Why is everyone looking at me that way? I can't put my finger [sic] on it, but there's a look in their eyes today. Everywhere I go it's the same. Something about the way they smile . . . but those aren't smiles . . . why is everyone smirking? It isn't natural. Why do I feel like a freak? Is there something in my teeth [sic]? Maybe my skirt [sic] is tucked in my underwear [sic] again?
No. It's something else . . . I can feel it . . . I know it. Here comes a little old lady. I'll ask her, because little old ladies are always . . . wait . . . she's smiling, too. That same gruesome, frightening not-a-smile . . . why is this happening? Run.
Safe. They can't see me here. I'll wait until dark, then hightail [sic] it out of here. Go south, where the weather suits my clothes [sic]. Maybe dye my hair [sic] before I stop at that little restaurant at the edge of town. No one will notice me then.
I wonder what's on the menu.