W

hen I was around nine years old, I realized that I have something going on in me.

Other kids would brag about their new toys or the drawings their brother made for them,
and in about a week those things would be forgotten. They would stop talking and showing
whatever new cool stuff they have and move on to cooler stuffs, and the cycle would repeat. Of course,
nine-years-old me didnt think of it as a cycle, and my mind was a lot simpler back then, but its basically
the same.
The nine-year-old me didnt brag about my new toys for less than a week. Nine-year-old me didnt
show off anything even silly stories of my siblings because I had none. Instead, the nine-year-old me
worked hard to stand out, and would brag about my achievements even if theyre months old. When I
won a drawing contest held by the local arcade, I wouldnt let go of my title and smirked whenever
another kid showed off their drawing. When I was obsessed with sparkling beads and fake gems, I
started up a small business with the help of my mom, sold around a dozen bead rings, and (quite
literally)I still proudly share the story now. That year, I realized that I dont like bragging without
achieving.
Mom said its a good personality to have.
And then when I was in middle school, when my years of being carefree reigned I gained another
name for my personality, and to be honest, its not a really positive trait. I realized that I have this
superiority complex, and along with my laidback nature, I was uber confident that if I dont rank first, its
just because Im way too smart and the teachers played favoritism (I did, however, rank in the second
place for the rest of my middle school years. To my defense, the teachers did play favoritism to the
other girl.) I entered into a school in Chicago, away from everyone else priding myself in enrolling into
one of the oldest, most prestigious school there. Away from Carrigan, the small area next to Naperville
which is almost unknown to most people due to its lack of exciting events. I was gone to find new
challenges, to achieve even bigger things to brag about.
Yet in my first week of being a high schooler, the reality hits me.
If I was a big shot in Carrigan, I was not so much of an average shot in bigger cities like Chicago. When
the other kids went to work and solved the problems the teachers gave, I sat there, alone and friendless,
dumbfounded by what was written on my exercise paper. I wasnt the brightest kid around, that much I
had accepted, but I didnt know that I barely shone. In the midst of city kids with their higher and better
education, I was shining as bright as a pile of cow dungs would. The experience sort of crushed me until
Im this small crumbs of leftover cookies that someone had stuffed into a plastic bag, all squeaky and
awkward. Definitely not the first thing people would notice in a cookie store.
It sort of rolled down from there, and now I have a pretty crippling depression if you can even call it
depression, cause really, Ive never went to a doctor to get diagnosed for it and low self-esteem, which
equals over the top superiority if I ever achieve something. I pride myself in being the good girl, the
clean record student, the polite stranger, the amicable friend, and the open-minded person. All of the
things listed were said by at least another person besides me, and I like to think that I am as they said I

