Power of the Pen 7th Grade

   Prompt: The main character of your story is an alien.

   Title: Flexible

   “So, what’s your name?” Mrs. Fisher asks in a kind voice. She already knows my name, of course, she’s only asking for the benefit of my peers.

   I swallow the lump in my throat, standing as tall as I can. “Jessie Landers.” I speak as loudly and clearly as I can, which isn’t very loud.

   It’s never easy to be brave while being pierced by fifty eyes. And those eyes will not be gentle. They’ll examine me, strip me down and pull me apart until
   they can see right into my very soul. And if there’s one thing I learned from moving a lot, it’s that there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

   Mrs. Fisher points to a seat in the back of the room. She plasters a smile over her bright red lips. The smile seems genuine, but you never can tell.

   I slip into my seat silently. Heads turn to look at me, making me feel extremely self-consciences. But I don’t flinch or hide my head. That would be
   equivalent to holding a neon sign over my head that said “I am weak.” As the new kid, I must state what I will be clear and simple. I will let them stare
   at me as if I’m an alien. And, in a way, I am. Toy don’t need to be from another planet to be an alien. Anywhere different will do.

   Mrs. Fisher begins her lesson, her blonde curls bouncing comically. She doesn’t look much like a teacher, more like a model. But I’m not going to pay
   attention to her. Mom said I’d be ahead of this class before we moved here.

   I hadn’t wanted to move. I’d finally gotten used to life in Westin, even made a friend. But my father had gotten a promotion, and off we’d gone, bouncing
   off to some new town and school. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d stayed in a place for more than a year. Every time we’d move, my father would ask
   if this was okay with everyone. My other would place her hand gently on my shoulder and sweetly say, “Don’t worry, Jessie’s flexible.”

   I wished she wouldn’t do that, speaking for me like she knew me completely. Maybe I am flexible, but that doesn’t mean I want to be. Maybe I’m used to
   moving, but that didn’t mean I liked it.

   Mrs. Fisher hands out worksheets. She reaches me last, giving me a quick smile. Glancing at the sheet, I can see it’s fairly easy. Something I’ve done many
   times before/ I fill in the answers. Then sit quietly in my seat, staring at the head in front of me. When the bell rings, I slide from my seat and slip
   out the door. Heads turn to look at me, eyes bore into me. It’s a nightmare, one I’ll never get used to.

   I hastily find my next class, choosing the back row again, envying the kids who have never been an alien on their own planet.