Dear Bully

Then you started complaining about having little headaches. They came often and you said Tylenol did nothing to relieve them. I thought maybe you had a brain tumor, and I felt guilty for every bad thought I’d ever had about you. We were in eighth grade by then, the summer had done nothing to subdue your distaste for me, and we had a class meeting to vote on our song for the Middle School Sing Off. Miss Halloran stepped out of the room and you dropped your head down toward the desk, pressing your fingers into your temples. “Oh, my little headache,” you moaned. “I just can’t get rid of it.”

Jessica Searle hit you in the side and you both started laughing. Lorelai Martin turned to me. We hadn’t been friends in a long time; she’d always been more your friend than mine, so it made sense that she’d pulled away when you did. But suddenly she had a look of such compassion on her face, and she said, “You know what she’s talking about, don’t you.”

It was more of a statement than a question, and it hit me all at once, like a punch to the gut.

“Little Headache” was your nickname for me. And everyone knew.

My cheeks were burning and there was this feeling coming from deep inside me, as strong as anything I’d ever felt before: I was ashamed to just be myself. In all of my life, I’ve never felt that again quite so strongly. Even now, I can’t even write about it without wanting to cry. Even now, I feel the heat on my cheeks and something flapping inside my chest.

You left school a year later, and by the end of ninth grade, things started to turn around for me. For a long time, I had fantasies of bumping into you on the street, preferably when I was surrounded by friends. Maybe I would become a world-famous writer, and then you’d read about me. Or I could marry a movie star, and you’d see our wedding covered on Entertainment Tonight. It’s funny that even as I’ve gotten older, my desire to prove my worth to you has not dimmed that much. The friends I have today are the coolest, most extraordinary group of people I’ve ever known, and they are loyal, and they are plentiful, and they are mine. It is as if I think that if you saw how good it was now, it would make the reality even more valid.

A few months back I heard about a horrible story out of Florida: A fifteen-year-old girl had been severely beaten. Her attacker was a troubled boy whose brother had committed suicide. The boy had been dating the victim’s best friend, and when the victim purportedly said something to her best friend about her boyfriend’s dead brother, something inside him snapped. He was arrested and I think tried for attempted murder, though I’m not sure what his sentence was.

Reading about those kids, my stomach turning, I was overwhelmed by their pain. My own story of adolescent cruelty seemed so simple, so harmless. I didn’t even ever get slammed into a locker; certainly no one was bringing weapons to school. But of course it doesn’t need to end in tragedy to be transformative.

For better or worse, Audrey, you changed my life.

With pride, I remain,

Courtney

* Names and other identifying details have been changed, and certain individuals are composites.

Slammed

by Marlene Perez

When I saw the book just lying there on the bleachers, I wondered if you had left it there on purpose. If you had left it for me to see all those hateful things people said about me. About everyone.

No one had passed the slam book my way. What would I have done if they did? I’d like to think that I would have done the right thing and not written anything.

I turned to my page first. Now I understood why they called it a slam book. Because when I read what was written about me, I felt as though an invisible person was repeatedly slamming me into a wall. I couldn’t even see who I was fighting.

Or could I? After I shook away the tears, my vision cleared and I recognized almost everyone’s handwriting.

A guy from my chemistry class, the one who would smile at me sometimes, wrote about how I’d performed a certain sexual favor for him. The only place that ever happened was in his imagination. And there was stuff from people who I thought were my friends, too. People like you. I recognized your handwriting right away but couldn’t believe you had written those things. That my boobs were too big and that my brain was too small.

We weren’t best friends or anything, but I thought we were friends. What about all those games we’d ridden to together? We double-dated for homecoming when we were sophomores. Remember? I held your hair back when you threw up all that cheap wine you and your date were guzzling. We talked about how your brother had died and even about getting out of this town, moving somewhere far away where nobody knew us.

I thumbed through the book and saw your handwriting on every page. You hated so many people, but most of all, I think you hated yourself.