Authors: Megan Kelley Hall
Midway through freshman year, Tanya and her side-kick—yes, she had one—became rabid in their pursuit of Desiree. Almost daily, they threatened to jump her, snatched away her lunch, and even took her jewelry—right off her hands! Tanya and Tara (the sidekick) had the habit of wearing each other’s jewelry. For some reason, they felt Desiree should share in their friendship ritual.
“One day Tanya walked up to me and said, ‘I wanna hold your jewelry; I wanna wear that ring,’” recounts Desiree. “The ring was on my index finger and I said, ‘No, you can’t; my brother gave me this ring.’” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Tanya and Tara stepped closer, boxing Desiree in at her locker. Then Tanya grabbed her hand and pulled the ring off her finger. “I asked, ‘Are you gonna give it back at the end of the day?’ She said ‘Yeah,’ but I never got it back and she never wore it at school.”
Desiree was at her breaking point. Fearing the backlash she thought would follow if she told teachers or her parents, she suffered in silence. “I had no self-worth, self-image, none of that.” Then sadly, Des got so low, she attempted to take her life. “I took pills, but nothing happened. I just got sleepy. Nobody knew.”
Not long after this attempt, Tanya charged Desiree in the school hallway, accusing her of trashing Tanya’s brother on the bus. But before she could touch Desiree, Rhonda and I intervened.
“At the time, I had no friends,” Des tells me. “But seeing the two of you stick up for me made me realize that there are kind people out there who will stick up for you regardless. It was like, I can make friends. I am worth something because somebody stuck up for me. What you and Rhonda did—that kind of saved my life.”
As karma would have it, Tanya got pregnant later that year and dropped out of school. Tara moved away and didn’t return after freshman year. The bullies’ bandwagon disbanded and all Desiree bashing came to an end. Over the next three years, high school became a supportive, encouraging environment for Des, and she blossomed into the woman I still know and love today.
To think, a selfless act of little consequence to me, a moment I barely thought twice of again, a simple decision to get involved, changed another person’s outlook on life.
And did I mention that I lean toward the scaredy-cat persuasion?
*
All names except Desiree’s have been changed.
Isolation
By Cynthia Leitich Smith
Let’s talk about isolation.
The girl who bullied me took away two of my best friends—one, then another.
She gave them a choice, and they bought their freedom at my expense.
I was an only child, and I couldn’t talk to my parents about it. It was so important to them that I be happy. I didn’t dare suggest otherwise.
At school, standing beside me would’ve meant moving into the target zone.
For most people, that wasn’t a choice they were willing to make. I didn’t blame them. And I didn’t want to go through that pain again, either.
So I quietly carved out some territory for myself—at dance class, the library, the school newspaper. But that didn’t make sitting alone at lunch or surviving girls’ gym any easier.
I still looked over my shoulder as I walked home.
I still fretted my garage-sale and discount-store clothes.
And I still guarded the secret of my mixed-blood Native American heritage.
Then one day I noticed a girl who was even quieter than me—a fair, whip-smart girl with a strong sense of justice. Who’d had her share of run-ins with the same bully.
This time I decided to stand beside her.
Cynthia and Tracy, the quieter girl, became friends. Years later they shared a college dorm room.
Cynthia went on to study law and journalism and is an author. Tracy went on to study political science and owns her own lobbying firm. Neither is especially quiet anymore.
I lean against the outside wall of the cafeteria, gasping for air. Blood oozes from the long, crimson gashes on my arms, staining the stucco as it drips into the spreading pool of vomit at my feet. My stomach heaves yet again, and when there’s nothing left but bile, I fix my gaze on the sliver of sunshine peeking through the clouds.
Don’t cry
, I tell myself.
Don’t let anyone see you cry
.
Quick footfalls echo across the courtyard. I shade my eyes and find myself staring at the brown-eyed girl who transferred into eighth-grade English not long after me. Her name is Luz, if I remember correctly, though names don’t seem to matter when you’re stuck in the back of an overcrowded classroom—the row reserved for misfits and newcomers.
