The chalky gravel stings my knees as I
leave red bloody impressions on the playground floor. Aaren stands over me, her
foot hovering inches away from my face.
“Are you gonna cry? Cry baby!” she
screams at me.
Her foot lurches forward, stopping short
just in time for my face to turn into the pebbled surface. I cry. I want her to
leave me alone. Five school days, five pushes, five daily sessions in the
office, enough to leave a second grader battered and scarred for life.
“You’re worthless.” She shouts, “You’re nothing.” curled
against the ground, caught between the soggy imprint I’ve left on the ground
and Aaren’s Disney tennis shoes, I take her insults. “ You’re not even worth
the gum on my shoe.” She scrapes her worn sole against my wet skin, and leaves
me, her heels blinking away into the play park.
I sat there for fifteen minutes; my
friends stared at me not knowing what to do next. I breathed in the chalky
pebbles, each dusty inhale permeated my lungs. I gripped to my knees, the sweat
burning the cuts left by Aaren’s constant bullying. I wanted to be able to
heal.
***
I stared at the pizza in front of me,
scraping the yellow-white cheese from the top of its greasy dough. Next to me,
Delaney rolled the cheese into a ball.
“Watch this,” she said with a toothy
grin. She threw the cheese towards the floor, once hitting the tile surface it
bounced back almost immediately, landing perfectly in her small six year-old
hands. This is how lunchroom rumors are formed. One silly kid does something
stupid like bounce pizza cheese on the floor and two minutes later, the entire
school thinks that the pizza’s made of rubber.
Aaren sat across the cafeteria, hovering
over the bouncing cheese ball, glaring at me with those dark eyes. She hated me
I could feel it. She hated my hair, my clothes, my laugh. She chose to hate me.
I shifted slightly in my seat, my left knee scraped against the freshly placed
Sesame Street band-aids on the opposite leg. Her smile hid behind her long
stringy dark hair. I walked over to empty my tray; as I dumped the dissected
pizza I caught a glimpse of her smile, pieced between the greasy sections of
hair.
The next thing I saw was a hand striking
the Styrofoam tray in my hands. I looked down for only a second, when the sauce
soaked dough landed on my shoes. She seemed to have transported from the chair
across the room to torment me. Her
dark strands grazed my brow.
“Why do you make such a mess?”
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t
speak. I just keep looking down.
“Why can’t you ever say anything?”
***
June
26, 2000, my sister turned two. My family and I poured over cake and ice cream
while we handed the toddler bright packages. With cake smeared on our mouths,
we played with neon finger paints leaving orange smudges on the kitchen table.
Kathleen’s tiny fingers framed the page, leaving stained fingerprints shaping
flower petals and raindrops. The chocolate frosting mixed with her brand new
paints, leaving the neon colors muted and murky in their jars.
The
next morning, the cake was cleared; the wrapping paper was compiled and thrown
away, with our artwork proudly displayed on the walls. I woke up with my mom
sitting on the edge of my bed, tears beading in her eyes as she stroked my
thick blonde hair. I couldn’t understand why she was crying. Yesterday was a
happy day. I sat up straight, cocked my head to the right and hugged my mom’s
neck. “Come with me, baby girl.” She whispered into my ear. I followed her down
the stairs, hitting each corner and turn as I went, gripping hard to my mother’s
hand. Dad held his arms out, picked up my small six-year-old body and plopped
me on the couch. The green upholstery clung onto my yellow sleep shorts. I
picked at the scars on my knees, left as permanent reminders of the last school
year.
“Did you know this girl?” Dad asked me as
he held the morning newspaper in front of me. Her face stood out. In the sea of
words: “dead,” “father,” “stabbed” her dark eyes stood out on the black and
white page. Her hair, usually strung out in front of her face hiding a sinister
smile, was parted to the side, held back by a bow. She looked innocent, happy,
and serene. This was not the same girl who pushed me to the ground, forcing me
to hide under the wooden floorboards of the play castle one too many times.
