Dear Bully

I shrivel in my seat. And then comes a wet hiss so close I can feel it on my skin. A four-letter bullet grazes my ears—brands itself onto my brain like a filthy tattoo. Shivers crawl up my neck. Hunching over, I duck my face down until the curtain closes back around me like a cloak. Thin and scraggly, but it does the job. I shrink small, smaller, smallest. I shrink until I’m almost gone. Almost, but not quite. Invisibility, you see, is the unattainable dream. How easy it would be if I could glide through these halls without even making a ripple. Slide through the days, months, years of school and emerge safe and unscarred on the other side.

If only.

I wait and pray for the threat to pass. As soon as I hear the squeak of their sneakers fading away, I release the long breath I’d been clutching for comfort. My curtain sways with the force of it. I freeze until the long, dark blond strands settle back into place.

The echo of Mom’s standard before-school lecture scratches at my brain. Her disappointment has become a daily routine in our house that’s as predictable as burned toast.

“Why won’t you cut your hair?”

And give up my shield? Are you crazy? I didn’t ever actually say this.

She reached out a gentle hand. “It’s just so long and shaggy.”

I ducked out of the way, swallowed the lump of guilt rising in my throat.

“Mom, please . . .”

“It’s just that we can barely see your face anymore. Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”

I lowered my head. The compliment didn’t make it through the curtain. It plopped at my feet like a pickled biology frog.

“I like my hair like this” is what I said. I left out the word need. “I’m going to grow it as long as I can and you can’t stop me.” It helps me hide. Believe me, Mom, if I had what it took to grow a beard and a mustache, I probably would.

If only.

But I didn’t say this, either. Shame has bound my truth and stolen away my words. How do you tell your mother you’ve become a target, a loser, a failure, a lunchtime joke?

I’m pretty sure the girl I used to be is still lurking somewhere inside my head. But her voice has been crushed into a squeak, a whisper . . . a breath above silence. Funny— inside the curtain, my thoughts roar like thunderbolts. But thoughts just aren’t enough to make them go away. And whispers are never heard. And squeaks are for mice.

The bell rings. I jump to my feet and dart out of the cafeteria, hidden behind my veil of hair, silent as a ghost. If only I could have known then what I know now (now that I’ve arrived safely, but not without battle scars, on the other side).

That one day soon, words won’t be weapons. Instead, they’ll become friends.

That one day soon, those inner thunderbolts will crash mightily overhead.

That one day soon, being different from them will be a gift.

That one day soon, it won’t matter what they think.

Or say.

That one day soon, the beautiful girl hiding behind the curtain will be strong enough to step out into the light.

If only I could tell myself to just hold on until then.

Hold on.

Regret

The Eulogy of Ivy O’Conner

by Sophie Jordan

As senior class president, it’s my duty honor to say some words on the life of Ivy O’Conner.

Ivy attended our high school since freshman sophomore year, and although I never spoke to her we weren’t the closest friends, I remember everyone making fun of her. How can anyone forget Creepy Ivy? I’ll always think of her with guilt fondness.

Students were always teasing complimenting her about her acne eyes. She had a funny mothball smell a way about her, too. Everyone talked about noticed her. She had such a creative personality. I remember her doodling stupid little shapes on her notebooks she was a great artist. She loved the flute the clarinet music.

Not everyone was nice to her. Not everyone understood her. Creepy Ivy was so strange different unique. Whenever she was called on in class, you could count on her to say the weirdest most thought-provoking words. Even the teachers laughed looked forward to hearing her thoughts. She was a freak an advocate for protecting the environment. She wasted devoted a lot of time to that crap stuff.

Creepy Ivy wasn’t your average nut job girl walking the halls of our high school. The girl had no style. In my mind, I still see her in that heinous lovely green sweater. She was so unaware when people did mean things to her tolerant of others.

We might not have known what we had in her, but we will never forget her. We don’t know what could have prompted her to take her life, but I wish . . .

I wish I could have stopped her. . . .

Regret

by Lisa Yee