Prologue

 In the beginning, God created Man and, looking down at his masterpiece, realized that something was missing.  Therefore God created Woman.

Now, before you close this book thinking I’m some kind of “bible thumper”, chill and let me reassure you that I’m only Episcopalian.  And for all of you that aren’t religious scholars, that means less strict Catholic.  Religion has never really been all that important to me, and the old joke is told from a feministic view, not a Christian.  Feminism, oddly enough, has been a big component of who I am since I was around three.  But this is all nonsense for a prologue, there will be plenty of time to explain to you how I came to be this way; that is if you choose to finish this to the very end and not ask questions like “why is this relevant?”, all will make sense.

For about a year now, I’ve been experiencing these revelations, reality checks if you will, about my attitude and feelings toward certain things and people.  When you go through something as traumatic as the “incident” was for me at the time, and then suppress it for four years, things are bound to spill out eventually.

But before we delve into that hot mess, let me take you to the beginning of my being an outsider, or at least how I made myself one.  Let us go back to 2006, seventh grade for me.  To a time of confusion and utter resentment for who I knew I had to be…broken.

August 2006

            The bell rang for fifth period.  I tried to get up but almost fell from the weight of all my books in my backpack, I silently cursed the beginning of the school year and the fact we wouldn’t be getting lockers for another week.  Once steady on my feet I lounged for the door and nearly ran to Spanish.

            “You ok?”  Asked my friend, Kelsey, she looked as if she already knew, but that could’ve just been my imagination.

            “Yeah, I’m fine.”  I replied half-heartedly. 

            A high pitched bell went off, I jumped.  As Senora Batista answered the phone I tried to calm myself, I’d been jumping at things all day. 

            “Jasmine Michaels!”  I wanted to cry.  Before she had finished saying that I had to go to the office, I had had my backpack in hand, heart racing.  I passed staring eyes that told me they knew what was happening.

            “Good luck.”  Sadie Beaker whispered as I reached the door. I tried to smile, but as tears started to form I rushed to the office to my waiting mother.

August 2010

            I nearly jumped out of the car.  Shit, I’m late!  Shit, shit!

            “Have a good day…”  My mom began before I shut the front door and opened the back seat.  “Have a good rehear…”  I shut the back door and ran to the building, waving to her as I went.

            Readjusting my mass of script and violin case, I reached the door and pulled it open and ran to the back to the gym.  Above the “gym” (now turned theatre) was a sign: “Nancy Niles Sexton Theatre”.  Well that’s new… I thought to myself.

            “Get in here, you’re late. You look cute today,” Melissa Lockwood whispered loudly, doing her usual PMS greeting. 

            “Thanks.  Sorry I had a lesson.”  I sat next to her on the risers

Walden Theatre, an after school theatre conservatory for kids, was originally a preschool, but after the preschool moved and Walden needed new facilities, Payne St. became its new home.  Now what used to be the gym is now a fully functional theater, and the classrooms are used for teaching various aspects of the theatre world.  This was my 5^th year, my junior year, and I had made Walden my home.  I had irreplaceable friends that I knew I could always count on and teachers I knew I could trust.  Since seventh grade Walden had been a place for comfort, where I could be myself and not be judged.  I knew I owed a lot to Walden, but how much I didn’t know until much later. 

“Ok guys, let’s take it from Gutman’s entrance,” April called to us from the other side of the risers.

I jumped down and moved to the back of the skeletal set: two windows, two doors, and two balconies.  Jenna Wilson climbed up the rickety staircase to her “Gutman Perch”, as April calls it and waved to me.

“Where were you?”  She mouthed.

“Violin lesson,” I mouthed back, pointing to my case which was poking out of the risers.

“Oh you, multi-talent’s a bitch!”  She remarked snidely.  I rolled my eyes and shook my head, but I had to hand it to her, she was right.