“
Dáme tus manos.
” Her voice is gentle, her face etched with worry.
I manage a weak smile. “I’m fine,” I say. “I just need a little fresh air.”
Truth is, I am
not
fine. A headache throbs at my temples. When I rake my fingers through my knotted hair, I pull away clots of blood. The wounds on my arms hurt like hell. Each jagged breath is more painful than the last—never mind the soul-scorching insults still ringing in my ears.
It all started in the cafeteria bathroom. I was searching for the free meal ticket that had fallen through a hole in my pocket. The room was quiet except for the locked stall on the end, where another eighth grader was purging her lunch.
The toilet flushed. She emerged from the stall, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
I was startled. I tried to hide the apple in my hand—the perfectly good apple I’d retrieved from the trash can when I thought no one was looking. I wasn’t sure if she’d seen me . . . until, that is, she cleared her throat.
We stared at each other’s reflection, eyes mirroring our darkest secrets.
Her lips curled into a sneer. “Just wait till everyone hears about this!” she said, and then she rushed out the door.
I pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, but before I could bury the offending fruit, she returned with a posse of her friends.
“Trash picker!” someone said with a snicker.
And from someplace behind me, “Freeloader!” And worse.
I was caught off guard by their angry eyes, paralyzed by their venomous words.
They swarmed around me, mocking my silence. Then someone grabbed me from behind.
I called for help.
A fist landed in my stomach.
I wheezed, begged for mercy.
They kicked and punched me instead.
I broke free somehow and ran for the exit, but not before they yanked out handfuls of hair and shredded my arms with their fingernails.
“That’s right,” someone shrieked. “Go home to the Dumpster you came from!”
And now, I’m vomiting up every last bit of that apple—and with it, every last ounce of my dignity.
“Let me help you,” Luz says in broken English. When she reaches for me, her outstretched arms are like wings, lifting me above and beyond all the pain and humiliation. I slip my hands into hers, and she squeezes them gently. I feel stronger already.
Hand in hand, we walk toward the main office to see the nurse. We duck underneath a sprawling eucalyptus tree, and she steadies me when I stumble over the roots. I retie my hand-me-down shoes, two sizes too large, and then we step inside.
The principal winces when we approach the counter, no doubt taking inventory of my injuries. “Who did this to you?” he asks. I don’t answer for fear of retaliation.
He turns to Luz. “You must have played some part in this!” She blinks and shrugs, as if she doesn’t understand him. Exasperated, he suspends us for the rest of the day.
I don’t have a key to my apartment, so my new friend invites me to hers. The steamy smells of chicken and corn tortillas greet us at the door. Luz’s mother is stirring a boiling pot in the kitchen, but when she sees my wounds, her spoon clatters to the linoleum floor.
Luz brings me bandages and a warm wash cloth, and in halting English, her mother insists that I stay for dinner. Her father says the blessing, and then we pile our plates high with
arroz con pollo
and
frijoles—
foods I learned to pronounce in Conversational Spanish but haven’t eaten before. They smile when I ask for seconds.
We talk about our families, and Luz translates for everyone. Her father says they immigrated to California from a small village in Mexico, sneaking across the border in the dead of night. Now he follows the crops. Her mother speaks with sorrow about the relatives she can’t risk seeing again, and when I discuss my parents’ separation, she dabs her eyes with her apron.
By this time, our bellies are full, and the moon shines bright in the inky night sky. Tears turn to laughter, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to translate into words the sense of belonging I feel in this moment.
It’s the first of many meals Luz and I eventually share, the first day of a friendship I want to last forever. We’re walking home from school together when I ask, “Will we always be friends?” She looks away, and in that instant, we both know the answer.
Winter turns to spring, and when one day she disappears, I am sad but not surprised. Her desk sits unoccupied for days, but no one questions her absence. I call her, but the phone’s been disconnected. I knock, and then ring her doorbell, but the curtains stand open and the apartment is vacant.
