Jade Adia

“Time for your final presentation.” A menacing dun-dun-dunnnnn echoes in the shallow cavity of my brain where my mental preparedness for this situation should be.

“Actually, I already presented,” I reply confidently. Naturally, this is a lie. It is a stupid lie because everyone was here, so they know that I’m lying, but it is also so blatantly stupid of a lie that it casts just enough doubt to make Mx. Ferrante double-check their notes. They glare back at me, as if to ask if I really thought that dumb trick would work. I shrug, resisting the urge to point out that it almost did

What are your goals for this summer?”

Ah, the dreaded “goals” question. Teachers love this one. Fortunately, this is actually a question that I can answer. This summer, I’m going to live out every young girl’s fantasy and build the emergency fallout shelter of my dreams

Are you depressed?”

I shrug. “Just the normal, age-appropriate amount.”

It’s hard to know how others feel, but I’m certainly walking around life with a full plate of anxiety plus a side of depression and a scoop of OCD for dessert

It takes Herculean strength not to laugh in his face.

I don’t see myself in the future at all, but when I do, it’s in a crumbling world.

Against my best judgment, I watch his reaction and feel a foreign emotion at the fringe of my consciousness: the desire to make him laugh again

I don’t have to go to class to learn things.” What I hate the most about high school is how the entire setup illuminates how society sees me: as a future resource. I spend all day being molded into whatever they need me to be—a worker, a consumer, even a savior. It’s like us students are the spare tire in the back of a van being joyridden by older generations, but instead of actually changing the way that they’re driving, the adults keep speeding straight toward a pit of nails, knowing that us youngins will be there to clean up their mess. I hate it. I hate the factory that we call school.

Social interaction. She says it like it’s a tiny little pill that I can take then magically feel better.

“I like your shirt,” Mac says to me.

It’s a dark gray tee with black writing that says I do not think therefore I do not am.

“Thanks,” I reply, smoothing the shirt out. “I like to wear this one when I’m dissociating.”

A surprised laugh leaps from my throat. Mac beams, seemingly satisfied to have elicited a reaction, but I force my lips back into a tight smile. I know exactly how this goes: Boy flirts with girl, girl catches feelings for boy, boy dumps girl at the end of the summer for older, hotter college girls and/or boys. A tale as old as time. I can’t go down this easy. No, ma’am.