Dear Bully

“Of course,” I lied. I unlatched the heavy gate and led Sam to the net.

My mind scrambled to think of something that would give the other kids a good laugh. “I’m going to blindfold you and you have to find your way out.”

I figured watching Sam bumble around on the green concrete would be pretty funny. Maybe he’d even trip over the net.

“That’s lame,” he said.

“I told you it was easy.”

Sam smiled. His crooked teeth spread his lips apart. His wavy hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty swirls. He was such an easy target, so odd-looking, so gullible. It was no wonder most of the fifth graders picked on the kid.

I felt a pang of guilt.

But it was only a pang.

The rest of me felt relieved it wasn’t me going through this fake initiation.

“What are you going to blindfold me with?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know.” I patted my pockets. “Do you have anything?”

“I could put my hoodie on backward,” he offered. “You know, so the hood covers my face.”

“Great idea.”

Sam pulled his arms out of the sleeves and turned his sweatshirt around. Then he flipped his hood up over his face. “I’m totally blind!” he joked as he flailed his arms around dramatically. I could hear the smile in his voice.

The other guys cheered from across the park.

Something fluttered in my chest. Was it fear? Excitement? Maybe it was something else. What I knew was that it was the first time I’d felt in control in a while. I had been struggling for friends ever since I moved here in third grade. Amusing the kids at the park, getting on their good side, seemed an excellent way to do it.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll just turn you around a few times . . .”

Sam held out his arms so I could spin him more easily.

I glanced at the other kids. Ricky gave me a thumbs-up.

When I figured Sam was dizzy enough, I let him go. He spun around a few extra times for good measure. By the time I slipped out of the tennis court, Sam was staggering about, groping for anything to help him regain his bearings. He stumbled to the edge of the court and leaned a shoulder against the fence. For a moment I was both afraid and amused that he might throw up inside his own hood.

Probably just playing it up to make us laugh, I thought.

That’s when Mark pushed past me onto the court and held Sam against the fence. Ricky pulled the strings of Sam’s hoodie through the bars and yanked them tight so Sam’s head was snug against the metal. Then he tied a triple knot. Sam cried out but Mark and Ricky dashed away. I looked for Glen and Gary, but the twins were already gone, having hoisted Sam’s new ten-speed high into the branches of a nearby tree. Everyone else was running, too.

“Let’s go!” someone called to me.

I watched Sam struggle to loosen the drawstrings of his sweatshirt. His skinny legs kicked at the air. His fingers clawed at the back of his head.

“Someone untie me!” he shouted between sobs. “I can’t reach the knot through the fence!”

I hesitated. Even with my short nails, I knew I could get the knot loose.

I heard the laughter fade toward Ricky’s house.

“Come on, Luper!” someone else yelled. “Follow us!”

I followed.

The cracked sidewalk passed easily under my feet. I knew the way to Ricky’s. It was backed up to the train tracks on Hawthorne Avenue. I passed it every day on my way home from school, saw them eating ice pops on the front stoop out of the corner of my eye. I never dared to look up after the one time Mark chucked his blue raspberry Freezee at me.

Maybe we’ll have ice pops when we get there. Maybe those guys will let me hang out with them on the front stoop.

A heavy lump rose in my chest.

I slowed.

Maybe they won’t pick on me anymore . . .

I stopped.

I heard Sam’s muffled cries behind me.

I turned around . . .

. . . and headed back to the park.

Even with my short nails, I knew I could get the knot loose.

Thank You, Friends

The Alphabet

by Laura Kasischke

A. I blamed the alphabet that the last name of the boy who hated me started with a letter so close to the letter that started mine. The ruthless fact of that. The depth and relentlessness of his random-seeming hatred. And he would be sitting right behind me in seventh-grade homeroom for the rest of my life. It made me want to die.

B. “Because he’s jealous of you?” my mother offered (so kind, so wrong) when I asked what could possibly have made this boy hate me so, so much. “Maybe you have something he wishes he had?”

C. Could my mother not see that I was no one a boy like this would be jealous of? My hair. My skin. My clothes. The house we lived in. The car my father drove.

D. “Don’t raise your hand,” he whispered into my neck as I was just about to answer a question.

E. “Everybody hates your goody-goody ‘I know the answer, I know the answer.’”