“Misfits.”
Inside, the words caused bruises that nobody but me, could see. And that stupid rhyme repeated in my head.Sticks and stone may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.Screw that, they do. They did. They hurt so damn much. Because when others say them, you believe them. The words, the names, are like bullets thattearthrough your skin and burn so badly going in, you wonder if they’re the truth, and you wonder if they’ll kill you.
Me?
Was I a misfit?
Because I was friends with Joey, the most brilliant, sweetest boy ever created, and Jase, the toughest protector to ever live? Then, I’d rather be a misfit than be whateverthey thought was normal.
Screw them. Screw all of them.
Slate, Jase, and I were forced to shake hands and go on with the play.
We did, but only after Jase taped a large white paper to Slate’s back that read:KING of SHITPIES.
The audience gasped and tsked.
But the play went on.
After our performance, Ms. Spitball told me how disappointed she was in my actions. And only then was I allowed to tellmy sideof the incident. She screamed at me about how I should have gone to her (sure, half-naked) if Slate was bothering me. And she would need to place a call to my parents. I didn’t care. She could call my home all night; nobody would answer.
We all ran back to class.
I felt like I was running with a stick of dynamite, lit at both ends. Waiting for the BOOM.And, I need to stop and tell you here–it does come, that BOOM. It’s so harsh and explosive that it does rip me into nothing. It destroys everything.
Back in the classroom, I sat with my hands clutching my aching stomach as folded up notes were passed around the room. I sat, rigid in my seat, holding back the angry tears, belly twisting, watching the notes as they traveled closer and closer. Quietly received hand to hand, quietly read, and quickly passed on. The first was a naked drawing of me with enormous boobs. It looked nothing like me; stupid shitpie couldn’t draw. The second was of Rachel Jenson, also naked, with tiny little bumps for boobs. The words MOSQUITO BITES were written with an arrow pointing to her chest. The third note was of Maria Carrington with a huge fat belly and a boy’syou know whathanging from her private area. Written under it was “SHE’S A BOY!”
Note after note, Slate and Drake attacked every single kid in the class, until I took all the folded up pieces of paper and stood up on my shaky legs.
“Charlotte, what are you doing out of your seat?” Ms. Spitball demanded, her face turning red with anger.
I slowly walked up to her desk with a wad of crumpled papers in my hand. Jase was behind me, grabbing the other papers that he saw other people reading and walked up to Ms. Spitball’s desk next to me. He slammed them down in front of her with the palm of his hand.
“Well, Ms. Stone? Mr. Delaney? What is going on here?”
I held my head up and looked my teacher in the eye, “Just wanted to let you know what’s happening while your back is turned to write on the board. This, I think is harassment, and if Slate Marshall isn’t removed from this class, I might sue the school. Jase Delaney’s father is an important lawyer in Manhattan, he’ll help me.”
Slate was only suspended for five days.
I was scarred for life.
After school, I sat in my tree house with my sketchpad on my knees, pencil motionless between my fingers, and nothing coming to life for me on the page. I felt too sad to draw. For the first time ever, I wondered why I even bothered drawing. Maybe I wasn’t even good at it. So, I exchanged my pad for a candy bar and my pencil for an entire large bag of Doritos. A gourmet meal, right? Well, to a ten-year-old it is. And let’s just be honest with each other, if you had the metabolism of a ten-year-old, you’d be eating that crap for dinner every day too.
Jase and Joey came over as the sun was setting, and a strange thing happened as the three of us silently swung our legs off the roof of the tree house. A large group of fireflies slowly lit up the backyard.
Without having to say a word to each other, we ran into my house and grabbed three clear, glass cups to catch the insects. And slowly, as if we were somehow warped into a land full of magical blinking lights, we walked through the enchanted backyard. The fireflies surrounded us. Hundreds of them, probably shining their little bodies for their last performance on earth, before the cool autumn weather set in.
We spun and twirled around the blurry, blinking lights, capturing a few to keep for a while. Maybe hoping their magic was real.
Then, we laid ourselves out on the roof of the tree house, holding our magical friends tightly to our chests, making wishes.
Under the darkened sky beside me, the boys smelled of Dorito chips and sweat. I could barely see them in the moonless light, except for every few seconds when the fireflies lit up their bodies; only then the soft yellow glow of the magical bugs lit their faces with a pale shine.
Joey sat up and pulled his feet in, tucking them under his body. “I wish I was a lightning bug. I could light up the whole night, you know? Nobody hates a lightning bug.”
Jase sat up and scooted closer to us, “Yeah, I get it. I wish I were a firefly too. I want to light up the sky, set the whole world on fire with my shine.”
“Me too,” I whispered sitting up and touching my knees to both of theirs. I could feel the warmth of their legs against mine; it made me shiver.
