I always knew I was shy. It began when I started school. At home, I sat in the corners and tried to be invisible, out of sight, out of mind. No one bothered me that way. It was comfortable for me. At school, I did the same. It was all I knew. I didn’t expect the teacher to try to make me talk.
She wanted me to talk about my family. That was the last thing I wanted to do, talk about them. How my father came home drunk and starting yelling at everyone. How my mother would cry at times and take her hurt out on us kids. When the teacher asked me those questions, I would just look down.
Then she wanted to know about my pets. I just shook my head. To keep my teachers from noticing me, I did all my work. I made good grades, even in math. My report card was perfect, almost always, expect for one mark: “Does not participate in class discussions.” Not that my parents would notice.
The silent years went on and on. I often watched the other kids playing and laughing at recess. They stayed away from me and called me spooky. Ignoring them, I lost myself in books, reading everything I could. I read Nancy Drew and Harry Potter, and all the Narnia books. The characters and places in those books were more real to me than my everyday life. Was I escaping? A coward?
Who would ever notice me?