it means I am either dead
Or, I have gotten into the college of my dreams
My high school counselor is making me keep this diary on my phone
Bc she said it will help me with my Stanford application
for that “write a letter to your roommate question”
which honestly seems a bit contrived to me
but i REALLY want to get into Stanford
so i’ll do whatever my counselor says
although, she also said I have like zero chance of getting in
today is the first day of my junior year
and I’ve already blown it.
just now, i was walking to my locker to grab my lunch
when Brad Bentley — the star quarterback, and literally the hottest guy in school
When his dark, sparkling eyes locked with mine
and he brushed his hand over his curly hair
My heart started pounding in my chest
It was finally happening.
A hot guy was flirting with ME!
it made so much sense, really
Brad broke it off with Grace Geller over the summer
he’d had enough time to recover by now
and he was ready for something real
I smiled back at him and let out a little giggle
I waved and started walking toward him
the sound of a wailing banshee pierced the air
I turned around to see none other than Brit Risdie
and pointing and laughing
I watched in horror as Brad walked right past me
without sparing so much as a glance
and over to Brit and her BFFs — Candi and Mandi —
or as I like to call them: the Bitch Squad
Grace was usually with them, but not today
Brit must have kicked her out of her little glam gang after Brad dumped her
I stared as Brad hugged them all one by one.
at least Brad hadn’t noticed anything
but the Bitch Squad was relishing in my misery
Seeing them all standing there in their cheerleading skirts, preening.
And Brad in the middle, blessing them with his beatific smile.
Brit arched up on her tip toes and whispered something in Brad’s ear.
And then he really did look at me.
But it was not a look of love.
The Bitch Squad cackled with glee, flicked their long, blonde hair in unison, and strutted off with Brad.
I thought this year would be different.
Like, maybe attaining upperclassman status would finally earn me some respect.
People would start noticing me.
Treat me like a human being.
for the first time in my life
It’s just the same shitty high school it’s always been
with the same shitty football team and Bitch Squad
and I might as well not exist.
At this very moment, I am sitting outside on a broken wooden bench, eating lunch alone.
This is the same broken wooden bench where I have eaten lunch alone every single day for the past two years.
I’ve gotten used to it I guess.
At least no one bothers me here
All the cool kids go off campus for lunch.
They probably went to lunch together, in Brad’s shiny black convertible.
I can picture it now. Brad turning up the radio, nodding his head to the beat.
Brit dancing next to him in the passenger seat, her long hair blowing in the breeze.
Most of the normal people — like poor kids, dweebs, drama dorks and all the other losers — eat in the cafeteria.
Which is a truly disgusting place. I’m pretty sure they cook up reconstituted plastic, and call it pizza.
Then there are the outcasts, who mope around outdoors.
It’s an eclectic bunch, but mostly emos, goths, and druggies. They don’t really eat.
And there are a handful of oddballs, who don’t fit in any group at all.
I bring my own lunch everyday, and I sit out here on this broken bench, and eat alone.
At least I’m not eating reconstituted plastic.
Oh and there’s also The Crips.
As in, The Crips and The Bloods.
it’s some seriously nineties shit.
The gang leader has a teardrop tattooed on the side of her eye
Which is apparently some sort of badge-of-honor you get FOR KILLING SOMEONE.
It may sound straight out of a third world country, but it’s just everyday life in my hometown.
Shawnee — a podunk, derelict backwater in middle America — where nothing much has changed since like forever.
Which is quite unfortunate for someone like me.
Because Shawnee doesn’t like different.
My name is Tasneem Dalal.
I’m not tall or skinny, or blonde.
I have dark skin, and big hips, and frizzy hair that puffs into a fro when it rains.
My parents came over from India before I was born. Which makes me either American Indian, or Indian American.
Guess it depends on your perspective.
Anyway, my friends call me Taz.
that’s sort of a lie actually
because I don’t really have friends
But Taz is what I call myself.
My parents call me Neema, which is the dorkiest name known to mankind.
My teachers, who after all these years still can’t manage to pronounce Tasneem
(is it really that hard?)
I could live with all that.
But what really pisses me off is the inane nickname the baseball players gave me freshman year.
Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find out soon. Suffice it to say, I HATE IT.
The Crips have a favorite passtime in between class, which involves harassing me.
It gets worse every year.
Freshman year, it started with them threatening to beat me up in the hallway.
As sophomores, they spat on me whenever I walked by their lockers
which happened everyday, since their lockers were right next to AP Biology.
I do not intend to discover what new form of torture they’ve dreamt up for me this year.
The thing is — for some strange reason — The local Crips gang is comprised entirely of Native American girls.
At some point, they figured out that I also identify as Indian.
Obviously, I’m a different kind of Indian.
Like, we wear dots, not feathers.
The Crips don’t seem to understand that distinction though
And they apparently think that:
2) and they are also, supposedly, Indian
4) I refuse to tattoo teardrops to the side of my eye
—> I deserve to be tortured.
Teardrop Mama saw me looking at her just now.
Why did I have to stare??
They’re walking this way.
Tap “Next Up” below to read Part 3…
