Free The Six Rules of Maybe by Deb Caletti Page B

tried.
    My mother thought my problem was all about leaping in and overcoming my social anxiety . She actually used those words, even though I knew from my psychology books that I didn’t have social anxiety. I looked it up. The only anxiety I had was dealing with everyone else’s anxiety about my being an introvert. There were always all these suggestions for how to make me less of who I was. Joining clubs—that was a big one. Getting involved in school events, like dances or some sport. To Mom, it was about being brave or not being brave, not about just being who you were. I’m convinced there are some people who are just born joiners of groups—fitter-inners,seamless social creatures, lovers of half-fake happy-to-see you ’s and insincere hugs and little screams of excitement that convincingly cover what’s probably boredom. And then there are others, the ones who feel every false moment to the point of bodily pain and who can’t be anyone except whom they are, as much as they try.
    I never understood why it was somehow superior to be a joiner. Being an introvert is judged in some extreme way, as if you’re lacking some ability to cope because you don’t drink beer and smoke pot in Macy Friedman’s basement. In our society, introversion as an alternate lifestyle gets less respect than any other alternate lifestyle, in my opinion. You could be gay and go to homecoming with your girlfriend or boyfriend, you could go drunk, you could go and ditch your partner middance, but if you didn’t go at all, you were a loser. Introversion is distrusted—it makes people nervous. Maybe it seems like we’ve got secrets. They think the secret is that you’re depressed or something, that’s why you don’t seek their company, when the secret is really that you’re happy and relieved and almost flying at the near-miss escape of not having to be in their company. You’re looked at like you’re seriously lacking, when the only thing you feel lacking in is the ability to be an introvert in peace.
    So that’s why it was so strange that I actually wanted to go to school on the Monday after Juliet moved back home with Hayden. I’d never wanted that, and there I was, feeling some sense of rest just doing my regular routine: first period Art with Mr. Wykowski (who always came in smelling like weed, not too different from several guys in his class), second period European History with Mr. Chester and creepy Reilly Ogden staring at me like I was water and he was desert. Bells ringing, locker doors slamming, guys yelling, Fuck! and cheating on tests, what’s-the-point-of-this homework, boredom—compared to being home with my now pregnant sister,it was a haven .
    I saw Nicole in third period AP English with Ms. Cassaday, just before lunch. The minute class was over, just after the bell rang and just after Ms. Cassaday said, “Be brilliant, people,” and swirled around in her batik skirt, Nicole grabbed my arm.
    “Where were you yesterday? I needed you. Didn’t you get my messages? Kiley was looking all over for you. She wants to break up with Ben but doesn’t know how.”
    I didn’t know anything about breaking up. I didn’t know about most of the things people asked my advice about. They just seemed to need to hear something sensible that they could later ignore. “I’m not the one to ask,” I said. “I can’t even get Reilly Ogden to leave me alone. He gave me a note today asking me to the prom.” I passed it over to her.
    “‘ I’d like to take this opportunity … ’,” she read aloud. “Jesus, he’s creepy. Anyway, he’s a junior. You’re a junior,” Nicole said.
    “ Next year’s. Look at the date.”
    “God.” Nicole sighed. “I don’t know why you just don’t tell him to go away .”
    I had tried a hundred times, but getting rid of Reilly Ogden was as pointless a task as removing a stubborn permanent stain in your best jeans—a stain like grease or blood which no matter how many times you washed