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Julia Broughton

Prof. Geiselman

English 1101-01

14 September 2018
Tentative First Steps

“Can I sit here?” I asked softly. The six girls eyed me like I was an extraterrestrial from

outer space. Their eyes shifted toward each other. I could sense a silent conversation unfolding

between them. It probably went something like: oh my gosh, it’s that weird girl. Should we let

her sit here? I mean, she’s pitiful. She looks so lonely. If we don’t let her sit here, she’ll just walk

away rejected. We’ll look like horrible people.

“Sure,” replied a girl. I sensed a tone of obligation. She didn’t smile at me either—none

of them did. Oh well, I sighed inwardly as I sat down, at least they’re letting me sit here. I guess

it’ll have to be enough, friendliness or not. Just as I expected, they turned their backs to me and

ignored me the rest of lunch. The cacophony of chatter in the lunchroom carried on, but I let it all

blend together into a distant hum. I stared at my food and silently screamed. Why does no one

want me? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I make friends like everyone else? I let my mind

carry me back to the beginning of school and contemplated how it led to me sitting lonely and

depressed at a table of happy people.

Some people loved the first day of school. I didn’t. I suppose for those who had friends,

the first day of school brought feelings of excitement and anticipation. For me, an extreme

introvert, it brought feelings of dread and terror. The first day of sixth grade was no different.

The moment I walked into my homeroom, I felt like a gladiator walking into an arena to face my

impending doom. My armor was scant: boxy khaki shorts and clunky purple sandals. I was the
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spectacle. My classmates swiveled their heads toward me, taking on the role of the attentive

crowd. The little confidence I had shriveled up and died.

That first day, introductions were made, rules were set out, and get-to-know-you games

were played. It really wasn’t all that bad—until lunchtime. Shyness was not a good quality to

have in a noisy middle school cafeteria. The school was supposed to pair new kids with veteran

students to make them feel comfortable and welcome. My partner was a tallish girl with honey

brown hair, dark eyes, and a tan complexion. She seemed nice enough but disinterested in her

task of taking care of me, the awkward new girl. As soon as we arrived at the lunchroom, she

craned her neck toward a table in the back. I watched her eyes light up as she spotted a group

who I guessed were her friends. Then, to my distress, she skipped off to meet them, leaving me

to stand alone in that big, noisy lunchroom. The greasy smell of fries and burgers wrapped

around my nose and beckoned me to step deeper into the room. As I tentatively walked through

the lunchroom, my heart pounded. What table should I sit at? Would I be able to find a table?

How do I introduce myself? When I finally spotted a table of three girls, I let out a sigh of relief,

sat down, and tried to disappear. This charade continued for a couple of months. I would find a

small table to sit at during lunch and try to be as quiet as possible. It was effective in not being

noticed but detrimental to my few and futile efforts to make friends.

My recess experience wasn’t much better than my lunch experience. The playground was

large, and everyone seemed to be playing with someone—except me. I would forlornly walk the

perimeter of it, desperately hoping no one would notice me—yet at the same time, silently

begging for someone to invite me to come play with them. One day, after a few weeks of

wandering without a purpose, I mustered up the courage to join a rowdy kickball game. It didn’t

last long. I had long ago convinced myself I wasn’t good at sports, and the entire time I played,
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people stared at me with a mixture of annoyance and pity. I couldn’t blame them. I was a

horrible kicker. All of my balls stubbornly went the opposite direction of where they were

supposed to go. Eventually, I stopped trying and retreated to the edges of the playground once

more. In doing so, I also retreated to the edge of sixth-grade society. While others were having

fun, I watched sadly from the sidelines I had confined myself too. As summer faded into autumn

and leaves began falling from the trees, leaving behind bare, stark, lonely limbs, I started to

imagine myself akin to that tree. Bare of friends, stark days ahead, and so, so lonely.

My wake-up call came in the form of an unassuming piece of paper on the kitchen

counter. I had gone to the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge when I saw the little slip on the

gleaming granite countertop. I read it with an innocent curiosity and realized it was a form my

Mom had filled out for parent-teacher conferences. I knew mine would go well, as my grades

were stellar. Imagine my surprise when I read what was written at the bottom of the paper. Do

you have any concerns for your child? Written on the lines in my mom’s strong block print were

just three words: “lack of friends.” My heart sank, and my cheeks warmed in embarrassment,

even though no one was watching. As I stood there, I set back my shoulders and lifted my head. I

told myself something had to change. If I was going to have a good year at school, I needed to

make friends, no matter how uncomfortable and awkward the process was.

Days turned into weeks, and each time I sat down at that table of six girls, the less scary it

became for me, and the less awkward for them. I tried to be as friendly as possible, and they

started warming up to me, little by little, like ice cubes melting under the heat of the sun. The

girls began smiling and talking to me about SpongeBob, food, school, and just about everything

else. A month later, as I was laughing with the girls at a joke one of them had made, it hit me that

I was becoming friends with them. At the beginning of the year, I had watched them from a
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distance, longing to join in their laughter, and now I was. I enjoyed their company, and in turn,

they had begun enjoying mine. I smiled so wide that my cheeks protested, and my heart swelled

like a supernova threatening to burst with happiness.

That year, I learned a valuable lesson about friendship. It takes initiative and courage to

offer your companionship to another person—or persons. I had worried that I wasn’t making

friends because I was unlikeable and people didn’t want me. I was wrong. Yes, I was unlikeable,

but it was because I had made myself appear that way. I was so afraid to talk and interact with

people that they began to think I didn’t want friends. Those girls were just as apprehensive about

taking that first step as I was. It had to start with me. Good things—good things that last—don’t

come quickly or easily. Valuable and rewarding friendships are the ones you pursue

wholeheartedly, not the ones that casually fall into place.