Janna
Willies, a 15-year-old high school girl, is the silent type; she speaks less
than anyone knows. On my way to school gate, I spot her out of the corner of my eye.
She is bending her head, busy bagging her old belongings. I notice that she has
lost her slim figure, but I can still recognize her. Her nails are unpainted,
and her hands are covered with old gloves. She went to the same middle school
as my brother, Billy.
As I remember the days
in high school school, I recall that she was the dazzling, sweetest girl who
immediately attracted the attention of all the high school boys. She was a
head taller than me, her black hair shining with vitality. She was the top
student in her class, Class A. She owned a pink satchel bag, which meant more
than owning an iPhone nowadays. She often polished her nails in bright colors
that matched her stylish, well-tailored clothes.
I was in freshman when I first saw her with my brother Billy in the gym. We never formally
introduced ourselves, but we always saw each other at the gym, where mostly
Saint Andrews students played volleyball. She barely smiled or talked to me. In
fact, during the first year, she hardly looked at me. I was quite loud but
never raised my voice to anybody in school. She was a loner, and staying alone
while reading novels was her happiness something most kids didn’t care about.
One day, after spring
turned to summer, she reached out her hand square and masculine and said,
“Let’s be friends.” I rolled my eyes as my heart raced, nervous yet happy; my
mind went blank, and I thought of running away from her. My classmates started
giggling, some of the girls shouted, the boys clapped their hands, and they all
began teasing me, which made me feel awkward. After a brief hesitation, I
replied, “Sure,” stretching my hand out to touch hers. I wasn’t sure what that
"friendship" would be like, but I knew that being her friend meant
being part of her life as a "friend" a "close friend"?
After school, they
asked me if I could come to the high school gym. I was invited to join them in
their favorite game volleyball. I had no clue how to play volleyball; in fact,
I had never tried it even once. They begged me to join, and it didn’t matter if
I could play or not because they were willing to train me. After one game, we
went to the school backyard. It was a desolate clearing coated with chaotic
weeds, hidden behind the grove that faced the boys' restroom. The moist air was
suffused with the pungent smell of wet grass mixed with the odor from the
restroom. We slightly bent our knees to start the "poker game" when
five girls, including her, stood in front of me. She was behind a tiny girl
named Lily. Janna had already changed into her sports outfit red shorts and a
yellow T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. In front of Lily was a big mesh bag
filled with volleyballs.
Janna took my hands,
grabbed a ball from the bag, and asked me, “Are you ready to be hit by the
ball?” They all started to laugh, while other girls cheered, yelled, and tapped
their shoes on the ground. A sense of foreboding washed over me. Before I was
ready (if I even knew how to get ready), she tossed the ball toward me, hitting
my shoulder. All the other girls grabbed balls, imitating her, and I became
their target. As I stood frozen, the balls hit me from different directions. I
fantasized about hitting some back like a pro on an Olympic team, but I was
paralyzed with fear. I simply couldn’t do it. Each hit hurt terribly; their piercing
laughter intensified the pain. I fell several times and could hardly stand when
they finally ended the “training.”
“That was fun, wasn’t
it?” Janna glanced at me, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. Her sarcastic
smile pained me, and the other girls laughed even louder. The triumphant group
strode away, leaving me crying quietly and wiping the dirt from my shirt and
pants. It took me longer than usual to get home. My parents were already home
from work. My mom asked me why I was late, and I made up a reason that made
sense to her. She didn’t probe further. My parents rarely asked me anything
about school as long as they knew I got good grades. After dinner and washing
the dishes, I went to my room and locked the door, weeping again.
In the following days,
months, and years, I became the laughingstock of those girls. I wanted to fight
back, but I didn’t know how, and nobody helped me. If life were a book, the
days in high school would be the pages I wanted to tear out and fling away.
But today, after 46 years, I saw her again.
When she finished
bagging her old belongings, she came toward me. Her eyes fell on me for a few
seconds but quickly drifted away. I walked over to where she was standing, and
she grabbed my hands quickly and said, "It was you?" I didn’t know
how long I had been sitting on the backyard bench, pondering the childhood
experience that had been buried for years. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was
my son, Adie, back from school. “Are you okay, Mom?” he asked, looking
concerned.
“Yeah, I am. I was
just caught up in some old memories, but I’m okay now.” I smiled at him, and he
smiled back, ready to retreat to his room. “Adie,” I turned to him, holding my
middle-schooler boy in my arms, and spoke softly, “Tell me about your day at
school. I will tell you about mine.”
*********
In the shadows of my everyday life, there existed a nightmare that I couldn’t escape. The days were filled with fear and anxiety, and the nights were haunted by tears and loneliness. I felt trapped in a cycle of torment that left me feeling like my life was a mess.