Shy Gal: An Introvert's Journey Through High School

By Franka Capuano

Bella is an introverted teenage girl who is about to enter her first year of high school. As nervous as she is, she feels confident, since she has the support of her extroverted friend, Mercedes, who has helped and guided her through grade school. But Bella's confidence is quickly shattered. Without any warning, Mercedes is moved to another class, and Bella is left on her own to deal with with all her insecurities and challenges. The biggest is being in the same class as a bully she has known since grade school, Brianna Mason, without her best friend and protector, Mercedes, by her side. Bella manages to navigate her experiences of being put on the spot by standing her ground in many unique, tense, yet humorous situations while befriending Izzy, the outcast girl she barely talked to in middle school. Bella must learn tolerance and patience with her new friend while often being hilariously whipped out of her comfort zone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228851288

Franka Capuano

I come from an Italian-Canadian family, and we have our share of extroverts! I have first-hand experience growing up introverted and have managed to navigate life, learning ways to embrace my shy personality. However, my younger years, especially the years I attended school, were the hardest that I have ever endured. I was often reminded that my shyness was an imperfection and that there was something wrong with me. I didn't know anyone who was like me and I often felt like an outcast. It wasn't until years later that I learned being introverted isn't all that bad! After all, we're creative—you have to be when you're trying to get your point across to an extroverted world. We're observant—wouldn't we make great star witnesses in a trial? And we're unique—wouldn't it be boring to live in a world of extroverts? They would all be fighting for the spotlight at the same time! As I grew older, I learned ways to communicate better with all sorts of people, and now I feel more confident than ever.I want teenagers to know that things will get easier and not to obsess about what other people's opinions are of them. We are also living in age of technology that allows us to be more secure by keeping ourselves anonymous whenever we feel the need to be.

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Shy Gal

An Introvert’s Journey

through High School

Franka Capuano

Shy Gal

Copyright © 2021 by Franka Capuano

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-5127-1 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-5126-4 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-5128-8 (eBook)

To Andrea and Matthew - my greatest inspirations

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Prologue

She’s a shy little gal, my grandpa used to tell his friends as he patted me on my head each time he met up with them along the way to the corner store. It was a ritual. Every Saturday, he would take me along with him to buy his weekly lottery tickets for Saturday night’s Super Big Six draw. Afterwards, we would all sit on the patio at the Italian bakery, and he would buy me a biscotti while he and his friends chatted about the old country, the weather, food, wine, and especially, the horse races.

Jessie’s Boots (or whatever horse he bet on that week at the races) was set to win! he yelled, as he banged his fist on the table. The table shook and I held my ginger ale to keep it from spilling, but I watched as waves of his coffee and his friends’ coffee spilled out onto the table and streamed down onto the cobblestone tiles. I put my whole mortgage payment on that damn horse! he would yell. I guess, even at a young age, I kind of noticed that my grandpa had a slight gambling problem.

As soon as the table was steady, I would dip my hand into my pocket, pull out my freshly picked dandelion flowers and arrange them into the glass vases that sat on each outdoor table. My grandpa’s conversations with his friends seemed to last forever, alternating from Italian and back to broken English. Every now and then, Louie and his friend Tony, would turn to me and notice me sitting there quietly and say, Aww. Why you no talk, little doll? We don’t bite.

Chapter 1

My name is Bella Conte and I am an introvert.

Most of my life I have been called every variation of the word, like shy, reserved, timid, bashful, anti-social, socially challenged, and the ever-popular loner.

She’s so shy. Why is she so shy? Can’t she talk?

Now, let us clarify here. Even though people often refer to an introvert as being shy, technically, any person can be shy in certain situations, like dancing, for instance, or asking out a girl or a guy out on a date, or public speaking, even if they are extroverted. That is where the confusion lies and that’s also why introverts prefer being called introverts and not just shy—but try telling that to the rest of the world.

Don’t get me wrong: life would be so much easier if I wasn’t an introvert. I could freely ask the bus driver for directions to the new mall without him singling me out by yelling, What!? Speak louder! Which mall are you talking about!? I could ask for extra ketchup for my fries at McDonald’s without being ignored and hearing them say Next!" to the person behind me. I could answer a question in class without the teacher asking me at least ten times to speak up because she or he or the rest of the class can’t hear me. It’s happened, trust me. Those times, I just want to sink into the floor, wall, table, curtains, bushes, flower bed, driveway—basically, whatever happens to be closest to me.

