March
They were the queens of the fourth grade. They did what they wanted, and no one said anything about it.
Their favourite pastime happened to be humiliating me. I must admit, they were pretty good at it. They did it in intricate ways that wouldn't be as obvious as name-calling or leave a mark like hitting would. They would invite me to hide and seek, and then never come seek. They would ask me questions and then twist my answers so that it suddenly sounded stupid and embarrassing. They would challenge me to climb to a high place, promising to help me down, and then run away leaving me there.
Their every word, every action and facial expression, was designed to underline to me that I'm not wanted there.
The school yard was divided into areas. There was the place where the jungle gym was, another where several different types of hopscotch grids were painted. Way in the back of the yard was a running track and a football field. My place was the one by the bike racks, close to the stairs, in a shadowy cranny so that the other kids wouldn't notice me when they walked by.
That day the other kids were jumping rope close to my shadows. The queen of the queens was an expert. She could do the double rope in a super fast pace. I really wanted to try as well although I knew I wasn't good at it. It looked like fun and I couldn't play it by myself. I knew I had to brave going there among the other children if I wanted to play.
They said I'd need to be swinging the rope first before it would be my turn. I stood at the other end of the rope and looked at the other children having fun. My turn didn't come during that fifteen minute recess, or during the next. Finally, in the afternoon, they let me try jumping. I had a chance to make one or two jumps before they loosened the rope so that it would swing unevenly. The rope hit my legs, stopping abruptly, meaning my turn was over. It was clear they weren't going to give me another chance.
I sulked to the shadows of my hiding place and curled on top of a concrete box with a metal lid, where I often sat when I wanted to be alone. Disappointment, anger and humiliation burned behind my eyes. I wasn't going to cry, not so that they would see it, so I hid my face to my sleeves. There was still some ten minutes of recess left. I wondered if the redness of my eyes might disappear by the time we would return to class.
“Hey there”, I heard a voice saying. I lifted my eyes carefully, only peeking over my arms. It was a girl from sixth grade. I wasn't sure what her name was.
She placed a hand on my shoulder. “What is it?”
I fought the tears and failed. With the tears came the words, pouring out of me in globs between snotty sobs, revealing all the pain and unfairness I felt. The older girl listened with a serious expression. When I finished my story she told me to wait for a moment and ran away.
The metal lid underneath me felt cold. I wondered what just happened. Terror started to grow in me. What was that sixth grader going to do? Had I gotten myself in trouble? Or would she just leave me there waiting until I would feel abandoned and crushed like I had felt so many times before?
Only a couple of minutes later she came back with half a dozen friends. She smiled to me reassuringly as she grabbed my arm to the crook of hers. One of her friends took my other arm, and the rest of them settled to each side, forming a wide row of sixth grade girls linked to each other by their arms, with me in the middle.
They took me on a march around the yard, the other girls keeping their heads high and chests out. As we passed my classmates they started chanting “we won't dodge, we won't dodge”, and made sure that the queens would have to step aside to avoid being overrun. We went around the whole yard like this, past the jungle gym, over the hopscotch grids, into the football field, all around until the bell rang. The girls escorted me to class and the one who had found me winked at me encouragingly.
I reached the class a little bit late. The teacher scolded me and the queens muttered something insulting while showing extremely sour faces. I didn't care. I had friends in high places now, and that was surely going to help. But that wasn't even the best part.
Someone had cared enough to stand up for me. I mattered.
I teared up again, but for very different reasons.