Dear Bully (11 page)

I lowered my head. The compliment didn’t make it through the curtain. It plopped at my feet like a pickled biology frog.

“I like my hair like this” is what I said.
I left out the word
need
.
“I’m going to grow it as long as I can and you can’t stop me.”
It helps me hide. Believe me, Mom, if I had what it took to grow a beard and a mustache, I probably would.

If only.

But I didn’t say this, either. Shame has bound my truth and stolen away my words. How do you tell your mother you’ve become a target, a loser, a failure, a lunchtime joke?

I’m pretty sure the girl I used to be is still lurking somewhere inside my head. But her voice has been crushed into a squeak, a whisper . . . a breath above silence. Funny— inside the curtain, my thoughts roar like thunderbolts. But thoughts just aren’t enough to make
them
go away. And whispers are never heard. And squeaks are for mice.

The bell rings. I jump to my feet and dart out of the cafeteria, hidden behind my veil of hair, silent as a ghost. If only I could have known then what I know now (now that I’ve arrived safely, but not without battle scars, on the other side).

That one day soon, words won’t be weapons. Instead, they’ll become friends.

That one day soon, those inner thunderbolts will crash mightily overhead.

That one day soon, being different from
them
will be a gift.

That one day soon, it won’t matter what
they
think.

Or say.

That one day soon, the beautiful girl hiding behind the curtain will be strong enough to step out into the light.

If only I could tell myself to just hold on until then.

Hold on.

Regret

The Eulogy of Ivy O’Conner
by Sophie Jordan

As senior class president, it’s my
duty
honor to say some words on the life of Ivy O’Conner.

Ivy attended our high school since
freshman
sophomore year, and although
I never spoke to her
we weren’t the closest friends, I remember
everyone making fun of
her. How can anyone forget
Creepy
Ivy? I’ll always think of her with
guilt
fondness.

Students were always
teasing
complimenting her about her
acne
eyes. She had
a funny mothball smell
a way about her, too. Everyone
talked about
noticed her. She had such a creative personality. I remember
her doodling stupid little shapes on her notebooks
she was a great artist. She loved
the flute the clarinet
music.

Not everyone was nice to her
. Not everyone understood her.
Creepy
Ivy was so
strange different
unique. Whenever she was called on in class, you could count on her to say the
weirdest
most thought-provoking words. Even the teachers
laughed
looked forward to hearing her thoughts. She was
a freak
an advocate for protecting the environment. She
wasted
devoted a lot of time to that
crap
stuff.

Creepy
Ivy wasn’t your average
nut job
girl walking the halls of our high school. The girl had
no
style. In my mind, I still see her in that
heinous
lovely green sweater. She was so
unaware when people did mean things to her
tolerant of others.

We might not have known what we had in her, but we will never forget her. We don’t know what could have prompted her to take her life, but I wish . . .

I wish I could have stopped her. . . .

Regret
by Lisa Yee

I learned a lot in elementary school, like fractions, linking verbs, and that the capital of Iowa is Des Moines. From time to time, our class even performed plays. It was fun wearing a costume and pretending to be someone else. However, the real drama took place on the playground. It was a festering cesspool of innuendo and gossip. . . .

“Sarah hates Liz.”

“Jenny loves Tim.”

“Andy ate his boogers again.”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t too dramatic, and the gossip was minor. Still, there was something thrilling about whispering about others, although it was miserable when you were the one being talked about or teased.

I made it through elementary school relatively unscathed compared to what some others went through. The most torment I received had to do with my height. I was short. (I still am.) Everyone seemed to find this funny, and kids, including those who were only a millimeter taller than I, made it a point to call me names.

Shrimp.

Shorty.

Midget.

Putting someone down was a sport. Like dodgeball, it could be fun or scary, depending on where you stood. However, instead of balls being hurled at you, it was insults. If you were lucky, eventually the teasing would move on to someone else and you could exhale.