am because to be honest, after tons of self-deprecating jokes and sarcastic comments, even a simple
compliment of how nice I acted is a big praise for me. Im an almost praise whore. A praise whore who
acts as if she doesnt care about being praised but is secretly desperate to hear it.
Echo, Steve rolled on his bed, groaning. I need food.
I rolled my eyes. The screen shook as he made a big show of kicking the pillow and falling off his bed.
You just had pizza, didnt you? I asked, but I already knew what his response would be. Thats the
thing with Steve. His appetite is insatiable, and once you let him eat, no matter how much he wouldnt
be satisfied until his stomach tells him thats enough. Would you believe me if I said that one time, he
wouldnt stop eating for almost ten hours? Yeah. He kept coming back and forth between the kitchen,
the fridge and the couch. And the worst part is, it happened in my house, when both of my parents were
out to take my little sister to her vocal practice. I had to resort to my emergency fund to buy my own
food, and until now Im still not over it.
With pineapple! he let out a horror cry, wiggling his index finger to the camera. Pineapples do not
belong on pizza. And he launched to a millennium long speech about the abomination that is Hawaiian
pizza. My laptop beeped twice, and a message box appeared u up for stride? -ky and I smiled.
Steve, I cut him, Kyle just asked me if were up for Stride. Get your ass down and change, Ill pick you
up in ten. Before he could protest, I shut down my skype, and typed ok in the message box. Kyle
immediately reply with youre the best! And I felt my smile rose. What did I say about being a praise
whore? Yeah, Im definitely one.
Steves house is located in Sycamore Street, two blocks down from my small made up studio. Even
though my house back in Carrigan is just 1 hour and 20 minutes from school, I insisted on renting a small
apartment near Lincoln Park so I neednt go back to Carrigan every day. I come back home only during
weekends and if I were up for it and often take Steve with me, because hes like this one man giant
wall which hides me away from the folks in Carrigan. Since hes a boy, though, there had been some
misunderstanding between my parents and him. They thought he was my boyfriend. He thought they
thought he was my chaperone.
I shrugged on a red hoodie and put on my suede shoes, taking the car key and locked the door. Our
destination Stride is an internet caf near Surrey Street, about fifteen minutes from my place. Its
where I first met Steve, Kyle, and several other kids now its sort of like our hang out spot. Steve isnt
at the pizzeria? He must be at Stride. Kyle and Jason arent in the arcade? They must be at Stride. Echo
isnt at her studio? She must be at Stride. Ruby isnt at the beauty parlor AKA her home? She must be at
Stride. Were a bunch of not so misfitting misfits bound together by the magic portal that is Stride, much
like the bunch of wizards in J.H. Palevs A Thousand Portal.
I drove out from the apartment area, hands tightly gripping the steer. The dusk sun was setting down
children and couples were out in the park, jolly for the coming weekend. For me, this Friday might be
the worst possible Friday ever right before the class ended, Ms. Carrie-Anne, the English teacher,
handed out two books at once and told us to just fly the pages and write down what we think the books
are about. The assignment is due next Monday. As the result, this weekend Im not going back to my

hometown which granted me a sinister glare and a sad laugh from my mother. They had planned to do
barbeque (at the mention of this, all I could think of was that the sad one should be me since I wont be
barbecuing anything but my books.)
My car swerved right and the bright red roof of Steves house came to view. Several cars were parked
in front of the lawn and I noticed the big, shiny purple banner (or cloth?) hung in front of the front door.
After parking my truck next to a Camaro, I pressed the gate-bell, and soon Mrs. Cadburys head pops out
from the door. Corrine! Are you here to take Steve out? she giggled. She really giggled. Like a high
schooler, and I was this hot hunk. Hullo, Mrs. C, I grinned, Im here to take Steve out, yep.
Mrs. Cs head disappeared, and then I heard her yelling her only sons name. The door threw open
and Steve came out, still wearing the lousy blue shirt he wore in the video call, but this time his
Simpsons boxer was covered with a pair of dark jeans. Mrs. C waved her hand flamboyantly, a glass of
half empty martini in her other hand. See you, Stevie B! she hollered.
Stevie B, I repeated, such a marvelous name!
Shut it, nerd, he blushed and we climbed inside my truck. I started the ignition and nodded. Did
someone die?
What? No, Steve threw his head back, Ilse got engaged. With Jacobson, yeah. And they threw this
small party to celebrate apparently Jacobsons really grand and elaborate proposal. He looked at me,
serious and stern and all. He proposed while doing a dive jump in the National Pool.
I almost hit a lamp post. Thats dangerous! I roared with laughter. Way too dangerous that its
brilliant!
Thats why hes stupid and genius, Steve sulked, he couldve drowned. He cant swim to save his
life, for fucks sake. A team of lifesaver dived in right after him before he ran out of oxygen and Ilse
though it was really romantic, him risking his life and all. The party was horrible. And because of that
martini, ma ordered a Hawaiian pizza. A Hawaiian! and we were back to his interrupted speech of why
Hawaiian pizza should be banished. I tuned him out, focusing at the road until hes done speaking.