Dear Bully

In my sophomore year of high school, I had a smart, strong-willed friend named Karen. I’ve been thinking about Karen lately because her younger sister, Melanie, recently friended me on Facebook. Once I figured out why Melanie’s name was familiar, I asked her how Karen was.

“Karen died a few years ago,” Melanie replied. “I’m so glad we have her beautiful children.”

That was all she said. And even though this was only a Facebook message, I could almost feel in its tone that Melanie had the same kind of fierceness that Karen did. I didn’t push her for details, as I didn’t wish to intrude or cause her pain. Melanie wanted to ask me about my books, and so we talked about that. But I was reeling. Karen died in her early forties? How could that be?

In my mind, I see Karen as she was at fifteen. She was very beautiful, with high cheekbones, huge brown eyes, and a large nose. She also had the kind of blond hair that everyone dreams of. Karen’s hair hung, long and thick and golden, all the way to her waist. If you saw Karen from behind, her hair brushed and flowing, you might think she was a Barbie doll kind of girl. But then she’d turn. I think it was her nose that saved Karen from looking like Barbie; her nose that made her beautiful rather than pretty. That nose told you that this was a girl with character.

Our group of friends wasn’t among the popular; we were a socially middling group mostly known for getting good grades. Boys were of interest, but we were still shy and awkward. Karen, too. At first.

But as in a contemporary YA novel, Karen the beautiful caught the eye of the most handsome and popular boy in our grade. His name was Danny. I’d never put a character like Danny in a novel because he seemed like a walking cliché: tall, dark, broad-shouldered, handsome. Of course he played football.

Danny liked Karen. Karen liked Danny. But then came the inevitable complication: Danny’s previous girlfriend.

I don’t remember her name. She was a year older. Weirdly (or maybe not), she looked a lot like Karen. She had a strong face that spoke of character (including, yes, a large nose). She also had hair. Her brown hair was exactly as long and as thick and as beautiful as Karen’s blond hair.

This girlfriend, who was a popular cheerleader (more clichés), was furious at being replaced. And she had friends who seemed equally furious on her behalf. And so, suddenly, smart, studious, ferocious Karen was the target of a vicious bullying campaign. And Karen’s allies—girls like me—were not equipped to be the kind of support that could really help her much against the older, popular girls who were after her. Karen’s life became abruptly miserable.

But Karen fought back anyway. It was in her nature. Karen fought back as hard as she could.

Where was Danny in all this, you ask? Why didn’t he defend his new girlfriend? Well, that’s where things get even more interesting. It turned out that maybe Danny hadn’t exactly broken up with the old girlfriend before getting started with Karen. It turned out that maybe Danny felt as if he was entitled to all the long-haired beauties he wanted. It turned out that maybe Danny liked being fought over . . . and did things to egg it on, favoring first one girl, and then the other. . . .

I won’t dwell on the weeks in which Karen was under siege, believing that Danny cared for her, and that the enemy was this vicious, older girl who looked so much like her. And I can’t tell you what was in Karen’s mind, because—like her sister today—Karen kept her deepest emotions to herself. And I don’t know what the other girl was thinking, either, as she fought the girl she believed to be her enemy.

But I bet there was one person having a really good time.

Here’s how I wish it had gone. Here’s what I now realize I would like to have seen: those two beautiful girls, side by side, blond and brown hair streaming behind them, as they turned their backs on handsome, empty, cruel Danny and walked calmly away.

Surviving Alfalfa

by Teri Brown

He stands there, a good two feet taller than you, and he seems invincible. Until you look in his eyes and they’re so dark with pain that they’re almost black. The scent of freshly cut hay swirls around you.

Then he asks, “Why don’t you guys like me?”

Your heart thuds in your chest and you feel his hurt and confusion as if it were your own, because you know that pain. But you can’t tell him the truth. You’re too scared, too confused, too insecure. So you lie.

“We like you.”

He knows you’re lying and shakes his head. “No. No one talks to me. You all make fun of me.”

You don’t correct him, because to your shame, it’s true. You have made fun of him. Made fun of him because that’s what she does and you will do anything not to be in his position, because you’ve been there before and, may God forgive you, you don’t have the courage or the fortitude to do anything else.

Now there’s anger under your pain because he’s holding up a mirror and it’s so ugly and scary you want to run away and hide.