I saw a poster while running an errand for my teacher this morning. She wanted me to get her coffee or something. Who sends a kid to get coffee in the middle of class anyway? Anyway, the poster said “Who are you when no one is watching?” and I guess it kind of hit home, because here I am, 5 hours later, with those words still stuck in my head. After I had gotten the coffee, I pounded back up the stairs, by some miracle not sloshing it all over my brand-new Aeropostale jacket. I slammed into the classroom with this huge smile branded on my face, lip gloss and mascara absolutely picture perfect. Any other way would never pass. For me, this is natural.
I laugh at a corny joke and toss my dark walnut hair, not one strand mussed. I’m a frickn’ social butterfly. I’m the one that people hang over like their being paid, the one with a perfect supermodel body. I’m the one that people come to for advice, for anything from what to wear to a date to what book to pick for a report. I make great grades, and have great friends. I go to every single school event, football games and dances and fundraisers galore. Everyone knows me. So, if I have such a great life at school, why is my life so bad?
I wave goodbye to a group of random people in the hall, hug my totally hot boyfriend, step on the bus. Isn’t it kind of sad when your best girl friend and boyfriend can’t tell when you’re upset, but your bus driver sees right through your smile and knows what you really feel? When she knows just when you need a hug, or what words of encouragement you need? Yeah, that’s kinda sad.
I got home around 3. Rents’ wouldn’t be home until 5, at least. What do I do? I leapfrogged over the back of the couch and turned on Degrassi, thirty minutes spent lost in drama worse than my own, if that was possible. After it was over, I went to my room. I turned off the lights and turned on my mini-disco-ball, and turned the radio up so high I could feel the bass in my chest. I turned it straight back down. Eegh, Miley Cyrus. Next was Lady Antebellum, American Honey. I pumped it up and stared dancing with an invisible partner, lost in the music. I sang out loud at the top of my lungs and shimmied across the room, embarrassing the heck out of myself. I loved every second of it. When I am alone, I don’t worry about who I am seen as. I don’t have to worry about anyone watching, so I don’t. I love being alone, because I’m me. I’m not Kathryn the popular one, Kathryn the pretty one. I’m not even Kathryn. I’m just… Me.

After countless songs and hundreds of unheard-of dance moves, though, the words of the sign popped into my head. I jumped up from where I was collapsed on my bed, and began rummaging through my desk drawers. First drawer: a bunch of makeup, not what I was looking for. Second, much the same. Finally, in the last drawer, (why is it always the last place you look?) I found it. A dark blue 1 ½ inch binder, loose papers threatening to spill out from every angle.
I opened it and laughed at the first paper I saw, a wildly embellished story from when I was 7 about a kayaking trip in Vermont. This binder is my diary. I have always used stories to express my feelings. A regular diary is bland, never seems to get the point across. Stories, though, can show how you feel, think, and can even give the reader an idea of your past. Can “today we went to the zoo. I had fun.’ do that? I shook out the memories from my nostalgic mind and carefully maneuvered to the back, where a few blank sheets of paper remained. I took a pencil off my desk, curled up on my bed, and started writing.
“I saw a poster while running an errand for my teacher this morning. She wanted me to get her coffee or something. Who sends a kid to get coffee in the middle of class anyway?”…