Dear Bully

Me: Right. So I had to walk around all day with a big yogurt stain on my khaki pants. Everybody laughed.

BFF: I don’t laugh. You don’t even like me.

Me: What?! OMG, yes I do! You’re my only friend!

BFF: If I’m your only friend, then you have no friends at all.

“Wow.” I duck my head and push back from the computer a little, trying not to let that one hurt. He says these things sometimes, but he doesn’t mean them. I know that.

But I keep going. I just need to get it out.

Me: Everybody called me faggot.

BFF: Everybody calls me Sally Polly.

Me: Come on, Jack. Stop it. It’s not funny.

BFF: What isn’t funny?

Me: Never mind.

BFF: Are you laughing at a joke?

Me: No!

BFF: What are you laughing at?

I squinch my eyes shut and feel a headache coming on. I just want him to listen. I need to know if he understands. I grip the armrests of my dad’s chair and count to five slowly. Wish on it. “Come on,” I whisper, leaning forward to type again.

Me: I’m not laughing. I’m practically fucking crying, okay? Sheesh.

BFF: What was the question?

Me: You want the question? Fine. The question is, are you gay, too? Because I like you. Jesus!!! Please say yes!

BFF: No.

I stand up, shoving the chair backward so it hits the credenza, and walk over to the window. “God!” Half scream, half prayer, Eminem pounding from the living room. “God, I can’t even take this, okay? I mean, I can’t. I don’t know. I just . . . I don’t know.” I sob a little bit, can’t stop it, feeling like a baby with snot running out of my nose, and I wipe it on my ripped shirtsleeve. “Fuh-uh-uck!” I yell into the crook of my arm, and even though my stomach hurts, I like how it sounds all muffled, like I’m lost in a snowstorm, so I yell it again. And then once more, softer. I sniff hard and wipe my eyes. Walk back to the computer, where BFFBOTT sits, his cursor blinking silently.

I stare at the conversation, rereading, looking for hope, weighing the odds. And then I type the words.

Me: So . . . do you like me?

My finger hovers stiffly over the enter key until I can feel the strain in my hand.

And then my brother smashes open the door, scaring the crap out of me. I jump up.

“Hey, fat ass,” he says, “talking to your gay friends?” He laughs. “I’m telling Dad you’re having gay sex on his computer, you sick whack job.” He slams the door.

“I’m not gay!” I scream, like always, but he’s gone. I sit down. Only my eyes burn again. I look back at the screen, the cursor blinking, still waiting for a click.

More than anything, I want to know what Jack will say.

But then I put my hand down.

I just can’t risk it.

Not today.

An Innocent Bully

by Linda Gerber

If you see this, you probably won’t even blink.

You won’t realize I’m talking about you

because you don’t think of yourself as a bully.

Maybe you joked around a little when you were in school,

but it was nothing serious, just some innocent teasing.

Except . . .

Teasing isn’t intended to cause humiliation.

Teasing doesn’t tip the scales of power against the victim.

Teasing isn’t repetitive to the point of chipping away a person’s self-esteem.

You didn’t think you were being a bully.

You were just having fun.

And since I’d been taught to suck it up

and that names could never hurt me,

I wouldn’t let you see the way the knife twisted inside me

when you and your friends mooed

as I walked down the hall

because my last name was Cowan

and you thought you were clever.

Or when you told everyone at school that my dad felt me up

because I made the mistake of explaining to you once how he was blind, so he had to “see” with his hands.

Or when you smudged red paint all over my drawings in art

because they were chosen to hang at the front of the room

and you didn’t think I was cool enough

to have my pictures displayed

so you destroyed them

and then you stared me down,

and threatened to hurt me if I told.