The entire school must have released a collective sigh of relief the day that Madge Cutler came to town. In our middle class suburb on the outskirts of Los Angeles, we didn’t get many new kids. Like all my friends, my family had two cars and we lived in a tract home that was within earshot of our neighbors. Except for the slightly varying colors of paint from the same tasteful palette, every fourth house looked just like the other.

Soon enough word spread that the new girl lived in an apartment near the shopping center. Madge was too tall, boney, and the palest person I had ever seen. Her hair was stringy and the color of dust, and she kept it in a ponytail, which only served to accentuate her gaunt face. However, it was more than looks that set Madge apart. Maybe it was the way she hunched over, or the fact that she wore the same brown plaid dress with a frayed collar almost every day. Then there was the matter of her name. My classmates answered to the likes of Linda and Susan and Sandy. “Madge” sounded like a name that belonged to someone’s aunt.

I’m not sure when it started or who started it. Before Madge arrived, all the teasing had been buckshot. Making fun of someone here and there. It didn’t last long, and it wasn’t too mean, and it certainly wasn’t organized. However, when Madge appeared on the scene it was as if she wore a giant target on her chest and everyone took aim. No one ever physically hit her—we were too civilized for that. Instead we used our words.

There was something about her that empowered even the quiet kids to say mean things. Perhaps Madge’s crime was that she was different. She was poor and acted the part. One afternoon I was with friends at Thrifty’s drugstore getting a pistachio ice cream cone when we spotted Madge and her brother. They were dragging big stuffed pillowcases. Behind them was a woman who looked tired. It took us a while to figure out that they were going to the Laundromat. If Madge saw us, she didn’t say anything. However, we dutifully told everyone that we saw her.

Then there was the time when a bunch of kids were playing on the monkey bars. When it was Madge’s turn, her dress blew up. If this happened to any of the other girls, it would be no big deal. We knew enough to wear shorts under our dresses, but apparently no one had informed Madge about the dress code. There was a stunned silence. Then, all at once, everyone broke out laughing so loud that it rang across the playground. Not only was she not wearing shorts but her underwear was worn
over
her tights. That gave us enough ammunition to last for a week.

On another day, Madge walked into the classroom with her bangs newly shorn. They were too short and uneven, like she had cut them herself. When Curt Wetzel shouted, “What happened, did the gardener mistake you for a weed?” we all roared. Forget sitcoms. We had Madge to keep us amused. In my autograph book Darren Lee wrote:
May the smell of Madge Cutler linger up your nose.

It’s been decades since I last saw Madge. From time to time I’ve googled her, in hopes of finding out that she has become rich and famous or, at least, happy. While I never called her names to her face, what I did was just as bad, or worse. Why?

Because I passed along the gossip.

Because when people teased her, I did nothing to stop it.

Because when the crowd laughed at her, I did, too.

Funny what we remember, isn’t it? Or rather, what we can’t forget.

After all these years, I can’t forget Madge Cutler, though I am certain she’d want to forget all of us.

Karen
by Nancy Werlin

In my sophomore year of high school, I had a smart, strong-willed friend named Karen. I’ve been thinking about Karen lately because her younger sister, Melanie, recently friended me on Facebook. Once I figured out why Melanie’s name was familiar, I asked her how Karen was.

“Karen died a few years ago,” Melanie replied. “I’m so glad we have her beautiful children.”

That was all she said. And even though this was only a Facebook message, I could almost feel in its tone that Melanie had the same kind of fierceness that Karen did. I didn’t push her for details, as I didn’t wish to intrude or cause her pain. Melanie wanted to ask me about my books, and so we talked about that. But I was reeling. Karen died in her early forties? How could that be?

