The envelope was red, white and blue just like the flag
Betsy Ross spent days with bleeding fingers over so many
years ago. It was addressed to me from an unknown sender.
I was giggly, jumpy. Who would write to me? I wasn’t important.
Just a seventh grade nobody stuck in a sparkly purple wheelchair.

Mom said I could join. She secretly wanted her outcast
of a daughter to have a sense of normalcy during her
last fading moments of childhood. I just wanted to have
fun. I wasn’t ready to accept that I was different. I knew
that I was. The stares told me so but I didn’t want to be.

The letter said that I could represent my fine country
as America’s National Teenager. Me? All I had to do was show
my ability by competing in a scholarship pageant. You know,
a beauty pageant except it wasn’t being called so because adults
are trying to be sensitive to teenager’s feelings because we’re
more likely to be sensitive, emotional and prone to disruptive
and potentially harmful outbursts. The perks of being a wallflower.

Teenagers, we know this. We’re also not stupid. I and every
other girl who would participate knew this pageant
was nothing more than a beauty pageant; a popularity
contest. That didn’t keep us from dreaming of becoming
rich and famous, stop the crying fits, hormones from raging
or acting like drama wasn’t our life’s goal and college major.

Four days in Southern Idaho and an eight-hour drive
to and from gave me plenty of time to practice my talent,
an essay. Even then, I knew I had no real physical attributes.
Instead, I shoved my fears aside and wrote, rewrote and polished
my essay on America until my parents, teachers, and friends
repeatedly had to tell me “that’s enough already. You’ll do great.”

I made friends, told stories, laughed until snot came out my nose
and answered the ever cautious “What happened to make you look
that way?” I had the time of my life. I knew I wasn’t going to win
because let’s face it, I’m not pretty enough. And just as predicted,
I left with “Most Inspirational” and cried ugly tears when I
didn’t come home as America’s National Teenager. Looking back,
I was a real American teenager. I don't need a pageant to tell me so.

School’s out. All that’s required of me is to write.
I can do that from anywhere. I’m ready to run.
As soon as we round a corner and travel from
unadulterated, innocent open road to the meshed
together stop-go, stop-go, of Northwest Boulevard
I know that it’s not much longer until I’m home.

I start each morning with a Bowl of Soul, Mexican mocha,
extra sweet, with homemade whip and a gaggle of giggly
girls before we spend our days splashing in the waves
and frolicking downtown, in and out of shops. There’s no place
in the world we’d rather be. There’s no place like home.

A summer class, math is my worst enemy, can’t even
dampen my spirits. Four days a week of fast cars and
freedom. The air, the people, the atmosphere is contagious
because there’s never a dull moment. I can’t get enough.

There’s no battles to overcome, gargantuan hills or
otherwise because I’ve got an easy feeling and my
camera. Loud music, hippies, and cute barista boy
with the dark curls and ocean-colored eyes.

She’s curled up in bed with pint-sized
preschool princesses and their pageants
on the television. Wednesday’s don’t hold
much excitement for the new kid in town.

The music coming from her phone tells her
to hold out hope. The night’s not over yet.
‘Be awake in an hour.’ Four little words
turn her into a maniac. The dishes are done
and the laundry put away in record time. She slides
out of pajamas and into casual chic clothing.

Headlights flicker into the window. As quick as
the lights appear, they’re gone again. John, Paul, George
and Ringo tell her to open the door. The smell of Taco
Bell on his skin and the moonlight in his eyes greet her.

Making small talk as if that’s the way they’ve always done things
tells her that he’s found his very own princess, a queen really,
who dances to the beat of the same restless dream and that being the new
kid in town makes stuffing newspapers into envelopes on a sweltering
Thursday afternoon makes her feel useful. Making small talk like they do
a sad attempt at filling an appetite that should no longer be there.

‘I should go now’ breaks her every time. He stays a few minutes longer
anyway. The warmth that between their skin and the soft whispers
into ears remind them of the past. With a kiss on the forehead and arms
lingering around her waist a touch too long, he walks out the door.

Folding newspapers and stuffing envelopes keeps her mind busy until
the phone rings. His name on the caller ID takes her back but she answers
anyway. She probably always will. Making small talk won’t change anything.
Is she okay? He already knows she’s not but he still asks. They say goodbye
and go on with their lives. Him, with the girl of his dreams and the ability to
let the past be and her left to pick up the pieces. Until next time.