Fake Report card.

Don't-do-this-because-I-have-and-the-result-was-bad life lesson number one: Make fake report cards.

It all began when my parents promised me a cellphone at the end of quarter one my 8th grade year if I got all A's and B's. I remember the idea had been in the back of my mind for a while, but that really pushed me into the deep end.
Confident in the plan I held, I stopped caring about schoolwork overall. It was rare for me to get even B's, so I knew for a fact I'd be scanning and editing my report card, no matter how hard I tried.
When the day came that we were receiving our report cards, I rushed home so I would have plenty of time to get the duty done before my parents would arrive home from work. The scanning and editing only took about 5 minutes, and I was happy with the way it looked, so I printed it out, then proceeded to delete any kind of history of what I did, which involved getting into the printer history and deleting both the scan and the print. The only problem that arose was that my version was a lot smaller because I didn't know how to master the landscape print at that time. It also looked a little messy because the scanner didn't pick up on every little detail, like the shading on every-other line, and my placement was a little strange for the grades.
I brought it to school the next day to get the approval of my friends. My two best friends gave me a lot of kudos for the work I did, and told me to make them ones next quarter. I showed two or three more people at school, but only ones I trusted.
It was a half day, so I went home and called my parents to tell that I had gotten my report card and had all A's and B's. They were thrilled. While everyone was working, I then had two guys I both liked over my house. Hah.
Well, they never found about the boys, which happened many times after that, but they did find out about the report card, only two weeks later.
When I gave them the report card, they completely fell for it. The following weekend, we went to the mall and they got me a cellphone plan and a phone. Of course, something always has to go wrong when I have cellphones, so the texting didn't work. We went to the mall on a Sunday and got it fixed. The following Monday, my parents didn't see my name under the honor roll list in the newspaper, and started questioning me. I went off to school, shrugging everything off. I was kind of paranoid, though, because a friend of mine said that a teacher had asked her if I made a fake report card, because I guess it was making its way around my school. That was the Thursday before, so I figured nothing had come from it if they hadn't called my parents yet. I came home and went on the computer in my room, did my usual routine. When my Mom got home, she came right up the stairs and ripped me right out of the computer chair and took my phone and yelled at me.
I knew I was dead.
When Dad got home, I got another serving of discipline talks and screams, and then got grounded for a very long time. I think it was spring when I was able to go out again.
So, let my stupid decisions be a lesson for you and don't make any kind of fake report card or anything that has to do with school. Or, if you do, at least don't tell anyone. And make sure its not the first quarter, because you're going to have to keep doing it for the rest of the year, and thats a pain in the ass.

Gaming and depression.

When I was old enough to grasp the concept of a computer and how to navigate around one, which was around the age of eight or nine, I began to explore games we had on our computer at home. I came to love Doom 2, chess, and another shooting game. Where these games came from to this day, I have the slightest of an idea. But they were there, and soon Saturday mornings were spent in the mudroom on the computer instead of in the living room watching One Saturday Morning on channel 5. It was around this time that I had my first experience of internet, which was through AOL 4.0, or maybe an even earlier version. Along with that came my first Instant Message which was from my Dad's friend Jim, which drove me absolutely crazy because I had no idea what was going on. All I knew was that there was a little box popping up and saying 'Are you there? Are you there?' I ran out of the room screaming for my parents because I couldn't understand how someone could connect to you through a computer.
Soon, I was getting into buying CD-Roms to play. I remember dragging my Nana into some store that sold them, and talking her into buying me games for $20, which seemed like a lot more money to me at the time. I did suck her into buying me this Barbie Horse-riding game, which soon became an obsession. I'd play it all day until I got screamed at to get off the computer.
Soon, I was getting in trouble for leaving the game in the computer, which greatly pissed my Dad off, because he was the one putting it away after I finished playing.
One day, he called me into the mud room, and he sounded pretty angry. When I made it to the room, there he was, holding my favorite game in his hands. Once I made it fully into the room, he snapped the game in half right in my face. I ran to my room crying, and didn't come out of the rest of the day. It still upsets me now, because he knew how much I loved that game, and sure he was angry and I wasn't being responsible, but how can you do that to your kid?
Now, when I leave things out, and he tells me he'll throw it away if I do it again, I don't do it again, because he's really serious.
R.I.P. Barbie Horseback riding game.

