Chapter 1Kennisindiscretionism 

“Weird stares being thrown my way, penetrating eyes, look at the ground, god why are they looking at me? Shoelace is untied, mustn’t forget my history paper, should have studied for bio, need to pee!” The daily thoughts that enter my mind should be captured within my head’s safe walls; they shouldn’t be broadcasted like the latest artist’s song on the radio. Yet I find myself mumbling them, barely a whisper upon my lips. A permanent curse I must endure forever. Yes it’s true my affliction has been tamed to be mutterings and nothing more as if I’m talking to myself, a lunatic un-butterfly netted. Compared to when I was younger when I would express my thoughts as if it was an interesting conversation piece. In my infant days I’d scream them (which at the grand age of 3, consisted mainly of wanting attention or needing to go poop). After realizing that this wasn’t a bratty phase and that discipline was not making a dent in my big mouth, my mother decided I needed help.

 Only until I was nine could the psychologist finally pronounce my case unsolvable after years of scrutinizing me. My perfectionist of a mother wrinkled her nose in disbelief that her daughter had a problem and it could not be fixed, like a crooked picture upon the wall, with 60 minute sessions of therapy. She called poor Dr. Manter a phony, and left, dragging me along but not before I could share my last thought

 “Why does Dr. Manter have a rug on his head?” I wondered out loud while motioning to his badly arranged toupee.

 We tried many other doctors, all who became bewildered and infuriated with my state. Most grew tired of me, for my spiteful thoughts of their appearances and personality tumbled out of my mouth before I even shook their hands. Even supposed self-actualized, secure shrinks began to twitch nervously when I walked into a room; fidgeted while I expressed every thought from frivolous to frightening that popped in to my head and constantly glanced longingly at the clock until my hour was up. Some diagnosed that I was just thoughtless and rude and with the continuation of their $500 sessions, I would be turned from impertinent to affable. After trying that plan for a few months it was clear that I was not improving in the slightest and that my ‘little chats’ with Doctor So-n-so were gradually burning an insignificant hole in my parent’s immense pocket, but a hole nonetheless my financial-conscious father insisted.

At my 14th shrink in my nine year old life, my mother realized that perhaps my problem grew deeper than insolence when Dr. Drew suggested that I actually had a mental problem. I was not insane he reassured, however there was a unique quality to me, as he so nicely put it. So unique was my problem that it had never been heard of, until I came along that is. In honor of this, Dr. Drew proclaimed this new disease ‘Kennisindiscretionism’ a mouthful I know, but I have the great honor of being named after a mental illness! Kennis is an odd name; Mama thought it chic and stylish, it was just another ploy to raise her popularity within her circle of competitive mothers at the country club. I don’t despise the name, but it would be nice to find my name on those little pencils and ruler sets that you can buy, every now and then.

So here I sit in my stiff starched uniform of a plaid skirt, knee length stockings, black sling back Jimmy Choo’s, a prim white blouse and atop it a bottle-green v-neck sweater which proudly adorns the emblem for Yardley Academy, an otter playing with a ball of fire upon his stomach as he lies upon his back in the water with the words ‘is quisnam lascivio per incendia’, he who plays with fire in Latin, surrounding the odd crest.  A stray hair finds itself in my face as I try to figure out just what Shakespeare is trying to say in his nonsensical babbling; I swat it away like an annoying gnat all the while my lips moving 100 miles a minute as I ponder over page 52 of “Macbeth”. 

McKenzie nudges me in the side giggling at Ms. Granger’s newest escapade in fashion. The outfit for today consists of an eggplant colored waistcoat completed with turquoise horizontal stripes,  a little too-snug red skirt, the usual hideous brown clogs, all topped off with Ms. Granger’s exploding bun hairstyle and a frazzled expression behind her horn-rimmed glasses. Immediately, almost forgetting to whisper, I exclaim “I don’t see how that woman manages to contradict with common fashion sense each day!” McKenzie bursts in to a fresh wave of giggles.

McKenzie Fuller has been my best and only friend ever since middle school; my mother thought I would never make friends given my “condition”. But for some reason McKenzie latched on to me the very first day, I guess she’s always loved my raw honesty. She never once flinched when I blurted out that her new skirt was awful, or that she was wearing too much make-up making her look sluttish. In a way, I guess McKenzie appreciated the truth; being an only child her parents wrapped her up in cotton wool, while the rest of the school feared her because of her parents influence and power over the city. She’s never been denied anything in her life and it doesn’t help that she’s stunningly beautiful. With a tumbling cascade of brunette tresses, haunting green eyes, impossible cheekbones, and a size 2 waist it’s hard knowing that when we go out together, most of the stares are being thrown in her direction, I’m always second choice with the boys. Not that I’m repulsive, I’m just different. I’ve always been different and I always will be. People consider me pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous like McKenzie, but pretty. I tower over every girl in the hallways at 5’9 and with my matchstick figure, typical blue eyes and blonde hair I could easily be model material.

            McKenzie is almost close to tears with silent laughter, when Ms. Granger eventually notices over half of the class isn’t avidly reading Shakespeare’s unmentionable play anymore.

“Ms. Fuller, would you mind explaining to me what is so funny?”

“No miss” she said spluttering.

“Well, I would suggest that you refrain from that ridiculous giggling at once and return to Macbeth as I advise the rest of the class unless they wish to write a longer report about it than already assigned!”

“Yes miss” said McKenzie stopping her tittering at once and smiling her coy, innocent smile, oozing sweetness to the brim. I grinned to myself as McKenzie worked her charm over Ms. Granger, no teacher could resist, especially considering McKenzie’s parents. A few extra eyelash bats and small pout of her lips later our report on Macbeth had been shortened to 4 pages rather than the 7 that had been assigned earlier.

“Nice” I whispered to McKenzie.

“Thank you, dahhhhling!” McKenzie returned.

I began my small babblings again as I plowed through page 53. McKenzie giggled softly when I accidentally mumbled my thoughts about a line a little too loud, so that they were audible to her.

McKenzie was the only person besides my parents and my posse of shrinks who knew about my condition. McKenzie found it endearing, don’t ask me why.   “I love you and you love me, and I love you for loving me and you love me for loving you, and that’s show business kid.” That’s what we repeated to one another when one of us was feeling blue as our little motto, imitating the murderous Roxie Hart. We both are huge fans of Chicago, the musical, film and city.

  Once a month, we travel up to New York and take turns to pick a musical to see. Our current favorite is ‘Wicked’; McKenzie has taken to the habit of calling me ‘Elphaba’, the name of the Wicked Witch of the West, she says the resemblance is uncanny. We both are misconstrued as evil witches. The majority of the student body secretly but not discreetly despises me because of my little problem. No one dares say it outright to my face but the hatred is prominent in their eyes as they suck up to me in the hallways. On the odd or maybe constant occasion, whenever I meet a person I can’t restrain my thoughts to whispers and I insult them before I can ask them their names, it’s rather annoying. Especially when meeting guys, girls can take it, we’re born with a natural immune system to catty comments, and we expect them. Boys on the other hand, their already delicate egos take a mighty blow when they first meet me, sort of like a verbal kick to the crotch.  

Doodling on my notebook, not trying in the least to look like I’m listening to Ms. Granger’s lecture, I start humming one of my current favorites off of the new Maroon 5 album. Humming or singing is the only thing that keeps my little affliction at bay, for the most part.