Dear Bully

But in a fitting turn of the karmic wheel, the next year, in sixth grade, my mom bought me a pair of green corduroy pants. These pants were a shade of green just bright enough to catch the attention of Bill M. He took one look at them and called to me, “Hey. Nice pants, Green Bean.”

And so I was “Green Bean” for the whole first half of sixth grade. No matter what pants I wore.

Sorry about the “Stench” nickname, Michael H.

I hope “Green Bean” evened things up a bit.

And here’s hoping that maybe this story will help a fifth grader out there fight against the mind-sucking power of the no-think group brain.

What I Wanted to Tell You

by Melissa Schorr

E—

Can you even believe it? We made it? Junior high is actually over???

I can. I’ve only been praying for the last 231 nights or so for someone to come and put an end to my misery. All I can say is: What took so long?

There are soooo many memories I have of the two of us. Remember playing pranks on my patio? Doing backflips at your pool? Sex ed with Mr. Mueller? Good times . . .

Until the moment you decided I wasn’t cool enough or fun enough or whatever enough to be your friend anymore. And dropped me, like a stone down a cold, dark shaft.

This year was a total blast, you know?

Well, that’s how it looked, anyway, from my perch in social Siberia. Because with you waltzed every last one of my so-called friends. Karen and Shoshana. Gia and Gaby. Sarah and Sabrina. Pam and Lisa. Even Patricia.

As for the boys? None rushed to my rescue. They were merely witnesses, innocent bystanders, who watched the car crash—the shattered glass, the twisted metal—and shifted delicately to avoid the debris.

And why? I’d done no wrong, committed no crime. I wasn’t some obvious outcast—seven feet tall and gangly and slouchy, like Meg. Or desperate and needy and letting two boys kiss me at once, like Di.

I was left to wonder, with no one to ask.

There are so many moments that stand out. Remember our table for ten in the cafeteria?

Where I was abruptly told there was no longer “room” for me.

That game of Spin the Bottle at Shoshi’s surprise party, where you finally kissed you-know-who?

I wasn’t invited, but even I heard the whispers that Monday morning.

What I remember most? Hiding, shivering, in the locker room stalls, trying to escape another cruel comment. Sitting with “friends,” excluded by their coded conversations, feeling lonelier than when I was simply alone.

Congrats on winning that citizenship award! You totally deserved it.

That day you called me on the phone, when we hadn’t spoken in months? I got all stupidly flustered, like it was a real, live boy calling. For a second, I thought maybe you were going to apologize. Ask to be friends again.

Then I realized you were just hitting me up for sponsor money for some charity walkathon, and I was clearly the hundredth person down on your call list, and I felt like a total fool.

I gave anyway.

I know we weren’t that close this year, but I’m glad I’m signing your yearbook. ’Cause there’s something I wanted to tell you.

For no reason at all, by the end of the year, it was over. Like a high fever that broke, leaving me clammy and weak and slightly delirious, wondering if it had all been a bad dream.

Little by little, everyone else welcomed me back in. Karen and Shoshana. Gia and Gaby. Sarah and Sabrina. Pam and Lisa. Patricia. And you. Back on the party circuit. Back at the table of ten. Like nothing had happened. Like none of it needed to be mentioned.

And so I said nothing.

Or maybe you’ve already heard? That I’m off to a new school for ninth grade?

Because, really, how can I trust you—or any of them—again? And what saddens me more: How will I ever trust any of the friends still to come?

So, in case I don’t see you around much, have a great summer (and a great life)!

Luv,

Melissa

P.S. Who knows? Maybe, someday, when we’re ancient and thirty(!), you’ll look back on this page and read what I wrote, and remember.

I know that I’ll never forget.

Subtle Bullying

by Rachel Vail