Dear Diary,

They think I don’t hear them.  They think I’m oblivious and lost in a haze of weed.  They think I’m a retro Goth.  

I don’t care what my senior class thinks.  I quit caring about sixth grade when the cliques got serious.  I really stopped caring when my great-grandfather died. I wore black to his funeral and have worn black ever since.

They all have no idea, and I like it that way.  I’m not just an introvert, I’m very private.  I don’t even talk to the therapist my social worker has been making me see for two years.  The one my state insurance pays for because we don’t have any money.

I don’t care what my family thinks.  I was a mistreated child that nobody could be bothered to rescue.  My summers with Great-Grandfather are the only reason I’m not a real mess.

I don’t care what anyone thinks.

I wear black for the same reason Johnny Cash did.  Yes, I know who Johnny Cash is.  My great-grandfather was a super fan, and we spent evenings on the porch with his old boombox and the nearly worn-out cassette tapes he replaced his vinyl with. 

As long as the world is full of injustice, I will wear black.  I will dye my hair black.  I will paint my nails black.  My mother forbids the black lipstick, so I put it on once I get to school.

I can’t wait for college.  To be free of her hypocrisy and alternating suffocation and neglect. 

She is getting married on Saturday.  To a jerk.  Five more months and I’m out of here.  Once I’m at State, I will find a job or something to keep me there during breaks between semesters and holidays. 

My mother took me shopping for the bridesmaid’s dress he’s paying for.  She never asked me to be a bridesmaid.  She never even asked me what I thought of her boyfriend, now her fiancé.   

The dress is pink.  Like I’m going to wear pink.  And satin. How could she possibly confuse me with a Barbie doll?  How can she be so clueless?

I’m not going to wear it, of course.  I’m not even going to stay for the wedding.  Once we all get there and the confusion starts, I’m going to sneak out. I can be downtown at the used bookstore before anyone realizes I’m even gone. The owner lets me sit there for hours without buying anything.  Sometimes she brings me a coffee drink. On the house.

Mom’s plan is to dress at the church.  She has a hairstylist and makeup artist coming for both of us. He’s paying for it, of course.  On Thursday, she’s taking me to get my nails done.  She relented and said I could wear black to the rehearsal dinner.  I’d just skip it except that might tip them off that I’m skipping the wedding. 

I can manage one evening even though he’s going to be there, of course.  When he comes to the apartment, I stay in my bedroom.  If she had any idea what a sleeze he is, she’d probably still marry him.  He’s got a good job and a nice house in a safe neighborhood. He’s a professional.

He was my fourth-grade principal.  

She’s never questioned what he sees in her.

I have never mattered to her. 

They are staying at the Marriott Saturday night and leaving for the honeymoon in the Bahamas first thing Sunday morning. Once they realize I’ve ditched the wedding, they’ll forget about me.

She will anyway.

He won’t.  I think he thinks about me a lot. 

I can’t wait for college.