Jenna's Diaries: If Walls Could Talk

   I jump out of my skin, almost letting out a scream. Margaret sure knows how to make an exit. 

   OK. So that wasn’t the scenario I anticipated. Not the jumping-out-of-my-skin part. Or the almost-letting-out-a-scream part. But the Julia-taking-her-own-life part. 

   Margaret must have loved this girl. She sobbed as if she was her real mom and not a foster parent. And I ... watched. Great move, J. Ten points on kindness! 

   But it’s not my fault. She’s a stranger to me. A stranger who happens to my new foster mom, but still. I couldn’t hug her. I don’t really know her yet. I don’t even know why she chose me.

   Unless . . . unless Julia and I shared some kind of resemblance? That had to be it. That was the only explanation that made sense. We probably look like twins. Well, except for the fact that I’m ten pounds heavier. Which would make me ... an overweight sub for her fake dead daughter? I don’t know whether I should be insulted or flattered. I’m not sure I care enough to feel either way.

   I look around the room, trying to see whether it could give me some kind of information about Julia. Oh man, if walls could talk. What kind of stories could they tell me?

   Madonna is pouting at me with red lips and bleached hair. So Julia must have been a fan of Madonna. I wonder what else she was into. 

   How old was she anyway? And what kind of life did she lead? She probably had a story before committing suicide. Otherwise she wouldn’t have done it. I mean, ordinary people don’t just decide to kill themselves for no reason. They always have a reason. 

   At least that’s what they tell you in care. For instance, everybody thinks I tried to kill myself at ten years old and they think the reason I tried to do that is because I’m an orphan. But my social worker Sandra found me before it was "too late." That’s what she says. I asked her what I was going to be late for but she didn’t tell me. Instead, she said I needed to talk to someone. I told her I just had fun playing with the knife. She didn’t believe that. 

   I think most people don’t believe me when it comes to that stuff, because it’s not supposed to be "normal." But if I was someone who did normal things, I would just be like everyone else. And who wants to be like everyone else? So, this is why I don’t really care to be normal. I also don’t really care what people think. Because people don’t know what they’re talking about half of the time. 

   Like Gina my therapist said I’m still "harboring issues" from the time my mom died. But she’s wrong, because, A) My mom didn’t die, and B) I don’t really remember much about that time, on account of the fact that I was so young and all. I only remember how her breath stunk of whiskey a month before that. Gina said it’s not a coincidence that whiskey is the one alcoholic "beverage" I refuse to drink, but she’s wrong about that, too. It’s not true. I just prefer beer. And vodka. And maybe tequila. But so what? Whiskey has, like, barley and rye, and I hate the way that tastes.

   An hour flies by. I paint my toenails black. Another hour drags on.

   Old Marge hasn’t called me for dinner yet. I hope she didn’t go take her own life, too. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I think. Man, things can sure get awry when death is involved.

   I need a cigarette.