Tears began to stream down my face.
“Her father was a bad man, Alex.” My dad
sat to the left of me, my mom was to my right as they began to bombard me with
information of her grisly murder. “Last night he stabbed Aaren in the chest and
neck. She didn’t survive. But they got him now, okay? He’ll be put in prison
for a long time. Her sister’s fine; she’s going to her grandma’s or something.
We know that you knew her. Alex, we just wanted you to know that she’s gone
now. Alex? Are you okay? What are you thinking?”
I
stared long and hard at the floor. I studied its distinct markings, the shifts
in color of the wood paneling. I tried to memorize each scratch, each dent, as
I desperately tried to avoid answering this question. I looked into my dad’s
pale green eyes while my mom caressed my head as six words were released from
my lips.
“What
if I didn’t like her?”
***
It
was an ugly creature. Its orange and pink splotchy fur compressed where
hundreds of kids pressed their snot-ridden noses into the plush exterior. It once
had blue eyes. I could tell by the leftover paint left on the green felt
circles pasted on his face, now they’re left empty. This creature was the face
of sorrow. It was given to kids, like me mourning, frustrated, and confused. It
was meant to be comforting.
“Whoever has Creakie Creature gets to
talk okay?” The counselor for the elementary school said as she passed the
disintegrating plushy to my friend at the far end of the room. There were four
of us girls. We were considered Aaren’s “closest” friends. Funny I never
considered her games as friendly.
We went around the room, each girl taking
turns trying to understand what happened that summer.
Her
father came home drunk.
Each girl clung to the plush toy as if
her life depended on it. Once she was told to let it go, she would look down into
the sad green circles. She would stare at it, trying to comprehend the idea of
such evil residing in one man.
He
stabbed his little girl in the chest and neck until she stopped moving.
Finally, Creakie Creature made it to my
lap. I sat in silence, my eyes burned dry from my apathy. The counselor
scribbled some notes into a yellow pad and stared at me for a good thirty
seconds.
“Alexandra, it’s your turn to talk.”
What
is there to say?
“It’s okay to be confused at a time like
this. Just know that Aaren’s father was a strange man who didn’t know how to
communicate his feelings well.”
Is
this your way of having me talk? I’m not confused. I wished her to be gone, and
now she is. I didn’t want it to be this way.
“Where do you think Aaren is now? Do you
think she’s happier? Do you think she’s in a better place?”
What
I’m I supposed to say now?
“I don’t know.”
***
“I
have absolutely no idea what to write about, Dad.” I pull my knees up to my
chest. I’ve lounged around the apartment in my Batman boxers for six hours,
trying to figure out what I could possibly write. Memoir. A memory. An event that can keep a reader interested for
five to six pages. I’m nineteen. As far as I know I don’t have any.
“I
honestly don’t know hun, you’re just so boring!” My dad laughs on the other end
of the phone. I just stare at my empty computer screen.
“You’re
not helping.” I kicked the white Zappos box at the end of the couch. Labeled at
the top in gaudy pink Sharpie was “ALEX’S STUFF,” my mom practically threw it
at me four months ago. I haven’t opened it since I moved away, inside were just
a few old yearbooks, elementary school art projects, and most importantly
journals.
In
2000 my grandma gave me a purple velveteen journal from American Girl. At the
time it’s empty pages were intimidating and exciting. Each page made way for my
own thoughts and experiences to be shared through the broken English of a six
year old. Today the cover is drawn
over with gel pens, the pages stained with crayon and marker, and perfect for
research. I ran across a few passages about elementary school crushes, bullies,
and projects. One struck my interest almost immediately.
My
gold crayon stood out on the purple lined page. Each word glimmered on the
page. It hit me.
Yesterday was Kathleen’s birthday. She’s two
now. Oh, and Aaren died last night. Her daddy killed her.
Its
simplicity disturbed me.
“Hey,
Dad…”
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