I think back to the day she came to my rescue. Luz, whose name means light . . . Luz, my beacon of hope in the darkness. Tears stream down my face unchecked, and I don’t care if anyone sees me cry.
Dear Caroline from Canada
by Carrie Ryan
Dear Caroline from Canada,
I know we last saw each other on the Western Tour in the summer of 1993 and you’ve probably forgotten me. But I’m not sure I ever really thanked you. I’m not sure I even understood how brave you were until I got older.
Just in case you don’t remember . . . We were at the dude ranch in Wyoming and some girl (I can’t remember her name but I’ll call her Ginger) said she wanted a cowboy. The only cowboy at the ranch our age asked
me
to dance (he even sang “Wonderful Tonight” in my ear—I still love that song) and that ticked her off, so she told him, and everyone else, that I was gay.
Today I’d just laugh at her. I’m embarrassed that being called gay was even an insult back then. And it’s not really that that insulted me; it’s that we had to share rooms and beds with other girls on the tour and suddenly they all gave me the evil eye when we were paired up. We weren’t allowed to walk around unless we were in groups of three and no one—
no one
—would let me hang out with them.
I had to beg to tag along behind random groups so I wouldn’t get in trouble.
It was in the mall after the bus broke down when you told me what Ginger said—until then I had no idea why everyone suddenly hated me that much. All I knew was that I was ostracized—utterly and completely cast out.
So alone. Humiliated.
But you paired up with me that day. You told me the truth even though it was difficult and you promised that you’d be my friend and never leave me out again.
I was so selfish I was just glad to have a friend. I didn’t think about what that meant for you and your reputation. Suddenly everyone called you my gay girlfriend and you were cast out just as much as I was.
It didn’t matter, though, because we were friends.
Thank you. Thank you for showing so much courage—more than I think I could have ever expected or understood. Thank you for taking the dive to your own reputation to keep me company.
You may not know it, but you changed my life that summer. You taught me to stand up for people, not to believe gossip and lies, to be inclusive rather than exclusive. You taught me to believe in who I am and to become a more loving person. That’s a lesson I’ve tried to hold on to since.
Thank you.
Love,
Carrie
The Blue-Eyed Girl
by Jocelyn Maeve Kelley
When I was seven years old I met the blue-eyed girl. We stood dripping wet as the cement pool deck sizzled beneath our delicate feet, the skin still soft and smooth, not yet hardened from repeated exposure to the summer elements of sand and surf. We became summer friends but location tore us apart for the school year and we were forced to focus our attention on other kids, classmates with whom we could share our lunches and our secrets on the playground from September to June. But when summer came, the blue-eyed girl and I were friends again. The excitement reached its pinnacle when we found out we would finally be attending the same school, junior high. Sixth grade.
Suddenly our worlds collided and everything that was simple and easy changed. Boys came into the picture and popularity crept into our psyche and the blue-eyed girl did things that set herself apart from everyone else—a fate worse than death when you are thirteen years old. She cried openly when her feelings were hurt, when she was left out at lunch or from birthday parties and sleepovers. She didn’t know that pretending to be someone you’re not made life easier, or maybe she just refused to accept it. She held on to everything that made her fiercely different: her emotions, her anger, her bossiness and determination. She wore her heart all over her sleeve.
The lunchroom was the center of sixth-grade life. We were set free for one hour to joke and gossip, to laugh and flirt, to whisper and promise secrecy. Our lunch tables were small and crowded, so the decision of where you sat was one of hot contention. Every day we counted down the hours until the lunch bell rang, and when it did, we prayed that today would not be the day we found ourselves left out. We were selfish and we coveted the inclusion that a seat provided us with. We were so thankful if a chair was left available, saved even, that we never cared who the unlucky ones were who found themselves out of luck. It was a teenage version of musical chairs. If we made it into the “group” table, then everything was sunny and life was good—we were still in the game.