It’s already eleven, the school dance ends at midnight, and I still haven’t left the house. Change my clothes three more times. Ugly idiot. Finally, I rush out the door.
Sweat is oozing from every pore, heart pounding, mouth as dry as the Sahara. I probably smell like I just finished basketball practice.
“Hi, um, would one of you care to, uh, like, dance?” Three girls stare back with cold eyes.
“I don’t think so.” They start talking again, as if I don’t exist.
Back home, I sit on my bed, open all the pill bottles and start to cry.