Read Dear Opl for Free Online Page B

Someday.
    I let my head fall to the side. I stared at my laptop on the floor beside me. I didn’t want Ethan to think I was a crack up. I wanted him to think I was divine. I groaned the same groan I had been groaning for the last year only in different keys.
    I got up to look in my dresser mirror. Who was this person? I didn’t recognize her, but she had enveloped me. Like a hug I didn’t want. That’s it, I decided. I looked like my great-aunt Marge. She was all flabby arms and big bosom. An embrace from her left you gasping for air and with a muscle spasm. I refused to morph into someone named after a saturated fat.
    I fell in a heap to the floor. Why couldn’t I be normal again? Just regular. Ordinary. Run-of-the-mill. I looked at my fistful of M&M’s and let them tumble out of my hand. How come I couldn’t stop eating? I closed my mouth and pressed my lips together, but I knew this was stupid. I was still hungry. I needed to keep the noisy bits inside me fed to stay quiet. I just wanted to stop feeling all these feelings.
    At first I had wanted everyone to stop looking at me because my dad died. Summer said they did it because they were offering sympathy, but I’m sure all they were doing was rubber-necking a crash site. It made me feel like a freak. Then I couldn’t stop eating because somehow the food made me feel a little better, only it ended up making things worse. Now people are staring at me all over again. More gawking at my rear-ender. This sucks!
    I wish I didn’t care. I wish I didn’t care about anything at all and that I had been born without emotions. Then I would never cry again. I would never be caught off guard when those hateful attacks gripped me and squeezed me. When my wall smashes and everything I kept squished down heaves upward from the floor of my guts.
    I didn’t want that anymore. I didn’t want any of it.
    I lifted my head from the carpet and looked at my laptop. The cursor blinked. It ticked like a silent clock, a reminder about the second comment which was really a question. Dear Opl, why do you spell your name like that?
    I sighed. I might as well answer her. It would take my mind off the shock in the mirror.
    Dear Lovemycat,
    Last year, my seventh grade class had to come up with ways to become less wasteful. I’m trying to be more environmentally conscious and use less ink, so I cut a useless vowel. Also, my used electric typewriter lost its “A” key and gives a zingy shock when you press down on the spiky metal arm. I’ve been conditioned not to use it.
    Okay, some of that was true, but most importantly, it made my name skinny, and I liked the sound of something linked to me having success with weight loss.
    I punched Publish and shut my laptop. I needed relief from all the stress of this hard work and worry. Downstairs in the pantry lay a bag of hidden kettle corn with my name on it. Caramel is a sticky bandage, but it would make licking my wounds easier. Except first I had to pee.

Tuesday morning, I sat at the breakfast table using the palm of my hand to prop me up. I shook my head, trying to clear my sleepy stupor and the vision in front of me. Ollie, or someone with Ollie’s face, was dressed as a nurse. He shoveled cereal into his mouth as if he believed someone was about to snatch the bowl out from under him.
    â€œSlow down, buddy,” I mumbled. “Where’s the fire?”
    â€œI have to hurry,” he said, bits of food flying from his mouth. “I have to get to school before Jacob Berndowser does.”
    My eyelids slid back into the closed for the season position. “How come?”
    â€œAs long as I make it to school before him, I’m safe. He can’t push me down at school. There are too many teachers watching.”
    I raised one eyelid. “Why would he push you down?”
    â€œHe doesn’t like my clothes.” Ollie shrugged a white-cloaked shoulder and slapped a