So that brings me to this bright, crisp mid-September morning at precisely 8:00 a.m. I’m standing in front of my closet, staring blankly at my clothes and deciding what to wear for my dreaded first day of high school. I glance over to my night table where my dusty inspirational journal sits and recall what I wrote in it before falling asleep last night: Be strong tomorrow. Act invisible. Everything will work out.

Okay, I could have added more to my entry, like maybe a few flowers with funny faces on them to give myself a little more of an optimistic push, but stress, then sleepiness won me over last night, and, well, here I am now.

What’s up, girl?! I hear the familiar greeting coming from outside my bedroom door. Before I can walk over to let my friend Mercedes in, the door bursts open. There she stands, wearing a button-up jean skirt, a purple tie-dyed T-shirt, and black fishnet stockings with black lace-up army boots. She does a little turn and says, What do you think?

Oh . . . okay? I say, looking her up and down and questioning her choice of clothing for the first day of school.

What? I feel comfortable in this. It took me a full five seconds to pick this out. Do you like my nails? she asks, waving her fingers in front of my face.

Sure, cute, I answer, noticing the little white skulls stuck over her black, glittery nail polish. I guess they go with your outfit.

Wear this and this, she says, plucking out the first two pieces of clothing she sees in my closet and whipping them toward my bed.

I can’t wear a brown sweater and black leggings. Those colours don’t even go together.

Sure, they do, she says. Anything goes together if you wear it in the right way. Look at the leopard, she says. If you will notice, its spotted fur is composed of black and brown. It wears the same thing every single day of its life. Does it complain? she asks, tilting her head. No other creatures would dare make fun of it or they would be torn to shreds. Be a leopard today.

Do I look like a leopard to you? I am not about to wear anything that even resembles leopard print. Next thing I know, I’ll be wearing things out of my grandma’s closet.

Hey, you say that like it’s a bad thing. Your grandma dresses so cool.

Uh, maybe to another sixty-year-old, I answer.

Make fun of her all you want, but I bet she’s getting more action than my dad is these days. He’s worn the same lumber jacket for the last ten years!

Mercedes bounces onto my bed. Hurry up and get dressed, she says, or we’re going to be late!

Since when do you care about being late? I’m the one that hates being stared at . . . you know, because of my—

You worry too much. No one is even going to notice you or remember how shy you were in middle school. This is the year to make a new start.

Mercedes, I say, I’m still introverted. I can’t see how starting a new school is going to make any difference. Besides, there will still be a lot of kids from our middle school going to Lakeview High.

You walk in with your head up high and turn to the class and say, ‘What’s up, everyone?’ while holding up your middle finger to everyone—you know, figuratively speaking.

You may have guessed by now that Mercedes is my extroverted friend. I met her when I was eight years old. I remember one of the first things I said to her when we were standing together in the schoolyard was that I liked her pretty dark skin, and she said she liked my string bracelets because they looked like a bunch of crazy little raccoons made them. Looking back now, I guess that was meant to be more of an insult than a compliment, but Mercedes said it so nicely that I really couldn’t tell the difference at the time.

Actually, to this day, jewellery-making is still one of my hobbies, but I like to think my creations have advanced in looks and quality from the time Mercedes first admired them.

This one’s for you, I say, as I hand Mercedes my newest handmade beaded bracelet. I made it especially for today.

Thanks, she says, slipping it over her hand. I love the beads. So freakin’ crude.

That may have been another insult, but I’m never really sure with Mercedes.

All through elementary school, Mercedes was my voice, from the time I sat in front of her in second grade, and I was her private sounding board during recess when kids made fun of her height. She’s always been tall for her age. Even now, she’s five-ten in flats and I’m five-three in my favourite wedged shoes. So yes, she’s tall. I’m short. She’s outgoing; I’m, well, ingoing. She’s smart; I’m, well, average, I guess, with the potential to be smart. Grandma keeps telling me if I studied harder in school, I could be really smart and achieve my dream of becoming a veterinarian one day, since my passion is animals.

Also, Mercedes is a meat eater, and I’ve been vegan ever since I saw those awful videos on the internet about the overcrowding of chickens to the point where they barely have room to stand in their cages. Grandma begged me not to go vegan. She even promised to only buy free-range chicken and organic meat going forward, but my mind was already made up.

Despite our differences, I’m grateful Mercedes was there to help me through elementary school and middle school.

