Chapter Two
Although our new house was the nicest one, by objective standards, that I’d ever lived in, I couldn’t imagine it ever feeling like a real home. The mail continued to arrive each day, bearing the ghosts of past occupants. Dad’s torment was always just yards away, dampening any bright thoughts that might percolate in my brain. Mom was mostly missing, working as a nurse in a hospital thirty miles away where, by necessity, she tended to every patient except the one who needed her most. The neighbors kept to themselves, which was a concept totally unfamiliar to me. On the positive side, we had our first TV, but it was in my parents’ room to distract Dad from the pain that was his constant companion.
People travel for miles to visit the daffodils that begin to bloom in Indian Springs each February. The entire town was under orders to display daffodils in every conceivable space. Not exactly official orders, more of a community understanding. If you don’t participate, you undermine your community, turn your back on what it stands for—love, acceptance, support during the hard times.
Judgement and ostracism.
Nature’s smiles dominate the landscape for a few months, bringing a fleeting fame to an otherwise unremarkable town.
My family was one of the few that didn’t live up to our obligation when we first moved to Indian Springs. Couldn’t. The bulbs in front of our house were old and hadn’t been well-cared for. The plants hadn’t been watered properly after blooming season. Mom was too busy taking Dad to his doctors’ appointments, and Luke and I were trying to adjust to our new school. Not that we would have known what to do with a daffodil even if we’d had all the time in the world on our hands. Eventually, well-meaning neighbors showed up and replaced bulbs and tended to the ones resilient enough to survive. I’d look out the kitchen window when I was rinsing my breakfast dishes to see an unfamiliar figure, trowel in hand, hunched over the strip of bare earth that edged our front lawn.
I felt keenly the divide between those happy yellow flowers that decorated our new town and the mood that permeated inside my new home.
My first night after school, I lay in bed replaying every minute of my day. I was pleased the work seemed easy enough, and I didn’t think I’d have trouble keeping up. I hadn’t made any friends, but then I hadn’t really expected to. I’d seen Luke during lunch—all the way across the cafeteria from where I’d taken a seat at a table occupied by kids who didn’t appear to be a cohesive group. Some were reading. Some were eating. Some were staring at the food in front of them. It seemed like a safe table, where I could take cover during lunch. Luke, on the other hand, was hanging with a group of boys who, to the outside observer, could have been his lifelong friends. I knew he was trying to decide between baseball and swim team. The boys most likely were sent by competing coaches to recruit Luke for their sport.
I thought about Timothy, whom I decided to call by his real name instead of Tim because it was the first one he’d said, so I believed it must be his preferred. I had stocked my backpack with plenty of sharpened pencils and even a few pens for the next day. My homework was done. My clothes were laid out. I’d broached the subject of clothes with Mom who agreed to get me a pair of jeans and maybe a few t-shirts that weekend at the Goodwill.
The walls were so thin between the three bedrooms of our house that I heard every footstep and every squeak of every bedspring. The TV murmured from my parents’ room where it had become constant background noise, long after they fell asleep. I waited for Luke to finish up in our shared bathroom so I could brush my teeth and go to sleep on the lumpy used mattress that came with the house.
I thought about the girl who looked directly at me and smiled, refusing to let me go until I smiled back at her. I got up and walked over to my dresser where I stared into the mirror. I pushed my hair flat against my forehead, imagining bangs which grew down to my eyebrows. I knew that my hair grew a half-inch every month. I envisioned myself in one year, with hair that reached my shoulders and was perfectly styled.
I selected a Pixy Stix from my private candy stash hidden from who-knows-who in my dresser drawer. Cherry-flavored. I tore open the top, and poured a small amount onto the tip of my tongue where it mixed quickly with saliva. I pushed the mixture onto my lips, spreading it with my tongue, rubbing my lips together to distribute the red color evenly.
I pictured the girl I wanted to be.
Mr. Janke shuffled our assigned seats once a month, so the next day I was no longer seated next to Timothy, nor was I in the back of the class. But I did manage to catch up with Timothy after class to present him with a brand-new, freshly sharpened pencil.
