I Am as Vain as I Allow

"Stefani?" I could hear that everly-pious voice call. I glued my eyes to that piano and kept on playing. She wouldn't stop me. That bitch would not stop me.

Being thirteen years old, I figured if I ignored her long enough, she would go away. This was not the case.

"Stefani, you know this isn't music class. You're supposed to be in math," Sister Maria pulled me by my ponytail and I yelped.

"Let me go!" I cried, kicking and flailing my arms.

"You're coming with me to the office!" the nun shouted above my carrying-on, trying in vain to pull me from the chair.

Soon enough a crowd of girls, no doubt going to their next class, were huddled around the door of the music room. They were giggling and scoffing, whispering stupid unbelievable things about me..

I looked up at Sister Maria. She looked just about ready to call for backup. It's not pretty having a group of nuns trying to force you to the office, so I gave up.

-

"What did you get in trouble for this time?" my dad asked, his voice uncaring. He knew he couldn't stop me from misbehaving. It was just my calling to misbehave.

I looked at the window, searching everything around me. There was always something new to see in New York. One day was different from the next. I thought of how much I'd hate to live in the country, away from the lights and everything..

"Stef!" dad called me out of my thoughts. I turned to look at him. I wanted to make him proud, I really did..

"I had music this morning and Mrs. Smith let me on the piano and I thought of this amazing tune just as the bell rang and I just had to start playing it," I started to cry. It's always better to make someone feel sympathetic for you. "I knew I had math the next period and math always makes me fall asleep anyway. It's just a waste of a class for me."

"That doesn't mean you can skip it, honey," he explained, staring blankly at the road before him. Who knew how long it would take to get home. New York is a country in itself.

"But I just had to write it down..." I said quietly, opening my bag and trying to find the composition stuck somewhere in my massive pile of papers.

"And did you?" he asked.

I nodded. "Most of it."

I gave up on looking for the paper. Dad wouldn't be able to understand it anyway. He couldn't read music.

Minutes of silence stretched on forever until he said, "Your mother is going to be very disappointed that I had to pick you up from school."

"I didn't get any detentions.."

"But I still got called at work to come pick you up, Stef."

"Are you disappointed in me, then?" I asked, looking out the window again.

"I'm disappointed that you didn't know when to stop. You should have left with Sister Maria the first time. But I admire your determination to try to outwit her. She knows you would rather be in music than in math by now," dad smiled at me, sarcasm in his voice.

My dad was cool. He didn't yell and he was pretty laid back about all those minor things I'd done growing up. He never expected them to escalate into something more. Sometimes I.. I feel like I betrayed him.

He was always there to defend me from mom. She was the one that yelled, that expected more from me. But she just didn't understand. She was moodier than a pregnant woman sometimes. Dad always told her that what I was doing was not a big deal and then she'd calm down, believing him.

Oh my teen years. Such a dramatic change we go through in our teens. We find out who we are in those shortest of years. But my early teens didn't end soon enough if you ask me.

-

I was face to face with myself.

Mom had sent me to my room with no dinner as soon as she learned what had happened. Luckily I always had a stash of food in my room. Don't judge me, I wasn't always skinny. I loved to eat. I still do.. but we'll save that story for later.

I changed out of my gross Catholic-girl uniform and into a pair of sweatpants and a sports bra. I turned on my Madonna mix tape just loud enough to dance to, and placed myself in front of my mirror.

The mirror is the single-most judging object in the world. Nearly every night, that mirror became the enemy. My nose.. my stomach.. I just wanted to remold myself. Growing up, I knew I was not pretty. In your teens, your self esteem goes to shit.

But I never had bad acne. And I had nice legs. That was always a plus for me.

I remember that night in particular. Staring me back was the image of something I didn't want. I wanted to be pretty. I wanted to make all those girls at school jealous with my beauty.

I wanted friends. Sure, I had people to hang out with. But those people were the superficial kind of friends. They would do nothing for me if I was in trouble or needed someone to talk to.

I really wanted someone who would understand me. I just wanted a true friend. One, just one..

I snuck out to the piano room with my composition that night after I was sure my parents were asleep. I played it over and over again until I could play it by heart. Call it the 'Ballad of the Oppressed.'

All teens hate their life, but I hated mine more than anyone else.