the movies, and I failed in making five friends by the end of the week. It's only Wednesday, but I never want to deal with high school kids again. Boys suck, and only want you for your body, as I learned, and most of the girls go with it, which is unfair. They were cruel and treated me like a slut. 

 I'm tired of men feeling like they're superior to us, one day I will make them pay. One day they'll see that we are not to be messed with. Women are powerful, we need to stick together and help each other out. The world would be a lot better if we did that, and learned not to betray each other. A lot of women didn't stand up tonight, and they let horrible, traumatic things happen to me and others. I could kick off a demonstration; maybe people will join, maybe they won't be interested. Either way, I won't back down.

 Sincerely, me."

 I shut my nightlight off, feeling like an adult and that I did not need it, and laid awake in my bed. It was no good. I was going to yell in my pillow, but it was too late in the night. Then I closed my eyes, and I fell into an awful sleep.