The girl walked through the playground, head bent, hands stuffed into her coat pockets. She kept to the edge of the playground, not wanting to run into anybody as she didn’t look where she was going. The cold wind blew dark brown hair across her face. She took her hand out of its pocket of warmth to tuck her hair back behind her ear. Even such a short time in the cold was enough to chill her hand. The girl guessed it had never been warm to begin with since she came outside. Stuffing it in her coat pocket just made it feel warmer.
It was early November. Just cold enough that the girl could be outside without blowing her nose from the rotting leaves. Just warm enough that nobody needed a winter coat. The girl ducked behind some fur trees to get out of the wind. She knew she should have worn warmer tights that day. Even though every other girl at school wore pants this time of year, the girl liked wearing skorts (skirts with shorts under them) every day. Why she liked to, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it had something to do with being different. As if the girl needed to be any more different.
Her classmates didn’t have problems with the cold. They were running around, talking, laughing and climbing over everything. Even the swings were getting climbed on. The girl wondered how the kids managed to hang on. She’d never been strong enough to do that. No matter how much she tried to follow along, she just couldn’t hold on.
She shivered and looked at the people around her. Some had their coats open. The girl considered them insane. At the same time, she knew why they were so warm. They were all playing and having fun with their friends. In the ten minutes the girl had been outside, nobody had even said hi.
The girl didn’t really mind being alone, mind much, that is. She just wanted somebody to take an interest in her for a change. She was tired of always asking how people were doing, only to get a one-word answer before once again being ignored. In her current sour mood, she really didn’t want to start any conversations where the other person wouldn’t even ask. The wind picked up and blew more hair into her face. It agreed with her.
The girl wandered over to the almost empty kiddie-playground, a little bit away from the main playground where her classmates were. A couple of girls, about her age, were sitting on a bench a few meters away. They took one look at her slouching form and rather geek-like appearance (which consisted of dark glasses, wind-blown shoulder-length brown hair, and her loose school uniform) and shied away. The girl leaned against the fenced, not wanting to disturb them. They still got up and walked away. Far away. The girl watched them go. She remembered sitting by them at lunch last year. They were always talking about bead pets they’d made and lip-glosses they liked. The girl had tried, once, to talk to them. It hadn’t gone very well.
Still, she wondered if they could see how much she was hurting. Had the girl seen anybody walking along the playground’s edge, head down, she would have gone up and asked them what’s wrong. They never really returned her answer, but at least she had tried. But not everybody looked for people walking along the edge of the playground. The girl had learned that a long, long time ago. But, she had talked to a lot of people last year in other classes, and her class. She had held onto some hope that they cared.
The girl went over to the bench after a few minutes. Her legs were tired of standing strong. She still hesitated, not wanting to look like she had shooed the other girls away on purpose, but nobody was watching.
She lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes. It had been a hard few weeks. She had just gotten a spelling test back recently. After studying her grade five workbook for seven hours, an hour every night since she’d gotten the assignment, she expected something to show for it. She had only gotten five questions right. When her classmates saw the look on her face, they’d asked her what was wrong. She’d told them. All the other kids had held up their tests and shown off As and a single B. The B was from one kid who always got the lowest score in class. The girl could see his triumphant smile as he realized what had happened. The smartest girl in class had gotten an F.
In an attempt to quiet down the class, the teacher had said the girl should study more. The girl had explained, quiet nicely, that her parents thought she had a learning disability. The girl always worked hard in school to get those As. Even at that, she still had a hard time reading and spelling. Every time the girl took a break from her spelling lists, she couldn’t remember the word she had just been looking at. It was like breaks took an eraser to her brain. The teacher had just shaken her head and given the same answer as before. The girl sank down in her chair slightly, glad recess was next on her schedule.
She had ignored it after that day, though. Hoping everybody would forget soon enough. It was easy to stay under the radar this year. A new girl had joined the class, making the number of girls and boys even (three to three). The girl had been happy to hear that. At first, all three of them (including the girl’s friend from last year) had stuck together. But now, the girl was left alone as her five classmates sat at one table and talked to each other. She always took a table at the back so she could spread out. But at lunch and recess she liked to hang out with people. All her friends from other classes had moved that year. Her classmates were the only ones the girl had left to hang out with.