Love stuck at age nine.

Nowadays, I shake my head when my twelve year old sister tells me about boys that have asked her out, or boys her younger friends are dating. Rarely do I revisit that part of my childhood; the crushes, 'relationships', 'heartbreaks'. To me, they're nonexistent. In reality, they did exist at one point, I just feel dumb talking about it.
In second or third grade, there was a boy in my class. He was probably one of the nerdiest kids to exist in Bagnall Elementary school. But me, being who I am, has always had a soft spot for 'geeks'. We flirted a lot, or whatever it was that was called flirting back then. You know, cute 'I love you' notes on each other's desks, holding hands, spending all day at school together. For a while, it went unnoticed by the other students, which I was thankful for, because back then I always tried to fit in, but never could, and if they knew I was with that kid, surely I'd never live it down.
I can be unbelievably shallow, especially when I'm nine or ten and in desperate need of friends.
After what felt like a long time, but probably only a week or so, people started catching on. Mainly my best friend, whom made fun of him to me numerous times. When she questioned me about it, I denied it, but did tell her we were 'good friends'. Soon, the boy and I were talking on the phone, and I also started envisioning 'romantic' walks, and even kissing him. I don't know whether its a good or bad thing, but those never happened. Once my best friend was positive about the little 'fling', I stopped talking to him. I might have told him to screw off, but I'm pretty sure I did it in a nice way because we stilled remained friends and I still had feelings for him up until different classes and lunches separated us, and I just stopped caring all together.
Once I switched houses in the beginning of fourth grade, I found myself on the same bus as him. I watched as all the big, bad sixth graders bullied the poor kids around. Mainly I just watched, but a few times I stood up for him, and other times I joined in the fun, which still makes me feel awful to this day. One time, when everyone was being really brutal to him, making fun of how he could never get a girlfriend, I agreed with them. He looked at me, almost like a hurt puppy, and said 'Well I went out with you' and instead of shying away or being embarrassed, I said 'what the fuck are you talking about, thats bullshit!' and I'm pretty positive those were the last words we exchanged. He went to an advanced middle school because of how smart he was, while I continued with the school system I was in. Lately, I've heard he turned into some mall-goth, but I'm sure I wouldn't recognize him if I saw him anyways, so I don't see why I care.
Sometimes I wonder if he remembers me. Not in a sad, pathetic way, but I wonder if he dismissed the whole thing from his life, as well. I just find it hilarious how kids so young can think they know and feel so much about something when they really don't.

Speech.

