Jase stood up and stared at me strangely for a minute, then spoke into his end of the walkie-talkie, “Meet you in the tree house in five.”
I walked out of my room, into a dark, empty house, and padded into my backyard in my black skull and cross bone pajamas and matching skull decorated slippers. I climbed up the ladder with tears in my eyes and pulled it up after me, so no one else could come up and see me.
“Come here,” Jase said, reaching out both of his hands and pulling me into his arms. He wrapped them around my waist and squeezed me gently. Then I cried so damn hard that my chest hurt when I tried to take a breath. I told him everything ugly about me; I told him all my little secrets, my angers, my fears. And he didn’t tease me, he didn’t make fun of me; all he did was hug me tighter.
And that’s exactly how I woke up the next morning when Jase’s watch alarm went off for school; wrapped up in my best friend’s arms, clinging to him like he was my air.
Without talking, we both went to our houses and got ready for school and met up with Joey on the corner. A little bit of nervousness danced in my belly, not because of Jase hugging me all night;that was the coolest thing one of my best friends ever did for me. No, I was nervous, because that day was the play.
First period started with Ms. Spitball having to move Joey’s seat to the back of the classroom, because all of Slate’s spitballs that were aimed at Joey kept landing on her desk. Well, at least he got to sit next to Jase and me.
Second period, we lined up and walked silently through the hallways. Slate and Drake threw spitballs at the back of the teacher’s head. Her long blonde hair was infested with them. I swear you could see the saliva dripping off one of them. I gagged back vomit.
We piled into the auditorium and began getting everything ready for the play. The stage was set, lights flashed, music sounded, and then costumes were put on. Slate and Drake were in rare form, cracking their knuckles and calling everyone names.
As the girls got dressed behind a curtained off area, Slate came waltzing in. His eyes zeroed in on me while I was changing my shirt. His eyes brightened and the shitstorm started.
"Whoa, Piss Pants girlfriend’s tits are huge! Kissyface. Four Eyes. Fatty Knockers. Loser. Dog. Butterface. Trash. Lesbian. Freak. Shorty. Fat Ass.”
The minute the words left his mouth all that I felt was the burning sting of the tears that I tried to fight against pouring from my eyes. A constant question in my head…Is that true? Is that true? Is that true? Is that true?My mind bounced to my father. What did I do that he left me? Why didn’t he take me? Why wasn’t I enough? You carry that feeling with you, forever. I don’t care what anybody says about it, “Oh, it’ll be different when you’re older,” or “Oh, sticks and stones…” That feeling of being walked away from doesn’t ever go away. The names that little shitpie called me never got erased.
Ever.
No.
They helped a young, impressionable girl form opinions of herself. Because, really, I didn’t feel awkward enough in my own skin, please make me feel worse about myself. See the sarcasm dripping thickly off those words? And you know it’s true too, right? If you have ever heard anyone call you something, the first thing you ask yourself -is that true?
And so it happens, when you’re filled with so much anger andanguish, you just have to let it out or your head and heart might just frigging explode. I screamed a string of profanity and rage. Then, I tried to grab at the little toilet-head’s throat. I wanted to shake the words from his mouth, shake out those thoughts about me from his head. I didn’t want to be the names he said I was.
Jase and Joey were in front of me in an instant; Joey wrapping his arms around me to cover my chest, and Jase all up in Slate’s face, whispering threats to his life. But, to hell if that stopped me from going utterly crazy. My thoughts were simple: rip his tongue out so I could no longer hear hisvile words. Rip his brain out through his nostrils, ancient Egypt style, so he wouldn’t think those poisonous thoughts about me.
Joey could not calm me down, so he just shoved my shirt back over my head and hugged me tight.
Then, the teachers came.
The play was delayed.
And of coursethatwas the main issue. Oh, and that it wasentirely my fault for my sudden, unprovoked outburst.
I was hauled off into an office; my lower stomach was literally writhing with sharp pains, like I was being stabbed from the inside. Ms. Spitball held my crying snot-nosed face in her hands. Jase was banging on the other side of the door where he was being spoken to, screaming Joey’s name and mine over and over. I had no clue where Joey was.
NOBODY ASKED ME WHAT HAPPENED.
Nobody asked me what was wrong.
Nobody tried to help me.
Then the teachers spoke…
“What’s going on with her?”
“She’s usually so quiet, so smart.”
“Jase Delaney. The boy is such a misfit.”
“And why does that Joey always get caught up with Slate?”
“Doesn’t he know how Slate is?”