Let Bella speak for herself! Miss Doherty would tell Mercedes each time she answered questions that were directed to me.

She said the answer was the beaver, Mercedes fired back. That’s the national animal for Canada. You just didn’t hear her, Miss Doo-doo. Maybe you should get your ears cleaned.

My name is Miss Do-her-ty! the teacher shouted back in frustration. My hearing is just fine and I expect you to pronounce my name properly!

I said, ‘Miss Doo-doo,’ she replied each time.

The class, predictably, would burst out in laughter. I don’t know how I would have made it without Mercedes by my side during those times.

Oh crap, look at the time! I say. We really are going to be late!

Don’t stress, Mercedes says. It was worth spending that extra time so you could find the right thing to wear. Jeans and a T-shirt always work together—and maybe you can accessorize with your grandma’s leopard-print kerchief, she adds in a small voice, while bending down to swipe the kerchief off my floor. "How did this end up in your room, anyway?

Who knows? The cat probably dragged it in. Come to think of it, my grandma’s been looking for that kerchief.

Mercedes dusts off the cat hair and looks at the kerchief. I know! she shouts. Let’s twist it around your backpack. It’ll be barely noticeable and this little leopard print accent will be the strength you need for the day!

If you asked me if I was a little freaked out about agreeing to the leopard-print kerchief tied around my bag since I am currently under sixty years old, I would say, Hell, yes! but who would I be to argue with one of the best artists I know and my fashion advisor since childhood? That’s right, Mercedes (who was given her name by her once-united parents, is actually named after the place in which she was conceived) is talented at drawing, painting, sculpting and design, not to mention gifted at the unique art of convincing people like me to wear things they wouldn’t normally wear. And though my grandma will probably have a conniption when she comes home from work and notices my bedroom floor piled with clothes, complete with my ever-shedding cat Larry sitting comfortably on top of the heap, I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that I’ve achieved the daunting task of getting dressed for the first day of high school with my best friend by my side.

I guess, since I’ve mentioned my grandma a few times already, this is a good time to mention that I live with my grandma in a small bungalow in Etobicoke, which is a suburb of Toronto. Unfortunately, my grandpa, Giuseppe, died five years ago from a heart attack. I miss him so much—especially those walks to the corner store and sitting on the patio at the Italian bakery. I even miss the way he used to pound his fist and cuss when the horses lost at the racetrack. Poor Grandma. She tried to urge him to give up smoking, drinking and gambling, but it was not meant to be. I like to think of him in heaven, smiling and celebrating each time his horse wins. My grandma is like a mom to me, but then, she’s not. As cool as my grandma is, I miss my mom and dad every day. The short version is that seven years ago, while coming back from a dinner date, a drunk driver side-swiped their car. They were killed instantly. I never got to say goodbye, hug them, kiss them, or tell them how much I love them, but they are in my heart every minute of every day.

Which brings me to my grandma’s angel obsession. She has them everywhere, inside and outside the house. There are main-floor angels. There are hallway angels. There are bedroom angels. There are bathroom angels. There are stair angels. There are basement angels. There are closet angels. There are patio angels and backyard-fountain angels. I swear, she’d put angels on the roof if she could. She says they bring her closer to the people she’s lost. And God forbid if you touch, move or break any of her angels, she will make you pay for it by having to hear one of her horrible, never-ending, guilt-inducing lectures. Her favourites, however, are the bronze Grandpa angel with the bent wing and crooked cane, and the two beautiful white marble Mom and Dad angels. She had those angels especially made. They all sit on full display on the main level of the house near the front entrance.

Shhh . . . I once moved the Grandpa angel while I was plugging in my phone to charge it. Grandpa Giuseppe fell off the table and he cracked his back. Thankfully, Mercedes helped me fix it. She patched the crack and spray-painted it with matching bronze paint. Grandma hasn’t noticed yet, and I hope she never will.

But for now, it’s our little secret.

Chapter 2

You know that warm and fuzzy feeling you get when you think everything is going to work out because you have the support of your best friend at your side? Well, that feeling completely deserted me the second I walked into homeroom class. Forget deserted. That warm feeling couldn’t have turned colder if it had taken a direct flight to Antarctica and landed on the coldest, iciest, bleakest, harshest, frostiest spot on the whole continent!

Long story short: Mercedes was one of a handful of students who were sent down the hall to another ninth-grade homeroom class. This, apparently, was because of some administrative screw-up that