It's a miracle one survives to be a teenager

It's a miracle one survives to be a teenager. It's a miracle that teenagers grow into adults.

It's so quiet. I don't know what time it is, maybe two or three. I should have slept a few hours. I'm not sure.

Sister Llosa and Hannah are on duty today. Sister Llosa was like a big bronzed yak, and Hannah, like a shiny white lizard, could slip in and out of the dormitory quickly and quietly. When they worked the night shift together, they mostly sat at the table and whispered. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but their whispers were like a duet, sister Llosa's deep, serious voice and Hannah's lightness and cheerfulness, all mixed together like a lullaby.

But now they're not at the table, probably with the new one in 109. When he first arrived, he was yelling for hours, but now he's quiet. All of a sudden quiet down, not snore, no squeaks elevator, not run to the voice of the toilet: ShuaLa - ShuaLa - crunch - drops miles miles - hua - crunch - ShuaLa - ShuaLa. That's my pet hate. I'd rather hear someone scream than this.

I'm glad I have a room to myself now. I've had my own bedroom for as long as I can remember, and only shared it with others when I was organizing a boot camp at school.

No, I mean, "sharing a room." God, I hate it when no matter what you say, it sounds like it's sexual. It's really annoying.

Last year at school, we were talking about Daniel Morrissey, and I said, "Daniel's good," and Tonya was like, "Yeah, of course you know best."

That's the kind of situation I'm talking about.

The way people laughed at me, that's what I really meant. You'll be afraid to say anything for fear of being laughed at. It was meant to be loving, to wrap you in a hug, but when it was me, it seemed cruel.

Well, I'm better than some people. Like Simone, I don't know how she can stand it, being humiliated all the time, by everyone, even teachers sometimes. Trying to tell a joke while listening to us cruel mockingbirds tell her what we think of it; Trying to find a partner in drama class, waiting to be asked, only to have one arranged for her by Mrs. Eddy, who rolled his eyes and hid as far away as he could. She had to sit alone in the front of the bus when we went out for an outing. I always shiver when I see Simone like this, because I know it could be me. What exactly makes some people unpopular? There's nothing to blame on Simone. She lived in a big house on Lawston Avenue with two Mercedes parked in the driveway; She went to Silver Hill in winter and Providence Bay in summer; Her father runs Conway Carpets and a bunch of other businesses. They won the Oaks four years ago with Admiral Sam.

Right? What else are you gonna do? How many points does it take to be popular? How many points do you need to save?

That's why I shudder when I look at Simone. I have counted my score many times. Over the years, I would often look at my friends and wonder, What did Sally, Zoe, Jenna, Sean, and then Kim, back in the States, like about me? If I make a mistake, will I die? If I had a different name, a different family, if I lived on Lennon Street or West Everett Street and wore Reward, would I stop being their friend and become a guest on Oprah? "The girl with no friends," "the girl everyone hates," "from teen Queen to Pervert king."

Look at life is fragile, as if you were walking in the center of the highway, the big trucks roared from both sides, shock of air are trembling, blow you in convulsions, stretched out his arm to want to keep you balance, was struck by a car is a piece of arms, let you started to turn, you stumble a few steps to the ground, holding her arms crying cry, another car come and get you run over and die. You have nowhere to run. Your body is a pile of bones and meat, nothing more. There are so many things knocking on you, hitting you, hurting you, leaving bruises.

It's a miracle one survives to be a teenager. It's a miracle that teenagers grow into adults.

Voices came again from the corridor. A lot of people walking, doing something, talking in low voices. Through a crack in the door I could see figures moving quickly to and fro. It's easy to distinguish the employee's footsteps from the patient's because the employee's footsteps sound purposeful.

I guess they brought in a new patient, sometimes at night, and that's when Esther and Eminet came in.

I wish I could sleep. I wanted to fall asleep, but the more I tried, the more I couldn't. I never had any trouble sleeping before. But there's been so much going on lately, this is just another one. So I kind of wondered who was occupying my body right now: what was this jumble of emotions and thoughts? It's not just things outside my body that threaten my balance now. All sorts of feelings were swirling through me like a blizzard, up and down, back and forth, right and left, bumping into each other and falling back, scratching my nose in a daze. I kept them in check, but I often wondered what would happen if they all escaped. The amusement park in my mind spilled out onto the street. The whole city will be under their control. Crazy, desperate shadows chasing each other around the city. So it's very important that I keep them inside, but it really takes all my energy. They're trying to explode, and when I stop them, I'm saving the world.

'Perhaps staying here will do some good in the end,' Oliver said to me in the lounge yesterday.

"What?" I asked.

He thought for a moment and then added, "Maybe we can learn more about ourselves and find parts of ourselves that we didn't even know we had. "

"But I don't want to find any new parts," I complained. "I'm happy with myself as I am."

Of course I wasn't, but I didn't quite know it myself: that was the difference. It doesn't matter. The game we play around here, anyway, is pretending we used to be social geniuses. The only person who doesn't play this game is Esther, and sometimes Eminet doesn't either.

