by Pam Muñoz Ryan
In fifth grade, my family moved across town. I was filled with the hope of my own room, a nice teacher, and with any luck, friends. I received my own room and the nice teacher. The friends part wasn’t that easy.
I hated being the new kid at school.
I was tall for my age and already wore a size nine shoe—an awkward atrocity. My brown hair was kept wholesomely off my face with hair clips. How was I to know that ponytails and short bangs were the rage at this school? Since I hadn’t yet adopted the no-socks look, my sense of style didn’t blend, either. I wanted to fit in, but I wore my vulnerability like a new pair of white shoes, all too ready to be scuffed up. A bully took advantage.
Her name was Theresa. She was tiny, wiry, and loud, with blond bangs and tightly pulled-back hair. I swore she walked with a deliberate swagger just to get her ponytail to swing from side to side. For a reason unknown to me, she decided that I was worthy of her attention, and every day she waltzed up to me and kicked me in the shins or the back of the legs. At first, I wondered if this was some sort of new-kid initiation, but she didn’t let up. I could expect a wallop when I least expected it—while I was standing in line after recess, on my way out of the girls’ bathroom, or as I pushed my lunch tray along the counter in front of the cafeteria ladies. Bam! Theresa was smart and quick. No teacher ever saw her, and within a week, my legs were bruised black, blue, purple, and green.
My mom noticed the marks, but I told her that I played on the jungle gym at recess every day and had hit them on the bars. I could tell she was suspicious of my story, so I promised I’d play somewhere else. I knew that if I kept coming home with mottled legs, though, one of my parents would eventually go to my teacher. I could only imagine the price I’d have to pay at school if I were the new kid and a crybaby tattletale.
I used to lie in bed every night dreading going to school and hoping that things would get better. I tried to figure out complicated routes to walk from one place to another so Theresa couldn’t get to me easily. I had a roundabout method of getting to my classroom in the morning, which involved walking outside the fenced schoolyard and entering the grounds at the opposite end of the campus, then working my way through the kindergarten playground. At recess and lunch, I stayed in the open spaces on the grassy field so that if I saw Theresa coming, I could at least run. That worked, some of the time. One day on the playground, as she was about to close in on me again, I bolted away, fast. I glanced over one shoulder and, with relief, didn’t see her and thought she had given up. I stopped abruptly and turned around, unaware that Theresa had been running full-speed toward me. She didn’t expect my sudden stop and slammed into me and fell to the ground. A group of kids standing nearby laughed. Angry, she leaped up and began kicking me with a fury. A scrape on my knee reopened, and blood trickled down my leg. As much as I wanted to, I didn’t cry.
Mary Lou, also in the fifth grade, was the tallest and biggest girl in the entire school. She was sturdy and big-boned and strong, with red hair and thousands of freckles. No one ever messed with her. When Mary Lou shoved through the crowd of kids and took my elbow, everyone backed away, including Theresa.
Mary Lou ushered me to the girls’ bathroom. As I stood there, shaking, she took a wad of paper towels, wet them, handed them to me, and pointed to my bloodied leg.
“So, Theresa’s been bothering you.”
I nodded, hoping that the next words out of Mary Lou’s mouth would be, “Well, I’m going to take care of her for you.” I had visions of having a personal hero to protect me—fantasies of Mary Lou escorting me around the school with a protective arm over my shoulder and clobbering anyone who came near me.
Instead, Mary Lou said, “You can’t let her keep doing this to you. She’s never going to stop unless you make her stop. Get it?”
I didn’t really get it. I shook my head.
“Listen, she’s a pain. But if you don’t stick up for yourself, things will get worse. You know that, don’t you?”
How could it get worse? And what did Mary Lou mean about sticking up for myself? Did she want me to fight Theresa? That idea terrified me more than being kicked every day.
“I’m not kidding,” said Mary Lou. “And if you don’t do something, I’m not going to help you again. Understand?” She made a fist and held it in front of my face.
I gulped. Things could definitely get worse. “Yes,” I whispered.
“Okay then, get back out there.”
Now? Did she mean stand up for myself right now?
I walked back to the playground with Mary Lou smugly following behind. I couldn’t see a way out of the situation. In front of me was Theresa, and in back of me was Mary Lou. The first bell rang, and kids began to assemble on the blacktop in front of the classrooms in their assigned lines. In a few minutes, the second bell would ring and teachers would walk out and get their students for class. The yard-duty teacher was still out on the grassy field, blowing her whistle and rounding up the stragglers.