“Thanks.” He dropped the pencil in the front pouch of his backpack and ambled away. Apparently, I’d misjudged our connection. Or his desire to converse with a kindred spirit.
I hadn’t seen the girl with the strawberry-blonde hair again, not even at lunch. But then again, there were two lunch periods so she was probably in the second one. I had seen Timothy, though. I originally figured him for a candidate at my adopted table of social isolation but I was wrong again. Timothy hung with a small group of friends, both girls and boys, who seemed to enjoy each other’s company. If I had to judge by their appearance, I’d have pegged them for the smart kids.
Timothy never showed any sign of recognition, not even when we stood side by side, waiting in the cafeteria line. I attempted a weak smile and a barely audible “hi,” but his gaze by then was already averted, and the sound of my voice was no match for our one-foot height differential. My puny greeting drowned in a cacophony of clattering dishes and clanking forks. Mercifully, the cafeteria server intercepted my smile and smiled back.
“Hi,” she said, rescuing me from utter humiliation.
That day at lunch, a girl at my table I’d seen the prior day leaned over mid-chew. She wore glasses which made her somehow less intimidating.
“Are you new?” she asked, and I felt a thrill at the possibility of new friendship.
“Yeah, I just started this week.” I turned my upper body to face her, trying to signal my openness to questions.
“Cool. Where are you from?” Her upper lip caught on silver braces when she spoke, producing something akin to a lisp. I’d never seen braces that close before and tried not to stare but couldn’t help noticing a tiny sprig of green snagged in the wire of her front tooth.
“Actually, we moved here from Guatemala. A village called Monte Verde.”
“Guatemala? Isn’t that an island out in the middle of the Pacific? Like near Tahiti?”
I hesitated to start down a path that would lead to all the ways I was different from everyone else, but she seemed genuinely interested and kind.
“Nope. You’re probably thinking of Guam. I’ve been there too.”
“Oh, cool,” she said, but the way she said it made me think she wasn’t impressed one iota. “What grade are you?”
“Sophomore.”
“I’m a junior,” she said as if to bring our conversation to a close. As if there would be no recovering from the difference in our grades, no going back to two strangers innocently reaching out to each other. The brief flicker of interest in her eyes extinguished. “Well, nice talking to you. Hope you like it here.” She flipped open a well-worn paperback novel and was instantly mesmerized. It seemed even a fantasy world was a better bet than a sophomore girl from a country that wasn’t close to Tahiti. I wondered if I’d come off as a know-it-all when I threw in the line about Guam. I wondered if I’d humiliated her by pointing out the difference in the two countries. I wasn’t sure when another opportunity like this would present itself, and I feared I’d blown my only chance for a friend.
By the third day, I had no illusions about what lay in store for me. The daffodils were nothing more special than yellow bobbleheads. I’d fallen for their promise of new life and fresh starts, but I wouldn’t be deceived again. Nobody was interested in forming a friendship with me. Even kids like Timothy and the girl at the lunch table rejected me. I accepted my fate of counting down the days until school was over. Running out the clock. Summer would bring the promise of warmth and sunshine, which I associated with happiness. Maybe Dad would be better by then and we could go back to Guatemala or a different mission somewhere else. Luke could stay behind for college. It wasn’t so long to wait. Only a few months.
In health class, Mr. Janke assigned a class project and advised us we were to work in pairs. Glancing down the list of possible topics, I wasn’t sure which was more daunting—the subject matter or the act of securing a partner. I glanced nervously to my right and left but everyone was already partnering up, flagging down friends across the room or leaning over to whisper to ones nearby.
“Come up and see me once you’ve picked your subject and I’ll mark you off,” Mr. Janke said. Already, more than half the class was lined up at his desk, declaring their partnerships and their preferred topics. A few had to pick second or third choices by then and I still didn’t have a partner.
There was a tap on my shoulder, and I swiveled so quickly, I felt a sharp ping followed by a painful twinge in my neck.
“Wanna be partners?” Timothy asked, and a relief so powerful overcame me that tears threatened to spring from my eyes.
“Sure, but . . .”
