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On Not Being Picked by Kathleen Ratcliffe

Winner, 2nd Annual Writers Contest (2014)

On Not Being Picked

By Kathleen Ratcliffe

“First base, Miriam Alston.”

“First base, Miriam Alston, who else?”

Don’t worry, I didn’t say that sentence out loud.  But I did say it in my head, with the appropriate sarcastic tone.  In case you were wondering, the softball coach announced the first sentence, as if anyone didn’t already guess.  As if!  Miriam Alston gets everything she wants, and then some.  She’s the perfect first baseman, basewoman, tall and lean.  I could be tall and lean if I wanted.  Well maybe not tall.

My brother told me to try out for every position on the team.  But I only wanted to be the first baseman.  Woman.  Person.  Besides, I didn’t hear anyone telling Miriam to try out for every position.  She only tried out for first base too.  The only difference is that Miriam gets what ever she wants and I get nothing.

So I’ll just go home and sit on my bed and mope.  No one can stop me.  Then I’ll reach under my bed and grab the doll I made of Miriam Alston and stick pins in it!

Not really.  I didn’t make a doll of Miriam Alston.  That would be ridiculous.  Besides, I didn’t have enough material.

Miriam Alston.  Her middle name is Brianna.  Even her initials are successful.  She can do no wrong.  Straight As, blonde, blue eyes, perfect name.  Miriam just sounds special.  When you say it, you almost purr.  Meer E um.  If she went by her middle name, like my dad does, she could be called Bree.  Anything with Ana at the end sounds better.  Diane.  Nope.  Diana.  Much better.  Joanne.  Blah.  Joanna, why couldn’t they have named me that?

Oh, I know, sour grapes.  Well, I’m fourteen, we get emotional and irrational at times.  I’m allowed.  Dr Phil said it was okay, as long as it didn’t become a habit or carry over into one’s twenties.

All the boys like her too.  Why?  Why else?  She’s a blue eyed blond with a decent rack.  Mom would kill me if she knew I said that.  But I heard other people say it too.

Maybe I am carrying on like a baby but I get tired, you know.  Why is it only one person who gets everything good?  Can’t I have something go right for a change?  Is it fair that some people live perfect lives?  No, no it is not.  I’m tired of my name.  I’m tired of being short, of brown hair and disgusting hazel eyes.  They’re not even a pretty hazel, they look like a stain that you’d try to get out of a shirt but couldn’t.  Oh, why do I have to be me?  Will this every get better?  Fourteen years on this earth and I am destined for mediocrity!

Well, that’s all.  It’s dinner time and we’re having breakfast for dinner tonight.  It really is my favorite.  Dad is home early tonight and it’s Roddy’s turn to do dishes.  Peace out.

Copyright 2014 Kathleen Ratcliffe