I don't remember the beginning all too well, but I was told that once I began talking, I slowly granted myself a speech impediment. There was really no reason why it happened, doctors ruled out my buck teeth and any mental conditions like retardation. The older I got, the more prominent the memories stick in my mind. Like the weeks I went away with my grandparents, desperate for friends but instead finding myself alone. I would talk to young kids my age around the pool or at the cottages next to our's, but the children could never understand what I was saying, so simply walked away, leaving me mid-sentence and embarrassed. In a way, I blame my childhood problem for my shyness that never seems to wear down and the low self esteem that screams in my head 'you're not good enough'.
Once I began school, it was even harder for me to deal with. I was often alone, coloring in the corner, while the rest of the class played blocks together and talked about their families. I remember the day my sister was born, and I was so excited to announce it to the class during the morning announcements. I stood up, and in the smallest voice possible, I told them all I was now a big sister, and that my little sister had been born the night before. But the way it came out was far more jumbled, shaky, and impossible to understand. Everyone gave each other looks, whispering about my inability to pronounce 'S's, or just outright laughing at me. I sat down with my cheeks red, trying to pretend I didn't notice all the fuss the class was making out of me. The teacher, nearly speechless, stood up, and then said 'Uhh..I think what Kristina said is that she has a little sister. Right Kristina?' and I nodded at her, secretly trying to keep the tears from exploding everywhere.
Life without being able to communicate properly is frustrating, no matter what age. Growing up with it for 6 or 7 years of my life surely made me want to shrink or just never talk again. I was never sure whether I should have blamed myself, my parents, or whatever higher being that existed, so I just blamed all.
My immediate family understood me best, but still not fully. The basics were obvious, I wasn't an infant anymore, so anything I asked for and they couldn't understand, I showed they by getting or drawing a picture, or simply finding another word for it, one with less S's and CK's. I couldn't even pronounce my own name right. At first, everyone though my problem was cute, but before I even knew it, people were scolding me for it.
Finally, in second grade, my parents got in touch with my teacher, or maybe it was the other way around, and signed me up for speech classes. Wednesdays and Thursdays from 9:30 till 10 in the mornings were no longer taken up by math and English, but instead excused from class to go see the woman who would hopefully cure my problem.
She was young, maybe mid twenties, and understanding for the most part with my issue. Our first meeting consisted of her telling me about herself, her cats which were her family, and how she loves helping children like me, and gets joy out of her job everyday. She made me aware that I wasn't the only kid in the world, or even my school, with the problem I had, and that she's seen worse cases than the 'small' problem I had. It was all meant to make me feel better, but it only made me more upset because the last thing I wanted to do was pay attention to this problem that I tried to cover up my best.
In the meetings to come, she would have me read a sentence or two off a paper she gave me while she recorded my voice on the computer. Then, once we were done, she'd play it back for me, pointing out every error and every small mistake we would need to work on. We'd work on exercises made to help me put emphasis on certain sounds and words.
Walking into every meeting, week after week, I never noticed any difference and lost hope quickly. My effort to help myself soon dropped, just like always, and it just made me more upset. She recognized this, and gave me many prep talks and lectures on how I need to fix this now, or never.
After a few calls home, and many meetings spent with my running around the school or locking myself in the bathroom so I wouldn't have to go, she and my parents had a meeting with me. They sat me down and basically said if I didn't try, I'd suffer with this awful problem for the rest of my life and would have a hard time finding jobs, friends, and other needs that everyone else was able to attain easily.
After that talk and a good grounding from my parents, I walked in to the meetings with a new perspective and drive. After endless days of exercises and recordings, she finally told me I was good to go. She thanked me for being cooperative, and that my effort really helped in the process. The sessions ended weeks before they had been planned out to, and I was finally understood. I talked correctly, people stopped laughing and started listening, and I find a new hope in myself.

Numb.

It was those chilly autumn nights that always drew my best friend and I into a state of relaxation.
We'd sit silently on her back porch with the wrap around seating by her closed pool, breathing in fresh air and focusing on whatever we chose on our own. There were no words needed here.
Sometimes, she's quietly ask me if her parents were nearby in the house, which was my signal to go inside and check. If they were around, I'd pretend to go into the bathroom for a minute just so they wouldn't be suspicious. If they weren't, I'd go to the fridge to grab us both a beer. When I would return with the beers, she's take out her rolling papers and baggy of the best stuff she could afford. Slowly, with perfection, she'd roll herself a joint while I laid back and drank. She would light it up, toke, and always offer me some, but I knew better than to let myself get into something else that altered my state of mind. She'd shrug, and do her thing. I'd watch her take deep breaths, and when she would exhale, I'd watch her face quickly go from depressed and stressed to relaxed and numb. Sometimes, I'd want to be that way as well, it seemed so nice compared to where I was in my own mind, but then I remembered I could make that go away as well. So I would get up and grab another beer.
Sometimes, with our minds altered, our own thoughts would come out vocally, instead of in our own brains. Soon, we'd both be babbling in tears to each other, completely oblivious to what secrets were being let out.
This is how we got to know one another, and how we became best friends.
We only were best friends when we were both numbed and stupid. The next morning, we'd both wake up on her bedroom floor, unaware of the time, or how we got there, or what we missed. We'd try to control our Sunday hangovers without breaking loose on one another, but sometimes it was just too hard. I'd find myself sitting on her porch with some boy's baggy sweatshirt she let me borrow, putting up with the drizzle and the gray skies to just get some fresh air and keep myself from falling apart.
My parents would pick me up eventually, or I'd walk home. By 5 pm, I'd be in bed for the night, sleeping away what I got rid of the night before.

