pickle

a short story

Picture day. The one day of the year where everyone’s expected to look their absolute best, and naturally, I find myself in a bit of a pickle.

This morning, I stared into the mirror, desperately trying to convince myself that everything was fine. Except for the bump. Right there, smack in the middle of my forehead. Big enough that it could probably be seen on a satellite image from space. I poked at it—a bad habit, I know.

Nope. That bad boy wasn’t going anywhere. I sighed.

Great.

The bump was just the tip of the iceberg. The cherry on top of my issues. My skin was its usual weird shade of yellow-green, like it couldn’t quite make up its mind. People at school like to make fun of me sometimes, and some even go as far as to wrinkle their noses, as if I’d chosen to look like this on purpose.

I’ve always found my appearance a little… crunchy. A pimple today, a sharp ridge here, a little round there, and a little "pickly" everywhere. People love pointing out my flaws like they’re the most interesting thing about me. That’s all anyone seems to notice when they look at me.

As I hopped onto the school bus, this giant unicorn of a bump on my forehead leading the way, today, they were really looking.

Not even settled into my seat, I heard someone mutter, “Hey, looking a little green today. You sick or something? And what’s up with that huge bump?” My cheeks flushed and my hands went to their default, cold and slimy. All I wanted was to disappear into my hoodie. How much longer until we get to school?

The short ride felt like a never-ending eternity.

I managed to zone out until it was time for pictures, but I could feel the laser-like stares. Everyone around me looked effortlessly picture-perfect. Hair neatly combed, skin smooth, wearing colors that made them glow golden under the gym lights—like they had a permanent Instagram filter. Meanwhile, I felt like a walking highlighter—yellow, green, and apparently glowing for all the wrong reasons.

I tried to hide the bump as I sat down for my turn. The photographer barely glanced at me. “Tilt your head! Chin down! Smile, but not too much!” The camera flashed, and I knew right then that this picture would haunt me for the rest of the year.

A few kids behind me snickered. I could hear them whispering. “Classic Pickle…”

It stung. Not because I didn’t expect it, but because I’d spent so much time worrying about what other people thought of me. Whether it was the bump on my forehead or the weird, yellow-greenish tint of my skin, there was always something. I wasn’t like everyone else—and they made sure I knew it.

But then something clicked. Why was I letting them get to me? Why was I so focused on this one little bump—or my odd skin tone?

I turned to the photographer.

“Can we do that again?”

He raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Sure.”

This time, I sat up straighter. No more hiding behind my hoodie. No more slouching to blend in. I didn’t care if my skin was an odd color or if my forehead was bumpy. Maybe I wasn’t smooth or polished, but I was me.

The camera flashed again, and this time, I smiled—a real smile. Not because I wanted to be like everyone else, but because I didn’t have to be.

As I got up, I walked past the crowd. Let them stare. Let them make their little comments. At the end of the day, they didn’t have to like me. I’m not meant for everyone, and that’s okay.

Because not everyone likes pickles.

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