“I’ll get us a topic,” he said and walked right past me to the front of the room.
I watched Timothy confer with Mr. Janke, and it was apparent from their knitted brows that there were slim pickings by then. At one point, they glanced over at me, and I forced a smile in return, wondering why I wasn’t up there bargaining on my own behalf, but also relieved Timothy was doing it for me. Mr. Janke leaned over his paperwork to note our partnership and whatever subject had been chosen for us.
“Herpes,” Timothy said as he walked by my desk.
The rest of class was a blur, a combination of physical illness and unreality. Wasn’t it clear to Mr. Janke I was in no way prepared to handle this? Herpes? STDs? What did I know about that world? What would my parents say? And with a boy as my partner? How could I calmly sit and discuss this with Timothy? Where would we work? And when? Would Mr. Janke allow us to work in class, or would we have to meet outside of school? In his house or (Heaven forbid) mine? Could I convince him to go to the local library? Was this a sort of date? Was Timothy asking me out on a date? How could I calmly discuss herpes with Timothy when I was already blushing just thinking about it? Would he expect me to kiss him at some point?
I soon had the answers to my questions as I jogged to catch up with him after class, when it was apparent he wouldn’t be waiting for me.
“Umm,” I began, betraying my absolute lack of all confidence. “Umm . . . how should we do this?”
I had to walk in double-time, every two steps of mine equaling one of his.
“Do what? The project?”
“Yeah. I mean . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it myself.”
When I looked up at him with what he must have known was alarm, he said, “I’ll put your name on it with mine. First, if you want.”
“But that would be dishonest, wouldn’t it?”
“Why? There’s always one person who carries all the weight when it comes to working in groups or with partners. So why not dispense with the pretense? I’ll handle it. Make it much easier on the both of us.”
Who was I to argue? I knew I had nothing to contribute.
“And anyway,” he continued. “Group projects are stupid. They accomplish absolutely nothing, and I prefer working on my own.”
So was this why he chose me? Because he knew he could work on his own without interference? Without some meddlesome partner interjecting ideas that he considered stupid?
“Well, what should I do? I should at least do something.”
“You can give the oral presentation,” he said without a glance over at me.
I froze in my tracks, but when I realized he wasn’t going to stop, I rushed to catch up with him.
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t do that,” I said, my voice so small and shaky, I was embarrassed. “I’d rather write the whole thing than do the oral presentation.”
Timothy must have heard the panic in my voice because he looked down at me as though only just then aware someone was at his side.
“Okay, okay. I’ll do everything. You can . . . proof the paper.”
I seized on that, although by then I was fairly confident Timothy was indeed one of the smart kids and proofing the paper was just a bone he threw to get me off his back.
“Deal!” I said triumphantly.
Physical education was a new horror I’d been able to avoid the first two days. Whoever was in charge of providing me with a uniform either didn’t come through or perhaps had forgotten. I was allowed to sit on the bleachers and do homework while the other girls lined up in the gym to perform various aerobic exercises before divvying up into volleyball teams. In Guatemala, physical education meant swinging on a rope under the vivid purple canopy of a flowering guayacan tree or kicking a soccer ball with whoever happened to have one. Usually barefoot.
My luck ran out on day three when Ms. Simms, the PE teacher, presented me with the requisite top and shorts stamped with the name and logo of our school. Since they were several sizes too big, and since I still didn’t wear a bra, I changed into my PE uniform by slipping my top over the blouse I wore to school, and rolling the sleeves of my blouse so they wouldn’t be visible. I cinched the waist of my shorts by drawing the cord tight and double-knotting it.
Ms. Simms randomly assigned me to a group of girls with whom I was supposed to remain for the rest of the year, and with whom I was expected to bond in the spirit of all that was wonderful about team sports. Introductions were quick and were done by Ms. Simms. Not one girl had a follow-up question for me or anything beyond an obligatory “hi” shadowed by a disappearing smile. On the volleyball court, I mimicked my teammates’ actions but failed to serve the ball over the net a single time, missed every ball that came my way, and even succeeded in smacking a teammate in the nose with a wild backward swing. She was immediately excused to go to the nurse’s office to tend to the resulting bloody nose. So much for bonding. When all the girls had changed from their PE uniforms back into school clothes, I was still struggling with the double-knot on my shorts. Once again, I arrived five minutes late to English, and this time without a pass.
