Such an Old Story
Seventh grade,
and I, the new girl,
awkward,
out of place,
excruciatingly 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 stand in the hallway
bustling with strangers.
Stand before my open locker,
sorting anything,
everything.
Stand, pretending it’s contents
of much more interest
than the commotion
in the hall,
commotion that has nothing
to do
with me.
I am an intruder,
their backs tell me.
I am not one of them,
my mother-chosen clothes scream.
If I dare enter the lavatory
where a gaggle of girls
preen at the mirror,
all talk stops.
When I leave,
laughter
trails
after
me
like
poison
gas.
Only my desk offers some small safety.
There I find a geography book,
open it to a photo
of desert dunes,
rising
and
falling
like
ocean
waves,
step onto the beckoning sand
and walk
away,
away,
away.
Then one day,
I find a book in the library,
a story about a boy.
I no longer remember the title,
the author,
the plot.
I don’t even remember the boy,
what he looks like,
what he does.
Only one piece remains …
that everybody,
all
the
other
children,
love him!
The author tells us so.
It doesn’t occur to me
how easy it would be
to tell your readers
that the boy you fashioned out of words
is loved.
A child on a page,
so free of neurotic need,
so generous of heart,
so appealing!
I read and read,
believing in that boy,
needing to believe in that boy,
Sitting among strangers
in that strange room,
my heart cries out to be that child,
loved by other children.
Yet when I turn the final page,
I look up,
take in the children
surrounding me,
and understand.
It is only a story, after all.
Almost a fairy tale.
Real children don’t love.
They talk about you
behind your back.
They pick you last
for their teams.
When you leave the lavatory,
their laughter
trails
after
you
like
poison
gas.
I return the book to the library,
take out my geography text,
open to desert dunes,
and once more
walk
away,
away,
away.
It’s such an old story as to be trite.
Even amusing.
Almost.