Theresa stood in a huddle of girls. Mary Lou nudged me toward her. I had never instigated a fight before in my life. I had never hit anyone and didn’t have an inkling of what to do. My insides shook worse than my outsides. When Theresa saw me approaching, she set her mouth in a grim line, marched toward me, and swung her leg back to haul off and kick me. I jumped back to avoid the kick. I made a fist and flailed my arm wildly, in some sort of ridiculous motion. In a miraculous blow, I caught Theresa in the nose, and blood sprayed across her clothes. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.
I don’t remember what happened next. I know we brawled on the blacktop. Gritty sand scraped the skin on my arms, and I would notice the burns later. As we rolled over and over, tiny pebbles got embedded in my face. One of them made a substantial puncture that didn’t heal for weeks. In a matter of minutes, someone had retrieved the yard-duty teacher, and she corralled and ceremoniously walked us to the principal’s office. Devastated, I hung my head.
Sitting on the bench outside the principal’s office and waiting to be called in, I worried about several things. Would the school tell my parents? What would our punishment be? What would Theresa do to get back at me? What would the other kids think? Branded, I was now a bad girl.
The yard-duty teacher deposited us in two chairs, side by side, in the principal’s office and placed the referral slip on his desk. Our principal was a balding man with glasses and a kind, grandfatherly face. He seemed happy to see us.
“Well, girls, I want you to put your heads together and decide what your punishment should be while I make a phone call.”
He picked up the phone, and as he made his call, I stared at his desk. I realized I could read the referral slip upside down. The yard-duty teacher had written, “Benched for one week.”
Theresa leaned toward me and whispered, remorsefully, “I guess we should be benched for two weeks.” She felt worse than I suspected.
I glared at her and shook my head no.
The principal put down the phone. “Well, young ladies?”
“We should be benched for a week,” I blurted.
“I agree, and I don’t want to see you back here anytime soon.” He signed the referral and sent us back to class.
“How did you know to say one week?” she asked.
“I could read what the yard-duty teacher put on the slip. Upside down,” I said.
“Wow, you can read upside down?” said Theresa, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum.
I didn’t answer her.
That night I told my mother that I fell jumping rope.
Theresa and I were confined to the same green bench next to the stucco wall of the cafeteria for every recess and lunchtime. It was indisputably the Bad Kids’ Bench. Kindergartners and first graders had to file by to get to their classrooms, and they always gave us a wide berth, the orderly line snaking away from us, then back in formation, as if our badness might be contagious. The bench faced the playground so the entire recess population could see who was not privileged enough to play. The yard-duty teacher could keep an eye on us, too, in case we decided to jump up and sneak in a game of hopscotch. Indignant, I refused to talk to Theresa, who didn’t seem to have any inhibitions about being chatty.
She bragged to me about all sorts of things, but I ignored her until she said, “My mom takes me to the big downtown library every Tuesday after school.”
I rode my bike to the small branch library near my house every weekend, but my parents both worked full-time and couldn’t always manage after-school activities or driving to the main branch. The big library had a hundred times the selection and a huge children’s room with comfy pillows. They sometimes had puppet shows, story times, free bookmarks, and writing contests.
“Yep, every single Tuesday I go to the big downtown library to check out as many books as I like.”
Before I could feign indifference, and with sincere awe, I said, “You’re lucky.”
I was suddenly jealous of Theresa, but I didn’t want her to know how much. I reverted to giving her the silent treatment.
The week was over soon enough. The principal never called my parents. The other kids didn’t seem to care that I had been disciplined on the Bad Kids’ Bench. In fact, I actually detected a reverence from some of my classmates. From then on, Theresa left me alone, and Mary Lou was my acknowledged ally. I hoped I could repay her someday.
A few weeks passed, and one of the girls in our class had a slumber party. All the fifth-grade girls were invited. We descended on the birthday girl’s house with our sleeping bags, pillows, and overnight cases. Mary Lou and I set up our sleeping bags right next to each other. The night progressed happily, until someone suggested we tell ghost stories.
I hated ghost stories. I had far too active of an imagination that took me much further than the storytelling. I couldn’t seem to turn off the dark, scary world. If I saw even a slightly scary movie on television, my stomach would churn for days, and I’d have to sleep with my bedside lamp on all night. Mary Lou must have felt the same, because she moved closer to me. We huddled together behind the avid listeners with our pillows almost covering our faces. There was no way not to listen. One girl told a particularly gruesome tale about a tree whose giant branches turned into fingers and could grab and capture children. Most of the girls squealed and clutched each other in mock terror and then ended up giggling. Already anxious, I couldn’t imagine how I would get through the night. I suddenly wanted to be in my own house, in my own bed, with my parents down the hall and my trusty bedside lamp. There didn’t seem to be any way out of the situation that wasn’t humiliating. At least Mary Lou was by my side.