Another week went by before oral presentations began in health class. They were scheduled so they’d all be done by the end of the week. As I listened to the other kids fumble and flush their way through their reports, I felt immense gratitude that I wouldn’t be put in that position. I’d proofed Timothy’s report and found it to be professionally written without a single mistake that I could find. But it was filled with embarrassing words and phrases like genital-to-genital, sores, and oozing. I returned the paper to Timothy without eye contact.
I would be required to go to the front of the class when we were introduced, but after that I could take my seat. Even that was bad enough since I’d developed a cold sore at the corner of my mouth—a sore that always appeared when I was on the verge of coming down with a virus or hadn’t been getting enough sleep. It was Monday, and Timothy wasn’t there, but I wasn’t worried because he’d said we were scheduled for Friday. By then, I hoped my cold sore wouldn’t be so noticeable.
I was totally unprepared when Mr. Janke called my name as the next presenter.
“But . . .” I sputtered. “Timothy isn’t here today.”
“You’re scheduled today,” Mr. Janke said. “And it wouldn’t be fair to put someone else in your place when they aren’t prepared.”
“But I’m not prepared,” I gasped.
Mr. Janke looked down as if to double-check the schedule.
“Why not? Do you have the paper?’
“Yes, but . . .”
“Did you not help write it and go over it?”
“Yes,” I lied. But I had read over it.
“Then proceed. This is a joint project so you’ll both receive the same grade regardless of Timothy’s attendance.”
Every eye in the room was turned on me.
I retrieved my copy of the paper from my backpack, all the while cursing myself for not lying and claiming I didn’t have it on me. I clutched it with one white-knuckled fist and made my way to the front of the classroom on legs that threatened to buckle.
“I’m Grace Templeton,” I muttered to the pages. “And my project—our project . . . me and Timothy . . . it’s on herpes.”
Cue the laughter. It’s not that our project was more or less embarrassing than any of the others by nature; it’s just that I was such a painfully pathetic and self-conscious orator.
I blearily read the contents of the report that Timothy had written, the words squirming on the page like lethal viruses, waiting to invade my brain and render me a sobbing mess of mush. At one point, I froze, completely incapable of transforming the written word to the spoken one.
“Go on,” Mr. Janke said. From the way he said it, I could tell he was already regretting his decision to make me go it alone. He was a kind man. He just didn’t want the clowns running the circus. But the gentleness in his voice gave me the courage to continue, and I tried to focus only on that.
When it finally came to the part where I described the visual symptoms of genital herpes, a girl’s squeal cut through the funereal pall that had settled over the room.
“Eeew! She has one on her lip.”
To which everyone burst out laughing, and I couldn’t blame them. I was the perfect target in the perfectly comedic situation for a roomful of high-school students who’d rather be anywhere but there. Even I recognized it as a means to diffuse the tension, and it worked. I instinctively brought my hand up to cover the sore at the corner of my mouth.
But Mr. Janke was furious, calling the girl from her seat and sending her to the office with a harsh rebuke.
When I was done and had received a compassionate pat on my shoulder and a merciful “well done” from Mr. Janke, I took my seat and proceeded to die a thousand deaths.
The next day, Timothy appeared at my desk before class.
“How’d it go? I heard Janke screwed up the schedule and made you give the talk.”
For a few seconds, I considered not replying. But my anger got the better of me.
“Where were you?”
“Taking the PSAT. Why weren’t you there?”
I didn’t even know what a PSAT was.
“Nice. I guess you got your way because it’s obvious you planned for me to give the talk all along. Hope you’re happy. I hope we get an F.”
“We didn’t. We got an A.”
“That’s a joke. Anyway . . .” I fumed at the memory of my public humiliation.
“I told you; Janke screwed it up. We were supposed to present on Friday.”
“Oookay. If you say so, I believe you. Wait. No, I don’t.”
