Sherman Oaks Middle School is the demon of my past that will never be erased from my mind and will forever be engraved in my memory as the worst years of my life. 

One would think that if you’re a rich girl living in Calabasas you would have it easy, right? Well, my friend, then you are in for a shock. Not only is this lucky person you are reading about pretty comfortable, but she also has caramel skin and naturally thick jet black hair which is a real shock. The Regina George of California. I will start from the beginning of my terrible school years that I wish I could forget, but sadly they will never be erased. In middle school I had always had a few bullies but I had two times the amount of friends than I did bullies. Middle school had never been something I looked forward to spending 235 days at, but school was school, and you can’t escape it whether you like it or not. I never liked middle school even when I had friends, and most of them were fake anyways. They were money friends who leaped at the chance to go to my exclusive birthday bash or my fancy country clubs with other wealthy kids. 

As soon as your life turned upside down or problems occurred, these friends were nowhere to be seen. In middle school I had a lot of fake friends, and knowing that for a fact hurt my feelings. Another reason I always hated it is that I lack any physical strength and am the clumsiest kid on the planet earth. Middle school also brought the rise of pranks, so naturally I was the victim of most of them, and it was becoming pretty normal that I would walk into the bathroom and see straws in my hair because people wanted to see if they could stand up in the forest that is my head. With middle school wrapped up though, I thought that high school would be easier since everyone would grow to be more mature and girls would stop being petty so I could finally blend in with the crowd rather than being a target. Even with all of my optimistic beliefs, unfortunately nothing changed in high school. If I thought middle school was bad, I definitely was not prepared for the hurricane that is called 9th grade. 

I got bullied immensely, no exaggeration. Those fake friends ditched me for others that were as shallow as they were. I got clumsier and clumsier and became the laughing stock of school, if I wasn’t already. 

Although all of this was terrible, I still was probably the smartest kid in my grade, was on the honor roll, and excelled at swimming and won various awards. I never really cared what anyone thought of me. Although I had a hard time, I still had some friends. 

My only real goal in school was to get into Harvard since it was my parents’ alma mater. Fast-forwarding one year later, I’m in the 11th grade, spring is in full bloom. School is much better now that I decided to finally take matters into my own hands. By the end of the 10th grade I had decided that I was not putting up with people’s shenanigans and hatefulness anymore. Over the summer, I learned how to drive and got myself a nice Aston-Martin. I realized that my wardrobe was mostly from 8th grade since that’s when I stopped growing, so I bought some new clothes that made me feel good and look good as well. I also found ways to style my hair that made me happy. I still have people that are mean to me, but I have a lot more friends — real ones too. All the kids that bullied me in 9th grade and middle school, shout-out to them because they helped me realize that they were all just jealous of my money, beauty, and smarts. They helped me realize that I should own my unique look with pride. The clumsiness is better to, a few ballet classes will do you wonders. I have developed my own style and am now the trendsetter at school. 

I am at my prime, but like all things, good times never last. It was at this point in time that my life took a drastic turn. I was out in the yard with my golden retriever Toby. It was an early Saturday morning in May, and the dew was still settled on the plants. We were playing fetch in the pollinated garden of my house, and Toby was trampling the flowers with his over the top energy. I was about to throw the ball again when I heard my mother’s shrill scream. I rushed inside and saw my father’s limp body on the floor. The next few hours were 911 calls and paramedics rushing into the house, surgeries, crying — lots of it, and doctors kept repeating it was an undiagnosed organ failure. My mother was hysterical, screaming at them to do something, while me, I felt helpless and stuck in my own world. I distinctly heard words like undiagnosed, heart attack, unexpected, and coma. We stayed late into the night, and visiting hours were almost over. I gave dad a kiss on the cheek saying that I would see him tomorrow.

Except the next day, my dad passed away at 10:56 in his sleep. We were at church when he finally decided to leave this world without even saying goodbye to us.

When my mother got the text alert from the doctor that my dad wasn’t responding, she rushed out the church door in an instant. My mother told me to stay at church so that nothing looked suspicious.

When I got the text alert from mom to come to the hospital, my heart started racing. I got out of the pew as fast as I could, pushing past the elderly ladies dressed in bright rainbows and pastels who gave me looks of disgust. I got inside my Aston-Martin and broke numerous traffic laws, but all that mattered was getting to my dying father. I rushed inside the hospital, not bothering to check in with the front desk. When I saw my father on his deathbed, I began to sob. He looked different from when I last saw him in the house. He looked life less, and when I held his hand it was cold, not even a trace of warmth. He looked feeble and weak, unlike the man I remember who never hesitated when I wanted to go to an amusement park and was always there whenever I was injured.

My mother was bawling, and through her sobs, she said, “It’s time to say good-bye.” 

I approached my father and looked at him, not wanting my last memory of him to include tubes sticking out of his nose and a hospital gown instead of his regular dapper tuxedo.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek, whispering “I love you, Dad.”

After I said my goodbyes, no fewer than two minutes later, the lifeline went flat, and my mother’s sobs got louder. I don’t remember anything after that, only the sadness that filled my bones and the hole in my heart realizing that my father was gone. 

The ground got closer and closer and closer. My mind was on autopilot as I fell towards my father’s death bed.

Darkness.

The next few months were hazy. I finished junior year with sky high grades. All the parents were there to celebrate their children who made it on the honor roll except mine, because one was planning the other one’s funeral. I got support messages all over Instagram from people I didn’t even know because everyone knows when a wealthy person dies. 

My friends took me on a trip to Disney World to keep my mind off of things, but the only thing I could think of was when I was seven and my dad bought me another ice cream when I cried about how the first one fell and how we laughed when my mom was scared on Space Mountain. Finally the day arrived, July 1st, my dad’s birthday, the day he would be laid to rest in his hometown of Seattle. My mother and I walked side by side in our morbid black attire, trying not to cry. Throughout the whole funeral, I heard people claiming to know my father; but they’ll never know the real him.I looked at the church pews full of people dressed in the merciless, dull, depressing color black. I thought about the elderly ladies’ colorful church outfits and how the vibrant colors signified their joy and happiness. Sometimes I wish my life were like their outfits. Colorful, carefree, vivacious, vibrant, joyful. Instead of the black cloud that hovered over my life.