The whispering is getting louder. The teacher tells the students to be quiet now, but she has no idea what the buzz is all about. I worry what my face looks like. My cheeks feel hot, burning, but I keep my eyes hard, my expression blank. I can’t let them see how scared I am.
The bell silences the din. For a second, I feel everyone’s stares tunneling into my skin. Then they stand up. They get their coats and books. Suddenly I’m holding my jean jacket and books, too. I must have picked them up but I don’t even register doing so. Everything is a blur of sound and movement as I drift into the hall and out the door. The vultures follow. They circle ravenously. I can hear them talking; their voices spill over with excitement. “Are you going through with it?” “Is it true?” I don’t answer them. I can’t lose focus. My throat is chalk dry. I try to swallow, but it hurts.
Outside, tornadoes of litter and leaves twist about. I’m jealous of the chocolate bar wrapper that is snatched up and carried away. I want the wind to carry me away, too, away from all of this, but I’m cast-iron heavy. Dead weight.
Then the crowd parts as if perfectly choreographed and I see them. They stand high on the cement steps. They look confident together. I stand in the middle of a crowd and yet I’m all alone. They make no move toward me so I take a step closer to them. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. I clench my fists to keep my fingers from trembling.
I walk until I’m face-to-face with her. She refuses to look at me. Her eyes shift between the faces of her friends. She is smiling, chatting, laughing. I stare right at her, forcing my eyes cold, lifeless.
The vultures begin to squawk. They want action. They thirst for it. But this isn’t what drives me forward. I just want this to be over. I’ve had enough. It all ends today.
Finally, she shifts her focus. She looks me in the eye, and for a split second, I see something I’ve never seen before. It surprises me. So much so that I take a step back. In her sparkling green eyes, her laughing and mocking green eyes, do I see correctly? Do I detect a trace of fear? This amuses me. It almost derails me. I almost turn to leave, but then she speaks.
“Well,” she says. “I’m not going to start this.”
Sparks of anger ignite my insides. Her words thunder in the air around me. You don’t want to start this? I want to scream. I want to explode. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes. You don’t want to start this? All these years, and now you say you don’t want to start this?
My mind goes blank. The crowd melts away. I see nothing but her green eyes filled with contempt and fear. My hand rests at my side. My fist unclenches. My arm slices through the crisp air. I make contact.
2011
Dear Kristie,
I’m very sorry I slapped you in the yard after school. I wish I could say I didn’t mean to, but that would be a lie. We both know it was no accident. I hit you. I admit it. And now I’m apologizing because I know I was wrong.
Thing is, I was so tired of you and Brenda and the rest of your gang calling me names. Mostly “Dog.” Every single time I passed you in class, in the yard, or in the hall. What kind of a dog did you think I was, anyway? A poodle? A Doberman? Just curious. Particularly hurtful was when you’d just shorten your insults to “ruff, ruff,” barking in my direction, looking at one another and laughing. You were relentless. I don’t even know what I ever did to you to deserve this treatment. Was it because I wasn’t a follower? Was it because I spoke my mind? Were you so threatened by me? Were you so afraid your control over others would diminish if just one person challenged your beliefs? I guess you had to figure out a way to silence me. Demeaning. Discrediting. Excluding. These are all just forms of silencing, aren’t they?
I have no excuse for my terrible actions that day, but I realize now, I struck you because I simply didn’t have the words—the words to express all the pain, the frustration, the feelings of self-doubt, of shame, of embarrassment you caused me. I didn’t have the words then—but I have them now, so I say to you and all others like you:
My self-worth is not linked to your cruel words and actions.
My self-esteem is not affected by your deliberate attempts to destroy my character.
You have no power over me.
You will not silence me.
These words are not constructed of ink and paper. They are not formed of movement and sound. They are echoes of my soul. May they ripple outward and give strength to those who hear them.
Sincerely,
Marina
Dear Samantha
by Kieran Scott
Dear Samantha,
I’m writing you this letter because there’s something I’ve been dying to ask. How did you do it? How did you manage to have so much control over so many of us? Even more intriguing . . . how did you know you could do it? What gave you the confidence to roll into middle school that first day of fifth grade and take over? Did you sense we were all weaker than you? That we weren’t as smart? How did you decide who to pick off first? Who was least worthy of your “friendship”?
Back in fifth, when you made Aura Montrose walk up to me in homeroom and declare loudly that I was clearly anorexic, that I obviously needed help, that I had to stop with my psychotic disease or I was going to kill myself, I was mortified, dumbstruck, destroyed. To this day I remember everyone laughing—Evan Lawrence’s openmouthed cackle, Danielle Jennings’s sympathetic glance, Jenny Marx standing behind Aura with that awful, triumphant smirk. That was the day you decided that I was no longer worthy, and just like that, I was no longer popular, either. After that day, it was just me and Mary, the one person who stayed by my side, my BFF. For the next few weeks I would sit in the cafeteria and watch you, surrounded by all your (formerly my) friends, and wonder what I did wrong. Was it my pink tube socks? Was it because my brother was being picked on by the “cool” kids in his grade? Was my house not big enough or my backpack too large or my hair too straight? Why did all those girls get to remain in the inner circle while I was kicked out? I felt so uncool. So unlucky. And I didn’t know why.
But as time went on, I realized that I was actually one of the lucky ones. Because as you got older, you got crueler. Coercing people into signing that anti–Cara Mellon petition; that awful “gift” you sent to Maya Walters that was supposedly from the guy she liked. Even Aura and Jenny, in the end, weren’t immune from your tactics. (Perhaps Jenny’s smirk that day was her gloating over the fact that it wasn’t her day. That she would live to see another as part of your in crowd. But it didn’t last long, did it?) You embarrassed and ostracized each and every one of us until my table, the outcast table, was more crowded than yours. Until we were the ones having fun at lunch while you were practically alone. I learned not to blame those who did your bidding, who stood by and smirked, because I knew that if I had been in their position, I would have stood by and said nothing. Let you do your thing. Because standing up to you was just too scary to contemplate. I tried to understand where they were coming from, and I forgave them. In hindsight I realize that if we had all just stood up to you the first time you “pulled a Samantha,” most of us never would have had to suffer. I wonder what you would have done if ten girls had all told you to stop. If ten girls had come to you as one and told you what we really, truly thought of you. What I wouldn’t give for a big, fat rewind button.