Thursday, April 4, 2013

D is for Dominique

When I moved half across the country to California a few years ago, one of the first friends I made was a girl who sat next to me in cooking class, which meant she was automatically my cooking partner, and was in my PE class as well. She wasn't a special or close friend, by any means, but it meant I could chat with her about random things like the weather, school, and not much else without it sounding awkward. I had spent my whole life studying at a private school, and so when I went to a public school in California, I was, shall we say, surprised. I'd never seen an actual emo person in my life. And innocent, naive 12 -year-old me would never have recognized the difference between an emo and a normal person. Not that emos are not normal people, but, come on, emos look like they want to kill themselves. Luckily, this Dominique was not an emo. She was just one of those individuals who rebelled against society, did things her own way, and dressed in a grunge-chic kind of style. Her hair was green. But there was also a girl in my class with red hair, and one with orange hair, and this boy with purple hair, and another with a mohawk, shaved on the sides and spiked up with an absurd amount of gel in the middle, which, believe me, I'd never seen in Massachusetts. So it was like the whole overly-bizarre family would be spending the semester with me, meaning Dominique didn't stick out too much. Actually, it was more like I was the one who stuck out. First, I couldn't remember her name. Dominique. Now where had I heard that? It sounded like a country. Maybe there was a Dominique Republic. (Googled it two seconds ago. There is a Dominique Republic) I'm not making fun of her name, as mine isn't the easiest to pronounce or remember either, but I simply could not remember her name. I was intimidated by her - she wore too much black, and people with colored hair always intimidate me, like they could just turn around and pull a gun out on you. Gangsters dye their hair. Gangsters write on walls and throw green beer bottles on the ground and swear excessively. Gangsters give me the creeps. Also, I am not stereotypical. But she was cool, cool here meaning not too bad - normal, instead of street slang cool. I wonder if this Dominique remembers me. I wonder if she still has an impression of me. And believe me, this is day 4 and I'm regretting this. It's draining me of ideas.