I opened my book and pretended to read.
Timothy shook his head slowly and sighed. “Whatever.” He slouched over to his desk.
I squeezed my eyes shut, allowing the tears to wet my eyelashes but not my cheeks.
After that day, we never spoke in class again.
There was a final memorable incident my sophomore year before we were released to the freedom of summer, toward which we all seemed to be racing those final weeks of school. I had a hall pass to go to the library, the purpose of which I no longer remember. The hallways were empty, a preview of their natural state soon to come. I walked slowly, taking advantage of my justified absence from class.
The long hall leading to the library had double doors which opened to the gym. The part of the gym closest to the hall was connected to the boys’ locker room by another door. I was only steps away from the double doors when I heard a sudden commotion—voices, yelling, laughter, a slam, and finally pounding. I quickened my pace to witness the source of pandemonium.
When I stared into the gloom of the empty gym, I saw a boy pounding on the door to the boys’ locker room. Stark naked, pale and thin, a thatch of dark hair between his legs from which protruded a ridiculous fleshy tube I understood immediately to be a penis. It flopped back and forth as the boy continued to pound on the door, demanding to be let in. His voice was cracked and sounded close to tears.
My immediate thought was one of shock. Boys had hair down there? I thought only girls did. And the penis . . . disgusting. I know I stopped and stared. This was the first naked adult male body I’d seen and I was riveted, yet revolted. How is it we were the same species and so alike in so many ways when our clothes were on?
Because I was focused on what was between his legs, it took me a few seconds to realize it was Timothy. Our eyes met and he turned his back to me, hanging his head, hunching his shoulders, and covering the crack of his butt with one hand. The door opened, and I could hear the teacher (Mr. Janke?) yelling at the tormentors responsible for Timothy’s disgrace.
I walked away quickly, burning with shame for the thoughts in my head.
My first thought was that Timothy was a victim, and I never wanted to be a victim. I decided right then to do everything in my power to make sure something like that never happened to me. Thoughts like this hadn’t occurred to me in the missionary schools I’d attended, but now I experienced a different reality. One less kind. One that required more strength.
My second thought was that Timothy deserved it.
The last day of school was a half-day basically devoted to standing in line to receive your yearbook and then getting people to sign it once it was in your possession.
There were a few kids I’d met at the loser table where I’d spent every lunch since I first arrived at Indian Springs. The loser table—such a cliché. None of us thought of ourselves as losers, I’m sure. We were just the kids who wanted to blend in and didn’t have the means to pull it off. On the last day of school, we sought each other out to avoid the shame of an unsigned yearbook.
After that, I found a quiet corner to sit where I could study the contents of this book. I’d arrived too late for a picture, but I was grateful for that. There would be no visual record of who I’d been my sophomore year. I knew I’d come back as a different girl after the summer. One more in tune with, at least, the fashion requirements necessary to blend in. One who wouldn’t wander accidentally into the wrong classroom on her first day. One who wouldn’t ever be a victim again.
This book could have served me well if it had been handed to me on my first day of school. I would have known who was who and what was what by carefully perusing its pages. Who was smart. Who was popular. What activities might possibly align with my interests. But I’d known none of that and was still relatively clueless after more than three months of fighting just to stay afloat.
I found Timothy’s picture. He stared awkwardly at the camera, his mouth in an imitation of a comfortable smile. I found his name in the index: Chess Club, Honor Society, JV basketball, Debate Club, State Band, and more. I’d suspected, but not known, the extent of his successes.
I ran my finger over row after row of sophomore class portraits until I stopped at the one I’d been looking for all along. There was the girl who had smiled at me on that first day, taking in my entirety as though I was a real person who was visible if you only bothered to look. Her hair and makeup were perfectly done, perhaps in anticipation of picture day. She looked into the camera, unafraid. She smiled but not in an ingratiating way—more in the manner of someone who knows what others don’t. I turned to the back to read her list of accomplishments and they were equally as impressive as Timothy’s. I flipped back to her picture and stared into her eyes as I had on my first day. But now I knew her name.
Carly Sullivan.