I was 18, I was introduced to a girl named Marissa. She was the 20-year-old daughter of our church pastor. I'd been hanging out with people older than myself practically my whole life, thanks to having a brother who was 4 years my senior. So needless to say, I was not in awe or anything. But I was extremely lonely, having moved about 150 miles away from my family and friends a few months earlier. I physically met Marissa at church one Sunday. As soon as she started to come over, I could feel myself backing away. And to this day, I still hate myself for it, but I am not in denial about my feelings. I instantly knew that I would rather continue hanging out with my little brothers in our dangerously sloping, bee-infested front yard all summer than be friends with this girl.

     Marissa had long, wavy, slightly frizzy black hair. She had brown puppy eyes and wore black framed glasses. On her left cheek, she had a brown mole. And very white teeth. Her torso was short and wide. Her legs ended abruptly right before her kneecaps, making her look shorter and wider than she should have been. She rolled her wheelchair over to me and smiled shyly. I put on a smile and said hello. My step-mother has always been a very controlling individual. You really just don't argue with her, especially if you love your father and you all have to live under the same roof together. So when she decided to introduce me to Marissa and raved about what good friends we were going to be, who was I to tell her that that wasn't going to happen? Before you begin to think that my step-mother is the monster in this tale, I should explain that she volunteered for Special Olympics every year. So she was used to dealing with

     We all like to think we're good people. But since that summer, I've come to terms with my reality. I'm NOT a good person.

     The first incident I recall making an excuse not to see Marissa was shortly after we met. Her little brothers and mine were good friends and she was having them over to her apartment for a sleepover. My step-mother joyfully suggested that I tag along and keep Marissa company. I think I ended up staying home that night after going into gross detail about how bad my period was that week. At this time, I don't recollect if I even actually had my period.

I was forced into social situations with Marissa, but pretty much tried to ignore any kind of "bond" that was supposed to be forming between us. I was unfairly sent to Vacation Bible Camp, this time under the guise of keeping an eye on my brothers, the youngest of which was 4 at the time. It was 3 days of hell. I felt like I had nothing in common with Marissa. I couldn't relate at all to her situation and was tired of being embarrassed by hanging around someone in a wheelchair. I really am a bad person.

     My friend from back home, Cassy, decided she was coming up to see me that fall. I was super excited and for weeks, didn't think about the crippled girl at all. Until the day before Cass was supposed to show up. My step-mother and I had been going, every Monday, to Mary Kay meetings in town and getting makeovers. It was a lot of fun and I decided it would be funny to take Cassy to one. (Which turned out to be a horrible idea on my part, but that's another story.) So of course, what does my step-mother say when I mention that I'm taking Cass to the meeting?

     "Why don't you invite Marissa too?"

     When my step-mother got home, I explained, in my best "what a shame" voice that Marissa had called me and told me that something had come up and she wouldn't be able to go with us that night. Pity. I proceeded to have to a great week with Cassy.

     Up until Saturday night, I didn't give the situation another though. Until my step-mother mentioned going to church the next morning. I began to panic. It's bad enough to lie, it's worse to be caught in it, and it's the worst to be found out to be a prejudice asshole. I honestly don't remember at all how I diffused the situation, but I do remember that I prevented it from blowing up in my face. That doesn't make me feel any better about it. I still know what happened.

     I'm not writing this for pity. Or to have people write in a tell me that I'm not really a bad person. Go ahead, tell me I'm a bitch. I'm not writing this for any reason, really, other than to get some thoughts off my chest. My opinion of society as a whole is pretty low, but I've never claimed to be morally staked in fixing it. Quite on the contrary, I enjoy watching the chaos and adding to it every now and then. But I'm no sociopath. I still have a conscience. It just doesn't pertain to certain things. Personal fear overrides logic every time.

     Moral or immoral, what's done is done. And I refuse to repent and say that I'd never do anything like that again. Because I would in a heartbeat. It was not just some immature act. It is a genuine, deep-rooted fear for me. I'm sorry, Jonathon. I know you're different and that must be hard for you. But I can't relate and I'm afraid of you. I'm just another bad person.