Slowly, my partying with her lessened. She found new friends, new drugs, and new bad decisions to make. She had every boy's promises to her, but all it was for was sex, and soon enough she winded up pregnant at 17. I found new hope, new escapes, and new friends to do what I needed to do with, and talk about what I did when they weren't around. Now, at 17, I'm not pregnant, or a drug addict, or a slut. I don't look for a way to numb myself anymore, because I've placed the past in the past. I wish I could have given her the same advice I took down the road during those cool autumn nights.

Bikes + No Brains = No Good.

In my life, I have heard more dumb blond jokes aimed at me specifically than I have heard that I'm intelligent. When I was eight, I completely proved everyone correct.
Some days after school and homework were done, I'd go outside to play with my friend Sara from across the street. We'd ride bikes, play in the dirt hole behind my house, and search for rollie pollie bugs behind my garage. One day, we decided with our genius third grade minds to ride sidesaddle down the sidewalk, which was also a steep hill onto the next street, Chestnut St. Sometimes, we'd switch off bikes. Mine had both handlebar brakes and peddle brakes, making it easy to stop no matter how I was riding. But Sara's bike, on the other hand, had only peddle brakes. I blame my stupidity for even getting on that bike to begin with.
It was my second try going down the hill, and we traded bikes. She took mine and waited at the top of the hill, while I began my trek down. I started picking up speed quickly after I rode down the slope, and when I went to tug the handle bar brakes slightly, I realized that the bike had none. As I got to the next street, I tried to turn fast so I wouldn't hit the log fence in front of me. It was coming though, and it was coming fast. In the last moments before I hit the fence, I knew exactly what was coming. The feeling of not being able to stop whats coming is a crippling feeling. At that moment, I would be forever changed.
Then, everything went black.

I awoke maybe a minute or less later, and I could feel nothing. I didn't feel pain, or my legs, or even my brain for a little while. Once I realized what had happened, I let out a large scream, regained my strength, and ran home. At the top of the hill, I greeted Sara with a look of horror on my face, and soon her facial expression matched mine as well. She ran home while I ran to my house. When my mother saw me, she nearly fainted. She packed up everything she could, gave me a wet facecloth, and told me to go to the car because we were going to the hospital.
The damage was a lot of facial cuts, my lips completely chopped up, and my front left tooth sticking out at a ninety degree angle from my mouth. The tooth felt as though it was holding on for dear life. It wouldn't move at all when I touched it, it wasn't loose, it just stuck straight out of my mouth, with a lot of mingled gums and roots behind it.
When we arrived at the hospital, I waited anxiously while still experiencing the affects of shock. My mother talked to the woman that was in charge of the emergency room while I received all kinds of looks from other patients. Mom came back with an icepack and told me they would be with us soon. Soon turned into two hours later, and by then I was used to my current state. Some young kids would walk by with their parents and quietly ask 'whats the matter with her, mommy?' and I'd just cover with the icepack a bit more. I looked like a disaster.
My Mom held my hand for a while, but didn't talk much. I'm not sure if thats because she was upset, or because she didn't want me to talk, but either way it felt really made me feel worse. Finally, they took me into a room where they took my vitals and asked me a series of questions that really don't matter. They took a look at my mouth, but told me they couldn't fix it. I'd have to wait until the next day, and then have an oral surgeon make a house visit. For me, this wasn't good news. I didn't want my front tooth to keep sticking out of my mouth for another day, it was uncomfortable as it was, but another 24 hours seems much worse.
When we arrived back at home, my Mom called my Dad to tell him what I had done. At first, he was mad, but soon became as panicky as everyone else about the matter. He gave his dentist a call, and told us he'd meet us at the office in Beverly. We drove the half hour drive, all while I prayed on the moon to please make things better.
We arrived, and that was when I met both my saint and my devil. He sat me down in a big chair, and began to perform work after turning on the Nickelodeon channel for me to watch. Soon, my father was getting involved too, but I could feel nothing from the nine needles they stuck at the top of my mouth. I couldn't feel that, either, but I think that was due to shock.
I don't know for how long I was awake, but they eventually woke me up and told me they were finished. Both my Dad and Dr. Ellie were grinning wide as I tried to make my numb lips feel what they had done. All I know is that I couldn't feel a tooth sticking out anymore, but it wasn't missing either. They handed me a mirror and I smiled. I had four brackets on the top row of teeth. Almost like braces, only without the elastic coloring you can choose to get, or having them cover every tooth in my mouth. These things stayed in my mouth for about 9 months, until the stitches I had dissolved, and my dentist was pretty sure my tooth was held firmly in place.
Since the incident, I have encountered many problems, from abscesses to root canals to $150 bleach to permanent discoloration. There are still many problems to arise, as well, like my first fist fight and getting punched in the mouth, to losing my tooth another way, and inevitably getting a fake put in, which I believe they should had done in the first place.