In my mind, I see Karen as she was at fifteen. She was very beautiful, with high cheekbones, huge brown eyes, and a large nose. She also had the kind of blond hair that everyone dreams of. Karen’s hair hung, long and thick and golden, all the way to her waist. If you saw Karen from behind, her hair brushed and flowing, you might think she was a Barbie doll kind of girl. But then she’d turn. I think it was her nose that saved Karen from looking like Barbie; her nose that made her beautiful rather than pretty. That nose told you that this was a girl with character.

Our group of friends wasn’t among the popular; we were a socially middling group mostly known for getting good grades. Boys were of interest, but we were still shy and awkward. Karen, too. At first.

But as in a contemporary YA novel, Karen the beautiful caught the eye of the most handsome and popular boy in our grade. His name was Danny. I’d never put a character like Danny in a novel because he seemed like a walking cliché: tall, dark, broad-shouldered, handsome. Of course he played football.

Danny liked Karen. Karen liked Danny. But then came the inevitable complication: Danny’s previous girlfriend.

I don’t remember her name. She was a year older. Weirdly (or maybe not), she looked a lot like Karen. She had a strong face that spoke of character (including, yes, a large nose). She also had hair. Her brown hair was exactly as long and as thick and as beautiful as Karen’s blond hair.

This girlfriend, who was a popular cheerleader (more clichés), was furious at being replaced. And she had friends who seemed equally furious on her behalf. And so, suddenly, smart, studious, ferocious Karen was the target of a vicious bullying campaign. And Karen’s allies—girls like me—were not equipped to be the kind of support that could really help her much against the older, popular girls who were after her. Karen’s life became abruptly miserable.

But Karen fought back anyway. It was in her nature. Karen fought back as hard as she could.

Where was Danny in all this, you ask? Why didn’t he defend his new girlfriend? Well, that’s where things get even more interesting. It turned out that maybe Danny hadn’t exactly broken up with the old girlfriend before getting started with Karen. It turned out that maybe Danny felt as if he was entitled to all the long-haired beauties he wanted. It turned out that maybe Danny liked being fought over . . . and did things to egg it on, favoring first one girl, and then the other. . . .

I won’t dwell on the weeks in which Karen was under siege, believing that Danny cared for her, and that the enemy was this vicious, older girl who looked so much like her. And I can’t tell you what was in Karen’s mind, because—like her sister today—Karen kept her deepest emotions to herself. And I don’t know what the other girl was thinking, either, as she fought the girl she believed to be her enemy.

But I bet there was one person having a really good time.

Here’s how I wish it had gone. Here’s what I now realize I would like to have seen: those two beautiful girls, side by side, blond and brown hair streaming behind them, as they turned their backs on handsome, empty, cruel Danny and walked calmly away.

Surviving Alfalfa
by Teri Brown

He stands there, a good two feet taller than you, and he seems invincible. Until you look in his eyes and they’re so dark with pain that they’re almost black. The scent of freshly cut hay swirls around you.

Then he asks, “Why don’t you guys like me?”

Your heart thuds in your chest and you feel his hurt and confusion as if it were your own, because you know that pain. But you can’t tell him the truth. You’re too scared, too confused, too insecure. So you lie.

“We like you.”

He knows you’re lying and shakes his head. “No. No one talks to me. You all make fun of me.”

You don’t correct him, because to your shame, it’s true. You have made fun of him. Made fun of him because that’s what
she
does and you will do anything not to be in his position, because you’ve been there before and, may God forgive you, you don’t have the courage or the fortitude to do anything else.

Now there’s anger under your pain because he’s holding up a mirror and it’s so ugly and scary you want to run away and hide.

You give a little laugh that doesn’t sound like a laugh. “No, we like you.”

And you edge away.

His face changes and you take another step back, the cut alfalfa crunching beneath your feet. He moves away from the tractor and he reaches out and squeezes one of your breasts and you don’t say anything, because this is your penance for lying. Then you see the tears in his eyes as he turns away and you know he’s as trapped as you are—trapped by geography, trapped by age, trapped because all you want in the world is to belong.