Bring. Bring. Bring.

Annoyed, I slammed my hand down on the snooze button. Just five more minutes, I thought. I knew that five would turn to ten and ten to fifteen but I didn't care. All I wanted was to stay in my bed where I was safe. No one could judge or hurt me from the safety of my room. My mother had different plans though.

"KATY! I told you to get out of bed ten minutes ago!" she yelled as she pulled the covers off of me. "It's time for breakfast and you're going to be late for school!"

Grunting, I got out of bed and threw on the "back-to-school" outfit my mother had picked out for me. "At least if you look the part they might not make fun of you as much" she had told me after making me try on at least ten different outfits.

I examined myself in the mirror. Hair perfectly straightened, not a strand out of place. My teeth were brushed. My face was clean; I was lucky enough to not have any pimples. My outfit, the shoes, my backpack. It all looked fine. But that didn't matter. What matters is the way my face turns red every time I make eye contact with someone or every time that I have to speak. What matters is the fact that I can't get through a single sentence without stuttering or walk down a single hallway without self-consciously tripping. Or the fact that I can't even manage to eat in the cafeteria because I know that in my nervousness I will spill something on myself or someone will think the way I eat is gross. Or the fact that in every single class every single teacher finds a way to mention the fact that I don't raise my hand or share my opinion, putting the spotlight on me, right where I don't want it to be. I can't do it and I won't do it. Why can't they just understand that and homeschool me?

My mom softly knocks on the bathroom door. I hadn't realized that I had been crying. Tears streamed down my face leaving behind streaks of red and creating puffs under my eyes. I tried to wipe them away but they wouldn't leave; the pain would never leave. I slowly opened the door as my mother began to console me. "It's okay," she said or "Everything's gonna be alright" but I knew that wasn't true. Angrily I squirmed out of her grasp, wiped my face with some tissues, grabbed my bag, and stormed out of the room. I ran down the stairs and out the door and began my walk to school, the walk that I would soon have to complete every day for the next nine and a half months.

As I began to walk up the steps to the school, the huge crowd seemed to swallow me and I became comfortably invisible, just like before. Exactly how I wanted things to be.