Entering my room, I shut the door behind me and fling my brand new journal across the room like a Frisbee. It flies through the air, ricochets off the wall and lands on the bed with a soft thud. Not my bed. The bed that is unoccupied by a roommate I never have. The staff got tired of hearing them complain that I was always in their head, responding to things they were privately thinking. Of course I did it on purpose.
And it worked.
I like being on my own. I’m used to it. I’m not here to make lifelong friends—well, except for Josh maybe. I’ve tried several times to have meaningful friendships, but they never seem to work out—at least not for too long. Being friends with someone when you’re a telepath is no easy task. It’s astounding how superficial people can be to your face. Including the ones you believe to be your truest friends.
"Hi Sam, how are you? I love your shirt." As if she could afford it. She probably shoplifted it.
"Hey, Sam, you look so pretty today." Skinny ass bitch. I bet she pukes up everything she eats.
"Sam, I was wondering if you’d like to come to my birthday barbeque next week?" Please say no. Please say no. God, I can’t believe my mother’s making me invite her. Just because our mothers are friends doesn’t mean we have to be. POP freak."
Sometimes I’m not sure which is better: knowing what people are thinking or not knowing.
At least with Josh the friendship is on even ground. There’s no hiding and no faking with each other. To think it is to say it. There’s a strange sort of comfort in that—a sincerity that I’ve never found with anyone else.