Desert Dunes
Seventh grade,
and I, the new girl,
out of place,
awkward,
shy.
Younger than all the others,
young even for my age,
filled with gentle dreams,
but without a single skill
for surviving
a girl-pack.
Day after endless day,
I stood in the hallway
bustling with strangers.
Stood before my open locker,
sorting anything,
everything.
Stood pretending its contents
of much more interest
than those who swirled
around me,
greeting one another.
I did not belong,
their backs told me.
I was not one of them,
my mother-chosen clothes
screamed.
If I dared enter the lavatory
where a gaggle of girls
preened at the mirror,
all talk stopped.
When I left,
laughter
trailed
after
me
like
poison
gas.
Only my desk offered some small safety.
There I found a geography book,
opened it to a photo
of desert dunes,
smooth and inviting,
rising
and
falling
like ocean waves.
I stepped onto the beckoning sand
and walked
away,
away,
away.
Then one day,
I came across a story about a boy.
I no longer remember the title,
the author,
the plot.
I don’t even remember the boy,
what he looked like,
what he did.
Only one memory remains …
that everybody,
all
the
other
children,
loved him!
The author told us so.
It didn’t occur to me then
how easy it would be
to tell your readers
that the boy you had fashioned
was loved.
A child on a page,
so free of neurotic need,
so generous of heart,
so appealing!
Believing in that boy,
needing to believe in that boy,
I sat among strangers
in that strange room
and read
and read,
and read,
longing to be
that loved child.
Yet when I turned the final page,
I understood.
It was only a story,
after all.
Almost a fairy tale.
Real children didn’t love.
They talked about you
behind your back.
They chose you last
for their teams.
When you left the lavatory,
their laughter
trailed
after
you
like
poison
gas.
I returned the book to the library,
took out my geography text,
opened to desert dunes,
and once more
walked
away,
away,
away.
