No Man is an Island.

Most of her t-shirts these days were embellished with some words of encouragement. Some positive physical attribute or trendy expression that let people know what she was all about. “Hot stuff,” “Wonderful,” “Whatever,” “Where was your boyfriend last night?” She thought that maybe if she wore this attire long enough, people would either fall victim to their mystifying power and believe them, or actually consider that she believed them. Either way, she thought she might be better off.

Mismatched jewelry of every kind dangled from her extremities. Three rubber band bracelets for good luck, dangling flower earrings from her mother, a blue crystal pendant from a trip to Greece. “You wear too much. You look like a God Damn Christmas Tree!“ Barked her father. “What does he know? He doesn’t follow what’s popular.“ Nothing matched, except to her. In her opinion, conflicting jewelry would be the next big trend to hit Milan, Paris, New York. It was only a matter of time.

She followed the trends very closely. Always stuffing the latest Vogue in her oversized duffle bag that she took everywhere. Although she made a vow to her mom to “Always be herself. Never give way to peer pressure. Never judge yourself based on the likes of others,” she couldn’t help it. They were them and she was her. Rather than follow exactly what they were wearing, she opened each months magazine yearning for this months editorial to mimic her style. Eventually it would happen. “History repeats itself. Eventually this Fall Collection 2000 Wal-Mart shirt will come back in style. I just have to be patient.”

Her hair was so red it could almost be mistaken for purple. She saw it in the Spring advertisements for Prada. What once was so beautiful ,long, clean, and pure “baby blonde,” had now been reduced to a short stub of a pony tail. So many seasons and boxes of cheap hair dye later, she was now left with only the remnants of what her older sister previously would enviously run her fingers through. Peroxide in the summer, black in the winter, red in the fall, brown with highlights in the spring. So many years of attempting to fit in, creating so many split ends, resulting in so many hair cuts. Now she was envious of the virginal hair of her sister. Still blonde, and very much untouched.

She pretended to read her book, “100 Great Essays.” Very much intently eavesdropping on the phenomenon taking place right before her very eyes. “They” were in her presence. She was the quiet hunter, rigid in the bushes. They were the beautiful gazelles. Delicately nibbling on their sage brush, skittish and ready to flee at a moments notice. She examined their every movement, longing to mimic. While at the same time, eager as a hunter, she could shoot to kill. Only to put the beautiful creature she had killed on the wall. As a trophy, daily reminder, acknowledgement of her victory. Killing what she resented, only so she can stare into it’s lifeless face everyday.

With their secret vernacular and unique emphasis on particular syllables. How cacophonic! How melodic! Her ear closest “them” was closed shut, focused on her book. While her left ear remained very much open, taking copious mental notes as to the incident unfolding in front of her. If she couldn’t look like “them,” at least she could sound like “them.”

She looked up periodically from her book. Hoping to make eye contact long enough to being a conversation with the gazelle. “So, where are YOU guys from? SO, where are you guys from? So, where are you guys FROM? So, WHERE are you guys from?” Already well aware that they were American. Of the Californian descent more specifically. Where they were from didn’t as much matter as what “they” represented. “The Immaculate,” “The Nonchalant,” The Aloof.” The Secret Society of Girls, For Girls, By Girls. Whose only prerequisite for acceptance was to not give a shit, or a Dolce handbag for that matter, whether you got in or not.

“Like seriously! I was like, ‘Are you kidding me?’ Yeah, right. Like I’M going to go to the movies with YOU? And he was like, ‘Well, I just thought since I helped you pass that Econ test…’ and I’m like, ‘Oh, what so now I OWE just cause you helped me pass Econ? Yeah, right! Oh my god.” She began laughing, using her whole body to display laughter. Never moving her head, never breaking her gaze from Gazelle #2.

“How do they do that?” She pondered. “How do they take for granted being able to talk like that. That charisma! That bravado! That confidence!" She inhaled deeply, not knowing when her encounter with fate and doom may look up, realize they have been spotted, and bound across the plain. She again looked up, voracious for a sign of acknowledgment, a glance of approval. Nothing. She was nothing to “them.” They carried on with their insightful conversation, not to give her existence in the world a second thought. Nothing.

She all to suddenly became painfully aware that she was now staring. “They’re probably thinking, ‘Oh, great. Another “Wannabe” is staring at us thinking how lucky we are and how unlucky she is. Figures. Just look at her shoes. Pathetic.” She set down her book, politely excused herself over their mile long size 2 legs, and clambered to the bathroom. “Typical Molly,” she thought. “Always crying in some dirty bathroom stall. Pathetic.”

She washed her face, returned to the train cabin and picked up her book. She returned to the essay whose first line she had attempted to absorb since they left Paris, three hours ago. “Perchance for he whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know that.”