Seventh grade. A new town, a new school, and hopefully a new me. My choir director has just assessed my voice and informed me that I am a soprano. She directs me to sit in the appropriate section; I follow her instructions and timidly take my seat. Immediately, I am assaulted with a fusillade of introductions from the girls around me. Their names blur into a meaningless wave of white noise as I introduce myself in turn, but one sticks out.
The name is attached to a girl about my height, with a cherubic face, almond-shaped eyes, and waist-length, jet-black hair pulled into a high ponytail. Royal blue eyeliner traces the edges of her eyelids before veering sharply upward into picturesque wings, and the way she has contoured her face speaks of skill with makeup much higher than a seventh grader ought to have. “Alexaundra,” she tells me, “but call me Alex.”
Alexaundra. The name flows gracefully off her lips. She emphasizes the third syllable, as though to impress upon me the knowledge that she is special, she is different, she is unique. The action is…show more content… The already-flimsy notebook paper we use creases and tears from constant handling, ink ebbing in and out of existence with each round of furious editing.
With Alex's guidance, I learn to love the feel of a ballpoint pen gliding across the sturdy pages of my myriad journals. I discover the power that comes from seeing each blank page as a portal to an unknown world, open to the exploration of new paths and stories and universes. Writing consumes me. When I am bored in class, I find myself jotting down possible ideas and conflicts for stories. On the bus ride to and from school, I compose plotlines in my head. I take to carrying a journal with me at all times so I'm never caught off guard if inspiration