Yet another stupid mistake that is still echoing in my life to today, and on into the future.
The indent in the fence from my tooth is still there, as well. Go to Chestnut St in Groveland and take a look at the brown fence, you'll see it. I've made my mark.

Chicken Pox Rut.

It was a snowy morning, the kind where the town plows are making their rounds throughout the neighborhood at 4:30 a.m., making it possible for the young children to go to school in somewhat-safe conditions. I had a very restless sleep, but this time is wasn't just because of my sister still unable to sleep through the night. I was having very lucid dreams, most of which had someone repeating a word softly at first, but getting louder and louder until I woke up in a cold sweat, my head pounding and my body aching. I shivered violently, almost able to feel every small movement of air through my blankets onto my burning body. I could have sworn I could feel the draft of my shut window 5 feet away. Once I was somewhat conscious, I walked from my bedroom to across the hallway where my parents were. Before I even said a word, they asked what was wrong, but instead of answering, I let out a deep dry heavy, and began to cry. Anything that had do to with vomiting sent me into hysterics. My mother picked me up and carried me to the downstairs couch. I curled into a blanket tightly, trying to keep my soaring body heat from leaving me into the cold of the room. I could feel goosebumps lining up my spine. My skin was sensitive to every touch, every glaze of fabric, every movement. On top of my overwhelmed senses, I was itchy. The itch went further than just a small area of my body. I was covered. Before my mother had even came back from the bathroom with the thermometer, I had diagnosed myself with the chicken pox.
Riding out the chicken pox wasn't as bad as everyone made it out to be. I was sick for about three days with the actual virus, and it took an additional 7 days for the pox to be gone. Being covered in an assortment of lotions wasn't the most comfortable thing, but staying home from kindergarden was something worth cherishing since most of the kids made fun of me for I don't even know what. My friend from down the street also got the chicken pox at the same time, so our parents let us see eachother during the whole thing.
There was one complication, though, and it had to do with my thumb, and the awkward addiction I had to sucking it. I was told that I could get chicken pox inside my mouth from my thumb if I put it in there, and I did not want weird itchy-spots covering my mouth and throat, because that just sounded like horror to me. To just stop sucking my thumb all together seemed impossible, I had been doing it for five years, for as long as I can remember, and even before that. It was a comfort blanket for me, among many other things. At night, in order to fall asleep, I needed Jimmy Baby in my hand, puffy on me, and my thumb in my mouth. Back then, I spent a lot of time at my Nana's, so I'd come home with everything smelling of cigarette smoke, and I liked it. So I'd sit, sucking my thumb, while inhaling the residue smoke out of my babydoll. It had to be Jimmy Baby, too. It couldn't be Bo Baby, or the seven others I had, only Jimmy Baby. She [or he] was favored by me the most. It got its name from a time when I spilled icecream with jimmies on its bow, and they stayed there for a quite a while.
Now, I had no understanding of how I'd fall asleep, or even function. Sucking my thumb was like what smoking is for other people, I had to have it or else I'd get upset. Most 30 year olds can't quite smoking, so how was a 5 year old supposed to kick her habit?
I remember clearly what went through my head while deciding what to do. I sat in the dimly lit livingroom, contemplating hard on how to do this. Then I thought to myself 'I can do this.' And that was it. I put babydoll down on the couch and walked to the diningroom for dinner, and never again did I suck my thumb. It was a miracle, because I have a really addictive personality. I don't even recall being miserable, at all.
This is still one of the things I'm most proud of.

Being a big sister.