The noise in the corridor died away. It seemed darker and colder now. I feel like I remember every minute of my day and night here. In a way, I love it. Sometimes, many times, I just want to get away and go home; But sometimes, I want to stay here forever. Right now, I want to stay here forever. I feel safe here. They all know me. I don't think they're gonna hurt me. I liked the little details that never changed because they felt safe: the lines for medications at the nurses' station, the ping-pong in the lounge, the shift arrangements of the staff, even Dr. Sing's uninspired greeting as he came in each morning: "How is Miss Warner feeling today?"

I think he likes being my doctor. Whenever he or I mentioned my father, Dr. Sheen seemed to grow a head taller and look important. I'm used to this sort of thing, so it's easy to notice.

Another reason I don't want to leave right now is the picture hanging on the wall of this room. It's kind of stupid to like it, because it doesn't look like checkers at all. But I pretended it was, so I lay in bed admiring it. The dog in the painting was half the size of Checkers, his fur was reddish-brown, not black and white, and he was lying on a blanket facing the fireplace, which checkers had never done, and although we had a fireplace in our house, it had never been lit.

In this dark room, if I stare at the painting and quickly look away, I can pretend that it looks a lot like checkers.

The night I got checkers was one of the two most perfect nights of my life. The other was my twelfth birthday, and everything was like a dream that night, and everyone said it was the best party they'd ever been to. It's only been two perfect nights, but I can't complain. If there's anything to complain about, it's that I was lied to on both nights: perfection is just faking it. But SOMETIMES I think it's still worth it, almost worth it. On those two nights, I felt that life would really be perfect from now on.

Dad didn't say hello in advance, he took the checkers home. It had been an ordinary evening. I was in my room doing my homework, or rather, an AIDS project. Mark is watching Captain Comet: I purposely left my bedroom door open so I could listen. Mother is busy in the kitchen. I don't know what she's doing, but I guess she's cleaning up. Our kitchen was already the whitest in the southern hemisphere, but she didn't want anyone to take her name away from her. Although we hired a cleaning aunt, but not enough ah, mother will wipe the tile as if just painted.

I wanted a dog and begged, pestered and tortured everyone for it. Mark wants it too, but not the way I want it. He thought if because I wanted it, because all his friends had dogs, because all the other kids had dogs. He was so materialistic, it scared me and disgusted me. In his eyes, dogs were not dogs at all, just another thing in his collection.

Forget about that. Anyway, I heard Dad's car pull in, much earlier than usual, and he was parked in the driveway. That's weird. I peered through the window. He had got out of the driver's seat and was walking towards the door, but with a strange, John Cleese gait, he strode to the door. He seemed eager and focused. I thought he'd forgotten something, was on his way to some meeting, and was just dropping in to pick up some notes, change a shirt or tell mom. I turned back to my homework, but had just written "To be with friends and family, or to a hospice" when I heard excited voices coming from the kitchen. I walked out and there was everyone: Dad with a smugly look on his face, hugging mom and saying something, and Mom with a big smile on her face, looking so satisfied that she allowed herself to be held, and Mark holding himself and saying, "Bonus, bonus, we got rich."

"Celebrating what?" I asked.

"We can have whatever we want for our birthdays." Mark said quickly, as if he himself was incredulous and ready to shout.

"Reasonable, of course." Mother hurriedly said a.

That's when I realized what had happened.

"Your contract is done." I said to my dad.

He pressed his lips together and nodded.

"But you can't tell anyone." Mark said.

I got excited, too. Well, I don't think OF myself as materialistic, and I hate mark's way of being, but I'm not Mother Teresa, either. Opportunities started to bloom in my head, and I thought, "Wow, this is great." They all stared at me, waiting for my reaction, and I said, "Wow, my God, that's great, Dad, you did it!"

"Well, friends, of course." "He said modestly.

But I felt as if they were disappointed in me, as if I didn't act excited enough or spontaneous enough. So I went on, but I felt a little too long. "It's wonderful, Dad, it's wonderful. You're a legend now. You really did it. Jack must be overjoyed."

He let go of his mother and went to the fridge. "It'll make a big difference," he said. "It'll make our family much better off financially, and I'll be able to buy you all the things I've always wanted to buy you, all the things I've always dreamed we'd have." "We can really have whatever we want for our birthday?" I asked.

But dad hesitated, an ice clamper in one hand and a glass in the other. "Alas," he cried, "I forgot!"

He put what he was holding down on the counter and ran outside. We all stood at the window to see what he was doing outside. He had run to the back of the car and opened the back door. Then we saw him take out a large cardboard box, about the size of Mark's old stereo. He carried his suitcase triumphantly and clumsily up the steps and into the house, and we all crowded around, curious to see what our new life had already brought us.

"Lucky I didn't forget him in the car." My father said. He put the box on the table. "The poor little thing will not be happy."

I heard a faint rustling sound inside the box and realized that what was inside was alive. I knew immediately what it was, carefully untying the rope and trying not to let Mark get under my elbow. I opened the box.

He just showed up in front of us.