It was a cold morning. Not the frozen winter kind of cold. But the turn of the season, end of October cold.
She was slouched down with her back against the wall and her head in her knees crying.
Many mornings were spent like this back then, but no one really knew.
She was wearing hand me down baggy jeans, with big velcro pockets.
Hand me downs from her step-mom’s brother.
So even worse, they’re boy jeans.
She didn’t want to wear these, it was bad enough she didn’t fit in with the rest of her classmates-these jeans were just going to make it worse.
She knew what the other girls were going to say and think.
She had to wear them though.
Here come some of her classmates, supposed friends.
Who really counts as friends back then anyway?
They notice that she’s upset and had been crying.
At the bus stop there really isn’t anyone to impress, so they can be her friend here.
They notice the jeans, but won’t say anything (at least not directly to her face).
But she knows what they are thinking.
Or she assumes she knows what they are thinking.
More students show.
The bus comes.
Too late to go back home now.
Not like she really wanted to go back there anyway.
What happened that day after the bus left is a blur now.
A faded memory.
A glimpse of insecurity and sadness.
A brief moment of time.
That didn’t really matter anyway.
Or does it?