The air was freezing as I played in the snow, but that never stopped me when I was younger. Nowadays, you wouldn't even see me touch the snow, besides the occasional snowball or when I absolutely had to. When I was a kid, though, I'd spend every day outside if there was snow on the ground. I remember my mother called me in, although it wasn't dark yet. At first, I protested, but soon gave up the fight because some hot cocoa and a movie sounded pretty alright with my mom and dad. When I came inside, I stripped off my wet snow gear and ran to my room for some warm socks and pajamas. On my way up the stairs, my mom called for me from her bedroom. As I turned the corner to her room, I noticed she was smiling, and had this sort of glow to her. She was dressing up in a pair of slacks and a button up blouse. 'Put on some nice clothes, Krissy.' she told me, 'Tonight is a special night. We're going out to dinner, I have some exciting news.'
My mind drew a blank as to what could be so special, so I wandered into my room and started pulling clothes out from my closet and bureau. I had just been granted the privilege to dress myself recently, so I wanted to find the best thing I could to impress my parents. I wanted to be as special as this special news. I soon found an emerald velvet dress with black trim and a gem stone at the yolk collar. It was the dress my parents must have preferred me in most, for it was what they bought and dressed me in for the Christmas pictures they had taken of me the year before. The pictures were sent out to all my parent's friends as a personalized Christmas card. There I was, smack in the middle of the laminated card, with a swirly font above my head. 'Merry Christmas,' it said and at the bottom had my family's last name. For weeks after the card was sent out, my parents got a number of calls from their friends, saying how 'adorable' I was, and how I had 'grown up so much' since they had last seen me. I was positive it was the dress that made me look so much older, it was the only somewhat sophisticated piece of clothing I had. As I slipped the dress over my head, I thought about how excited and surprised I was going to make my parents. They had no idea what was coming for them, how pretty I was going to make myself look all on my own, like a big girl. I was their big girl, and I loved that. I came down the stairs with a little hop in my step. I already had on my socks with the frilly lace at the top neatly folded over, and my shiniest shoes I could find in my room. They were buckled, and I was ready. I turned the corner into the kitchen, my hands behind my back, being as cute as I could be. They were slipping on their jackets, when my mother turned around and looked at me. As she did, I smiled big, making sure to show off every little tooth imperfectly spaced in my mouth. Her facial expression changed to anger, and as soon as that happened, my smile was gone as well.
'Why are you wearing that?! Its not Christmas anymore, take that off. Go put on a pair of stretchy pants or something, with one of those glittery shirts you like so much and made me buy. You know what? Never mind, I'll just have to dress you today. Urg,I should have known. You're still too young to dress yourself.'
As she said every one of those words, I felt my face getting hotter and hotter. I had to hold it together though, crying wouldn't get me anywhere. I turned around as she walked past me, and followed her back to my room with my head hung low. When we got to my room, she yelled at me again for the mess of clothes on the ground, all of which were clean. I silently picked them all up while she found a shirt and pants for me. Once I was re-dressed, we left the house and went to this really fancy restaurant. We were seated in what must have been dead center of the restaurant, and were served our drinks and pop-overs. Instead of getting her usual glass of wine, my mother ordered lemon water. As she ordered that, my father looked at her and squeezed her hand tight, and she smiled happily back at him. Then, they turned and looked at me.
'Squirt, we have some big news for you,' my father started. 'For a while, your mother and I have been thinking about our family, about our dreams and what we want for ourselves and you.'
I stared back blankly. What were they talking about?
'We thought it would be best if we had another child, someone for you to play with and grow up with.' My mother continued.
My heart began racing.
'We found out last night that your mother is pregnant.' My Dad delivered the words as happily as possible, but I felt like I had just been smacked.
I just looked at them, both so happy for themselves. What about me? What about what I was giving up? Words and emotions traveled through my brain. I didn't want to be their other child, I didn't want to give up my room, my parents, my pride of being their only one.
Before I could even think, I was up and out of my chair, running for the door. By the time I reached the outside, I could feel my soaked face turning to ice, but the salty tears just kept going. I didn't want to share, I didn't want things to change. How could they do this without even asking me what I wanted? Like I expected, my parents followed me out, upset and confused as to why I responded the way I did. Did they really think I was going to be happy about that? When my Mom got close enough to me, I ran towards her stomach and made a fist with my little hands. I started hitting her stomach as hard as I could, screaming directly to my little sister to get out. Get out, get out, get out.