Dear Bully

Cynthia and Tracy, the quieter girl, became friends. Years later they shared a college dorm room.

Cynthia went on to study law and journalism and is an author. Tracy went on to study political science and owns her own lobbying firm. Neither is especially quiet anymore.

Luz

by Melodye Shore

I lean against the outside wall of the cafeteria, gasping for air. Blood oozes from the long, crimson gashes on my arms, staining the stucco as it drips into the spreading pool of vomit at my feet. My stomach heaves yet again, and when there’s nothing left but bile, I fix my gaze on the sliver of sunshine peeking through the clouds. Don’t cry, I tell myself. Don’t let anyone see you cry.

Quick footfalls echo across the courtyard. I shade my eyes and find myself staring at the brown-eyed girl who transferred into eighth-grade English not long after me. Her name is Luz, if I remember correctly, though names don’t seem to matter when you’re stuck in the back of an overcrowded classroom—the row reserved for misfits and newcomers.

“Dáme tus manos.” Her voice is gentle, her face etched with worry.

I manage a weak smile. “I’m fine,” I say. “I just need a little fresh air.”

Truth is, I am not fine. A headache throbs at my temples. When I rake my fingers through my knotted hair, I pull away clots of blood. The wounds on my arms hurt like hell. Each jagged breath is more painful than the last—never mind the soul-scorching insults still ringing in my ears.

It all started in the cafeteria bathroom. I was searching for the free meal ticket that had fallen through a hole in my pocket. The room was quiet except for the locked stall on the end, where another eighth grader was purging her lunch.

The toilet flushed. She emerged from the stall, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

I was startled. I tried to hide the apple in my hand—the perfectly good apple I’d retrieved from the trash can when I thought no one was looking. I wasn’t sure if she’d seen me . . . until, that is, she cleared her throat.

We stared at each other’s reflection, eyes mirroring our darkest secrets.

Her lips curled into a sneer. “Just wait till everyone hears about this!” she said, and then she rushed out the door.

I pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, but before I could bury the offending fruit, she returned with a posse of her friends.

“Trash picker!” someone said with a snicker.

And from someplace behind me, “Freeloader!” And worse.

I was caught off guard by their angry eyes, paralyzed by their venomous words.

They swarmed around me, mocking my silence. Then someone grabbed me from behind.

I called for help.

A fist landed in my stomach.

I wheezed, begged for mercy.

They kicked and punched me instead.

I broke free somehow and ran for the exit, but not before they yanked out handfuls of hair and shredded my arms with their fingernails.

“That’s right,” someone shrieked. “Go home to the Dumpster you came from!”

And now, I’m vomiting up every last bit of that apple—and with it, every last ounce of my dignity.

“Let me help you,” Luz says in broken English. When she reaches for me, her outstretched arms are like wings, lifting me above and beyond all the pain and humiliation. I slip my hands into hers, and she squeezes them gently. I feel stronger already.

Hand in hand, we walk toward the main office to see the nurse. We duck underneath a sprawling eucalyptus tree, and she steadies me when I stumble over the roots. I retie my hand-me-down shoes, two sizes too large, and then we step inside.

The principal winces when we approach the counter, no doubt taking inventory of my injuries. “Who did this to you?” he asks. I don’t answer for fear of retaliation.

He turns to Luz. “You must have played some part in this!” She blinks and shrugs, as if she doesn’t understand him. Exasperated, he suspends us for the rest of the day.

I don’t have a key to my apartment, so my new friend invites me to hers. The steamy smells of chicken and corn tortillas greet us at the door. Luz’s mother is stirring a boiling pot in the kitchen, but when she sees my wounds, her spoon clatters to the linoleum floor.

Luz brings me bandages and a warm wash cloth, and in halting English, her mother insists that I stay for dinner. Her father says the blessing, and then we pile our plates high with arroz con pollo and frijoles—foods I learned to pronounce in Conversational Spanish but haven’t eaten before. They smile when I ask for seconds.