My secret dream is to write an epic poem. That’s probably the most pretentious thing I’ve said.
I’m sure I was a huge disappointment. I’m not pretty or smart or athletic. I’m just like them – an ordinary drone dressed in secrets and lies.
We have journals in social studies, too. The school must have gotten a good price on journals.
We are studying American history for the ninth time in nine years. Another review of map skills, one week of Native Americans, Christopher Columbus in time for Columbus Day, the Pilgrims in time for Thanksgiving. Every year they say we’re going to get right up to the present, but we always get stuck in the Industrial Revolution. We got to World War 1 in seventh grade – who knew there had been a war with the whole world? We need more holidays to keep the social studies teachers on track.
Neither one of them has toilet paper stuck to her boots. Where is the justice?
Finally, our own Devils hulk into the gym. The same boys who got detention in elementary school for beating the crap out of people are now rewarded for it. They call it football.
I think the Merryweather cheerleaders confuse me because I missed out on Sunday School. It has to be a miracle. There is no other explanation. How else could they sleep with the football team on Saturday night and be reincarnated as virginal goddesses on Monday?
I hide in the bathroom until I know Heather’s bus has left. The salt in my tears feels good when it stings my lips. I wash my face in the sink until there is nothing left of it, no eyes, no nose, no mouth. A slick nothing.
They herd us into an assembly that is supposed to be a ‘democratic forum’ to come up with a new school mascot. Who are we? We can’t be the Buccaneers because pirates supported violence and discrimination against women. The kid who suggests the Shoemakers in honor of the old moccasin factory is laughed out of the auditorium. Warriors insults Native Americans. I think Overbearing Eurocentric Patriarchs would be perfect, but I don’t suggest it.
It wasn’t my fault. ANd I’m not going to let it kill me. I can grow.
It is screwed to the wall, so I cover it with a poster of Maya Angelou that the librarian gave me. She said Mrs. Angelou is one of the greatest American writers. The poster was coming down because the school board banned on of her books. She must be a great writer if the school board is afraid of her.
I finish the potatoes. She send me to the TV to watch the parades. Dad stumbles downstairs. “How is she?” he asked before he goes in the kitchen. “It’s Thanksgiving,” I say. Dad puts on his coat. “Doughnuts?” he asks. I nod.
David’s tape recorder is allowed in the class to document “potential future violations.” The secretary doesn’t sound too upset at the idea that Mr. Neck could get canned. I bet she knows him personally.
I like cheeseburgers too much to be a model. Heather has stopped eating and complains about fluid retention. She should worry more about brain retention, the way she’s dieting away her gray matter. At last check, she was wearing a size on and a half, and she just has to get down to a size one.
Words are hard work. I hope they send Hairwoman to a conference or something. I’m ready to help pay for a sub.
It’s all about SYMBOLISM, says Hairwoman. Every word chosen by Nathaniel, every comma, every paragraph break – these were all done on purpose. To get a decent grade in her class, we have to figure out what he was really trying to say. Why couldn’t he just say what he meant? Would they pin scarlet letters on his chest? B for blunt, S for straightforward?
When we get off the bus on Valentine’s Day, a girl with white-blond hair bursts into tears. ‘I Love You, Anjela!’ is spray-painted into the snowbank along the parking lot. I don’t know if Angela is crying because she is happy or because her heart’s desire can’t spell. Her honey is waiting with a red rose. They kiss right there in front of everybody. Happy Valentine’s Day.
I need a lawyer. I showed up every day this semester, sat my butt in every class, did some homework, and didn’t cheat on tests. I still get slammed in MISS. There is no way they can punish me for not speaking. It isn’t fair. What do they know about me? What do they know about the inside of my head? Flashes of lightning, children crying. Caught in an avalanche, pinned by worry, squirming under the weight of doubt, guilt. Fear.
God crackles over the intercom and tells Mr. Freeman he’s late for a faculty meeting.
I’d love to stay and chat, but my feet won’t let me. I walk home instead of taking the bus. I unlock the front door and walk straight up to my room, across the rug, and into my closet without even taking off my backpack. When I close the closet door behind me, I bury my face into the clothes on the left side of the rack, clothes that haven’t fit for years. I stuff my mouth with old fabric and scream until there are no sounds left under my skin.
The greatest strength of all is daring to love.