Suddenly, Mary Lou started crying. “I’m scared. I want to go home.”
Mary Lou had read my mind, but she had the courage to say it.
One of the girls said, “Don’t be such a baby!”
Others chimed in, “Mary Lou’s a scaredy-cat!”
“I’m calling my parents,” said Mary Lou through her giant sniffles.
“The baby’s calling her mommy and daddy,” the girls chanted.
I shivered in my sleeping bag, my stomach sick with fear. Sick that Mary Lou was leaving. Sick that I was next to a window, with a tree looming on the other side.
Mary Lou headed toward the phone and didn’t seem to care about the taunting. She called her parents with her chin up, set down the phone, and methodically began packing up her things.
My sleeping area looked bare without Mary Lou’s sleeping bag and blanket. A tree branch brushed against the window from the wind. I was convinced it was the same tree from the story and that I would be its next victim.
I stood up and began rolling my sleeping bag. “I’m going home, too. Mary Lou, can your dad give me a ride?”
I heard more giggles.
Then, from across the room, a small voice said, “Me too?”
Mary Lou nodded.
I secretly celebrated, knowing that we’d suffer the consequences of the gossip and finger-pointing at school on Monday, but now I didn’t care. There was safety in numbers. As I dragged my things into the hallway, I saw the third person.
It was Theresa.
The three of us huddled on the front porch waiting for Mary Lou’s dad. In a final cruel gesture, one of the girls turned off the porch light so we had to wait on the front steps in the dark, directly under the tree with the sprawling branches. On the other side of the door, the girls howled with laughter. I was never so grateful to see station wagon headlights.
Mary Lou’s dad headed toward Theresa’s house first. On the way, we were mostly quiet, but I felt happy. Happy I was going home to my own room. Happy that Mary Lou’s tearful exit scene had been watered down by our group departure. I was puzzled, though, that Theresa had been frightened, too. She always seemed so tough.
In front of Theresa’s house, she climbed out of the car and said, “So do you guys want to go to the library with me after school on Tuesdays? My mom drives me and she could drive you, too.”
I would love to go to the big downtown library on Tuesdays after school, I thought. But with Theresa? My mind battled. After all, she was the enemy, wasn’t she?
Theresa eagerly continued. “My mom can call your moms to make sure it’s okay and everything.”
I hesitated. “Are you going?” I asked Mary Lou.
“I can’t,” she said. “But you should go if you want to.”
“Yeah, you can come. It’s fun.” Theresa sounded sincere enough.
Mary Lou elbowed me as if to say, Go!
I finally nodded.
It was a strange camaraderie, given our history. Theresa and I shared many trips to the library together on Tuesdays. I’ve often wondered if, in some odd way, Theresa’s abuse had been an attempt to get my attention. She liked the library, and I always had my nose in a book, so she targeted me. Too bad for my legs that she didn’t have better social skills!
Mary Lou was, and still is, my hero. If a person believes in the domino effect, the premise that one action triggers another, then I am deeply indebted to her. If she had never made me stand up to Theresa, I would have existed on the outskirts of fifth-grade society, always defenseless. I would have never gained Mary Lou’s respect or had the courage to leave with her and Theresa that night at the slumber party. Instead, I would have suffered through my worst imaginings. And if it hadn’t been for Mary Lou, I might not have had the opportunity or courage to accept Theresa’s invitation to the downtown library on Tuesdays, which fueled my affection for books in a dramatic way.
It’s sometimes easier to hold on to the possibility that things will get better if you have someone whom you can stand beside, or who you know is always standing behind you. Being Mary Lou’s friend was always comforting, even when she revealed her own vulnerability. Big, strong people have fears (as do tiny, wiry people), and it often takes more courage to reveal a weakness than to cover it up. Mary Lou was confident, determined, fair-minded, and unafraid of her emotions. She fit in because she didn’t try to be anything but herself.
I hoped that someday I could be just like her.
PAM MUÑOZ RYAN is the author of Echo, a Newbery Honor Book and winner of the Kirkus Prize. She has written over forty books, including the celebrated novels Esperanza Rising, Becoming Naomi León, Riding Freedom, Paint the Wind, The Dreamer, and Mañanaland.