The girl looked at the other kids playing from her seat. She could spot every one of her classmates, along with people she had seen in other classes. They were playing tag. All of them were a year older that the girl, even though they were all in the same grade (the school had a French program and an English one. The girl was in the French program). The girl had skipped a grade officially this year. She had earned that privilege last year. It was also easier on the teachers. She was the only person in the French program of her grade. The girl wondered if anybody resented her for being so good in class. She found the look on her classmate’s faces a bit funny when they got a low grade. But she’d never tell it to their faces. It was just a thirty-second smile as her friend’s lower-lip was pushed out in a pout. She did feel sorry for her friends, though. They were smart. If only they spent a little more time on the questions they would do fine. The girl always forgot the tests in a few minutes, though. She didn’t like to rub people’s noses in things.
Her classmates weren’t so forgiving. She caught their looks as more test scores rolled in. She’d done well everywhere else, but in English. The girl knew they were looking for another slip-up. She found herself hiding her grades, even if they were As.
The girl rubbed her eyes again. Just two weeks before that spelling test, she’d given a speech in class. It was something she was proud of. She’s explained, very clearly, that learning about a book where the main character was crocked wasn’t the best example. She hadn’t even rehearsed it. The girl’s classmates had argued and eventually everything had been cut short for the bell. Well, an early bell. That day it was her class’s turn to be the patrols for the school. Because the school didn’t have its own playground, the English and French grade five classes took turns leading the kids safely across two streets and along the side. Needless to say, her classmates didn’t do a good job. They had elected her leader that year. Everybody had agreed that she’d be good for the job. Now, all they did was ignore their posts. And that was on a good day. The girl often had to tell them that all the other kids were waiting to go to recess and they had to take their place to keep kids from running into the street. The English patrol leader didn’t have any problems with his group. The girl often found herself wishing for one of her troupe to get sick so the other leader could come in and help. Nobody on her squad messed with him.
There were only a few minutes of recess left. The girl sighed again and stood up. She wanted to do something other than mope today. She hoped her classmates had forgotten what had happened over the first few months of school.
The girl walked over to one of her classmates, the girl she had been friends with last year.
“Can I play?” the girl asked tentatively. She didn’t want to look like she was butting in.
The other girl shook her head. “Nope, sorry, you’re too young.”
The girl walked back to the bench. She couldn’t cry here. Recess finished soon after anyways. She didn’t need to worry about the patrols today; it was the English class’s turn. She stayed quiet for the rest of the day. It was at home she cried.
Tears flowed for days. They were heaviest during her breakdown. Physical pain kept her up, screaming, until midnight or later. She still managed to go to school. Sometimes. She had started signing lessons that year and was set to be in the Christmas show. But when the girls’ mom called her teacher, the girl found out she’d missed too many classes. Heartbroken, the pain began again.
That was when six months of hell started. The girl went through medical tests, emergency room visits, and psychological tests. It was then she learned to hate doctors. They prescribed medicine that took too long to kick in with much-needed pain relief, and the side-effects were exactly what she was taking the medicine for. The psychologist just made her feel dumb as he put her through test after test. She was too tired to sit through one session; she ended up going to those tests for a week. Some reading tests she refused to do. She managed to remember a list that was fifteen items long, flawlessly. All the psychologist did was nod his head, disappointed look on his face, and mark things down in his notebook. The girl was surprised when her mom told her how astounded he was at her ability to think. She had thought she’d be at the bottom of the scale, but she was at the top. It was just her learning disabilities that made it look like she failed at some things.
The one doctor she half-trusted (he’d been her mom’s doctor and the girl’s for years; she at least knew him) said she couldn’t go back to school. Her old school didn’t believe anything was wrong with the girl. They said she could come back but her mother wasn’t allowed on the grounds (during homework time, the girl had never had the right teacher to explain problems. The only person she knew was able to help her was her mom). The girl didn’t go back to that school. She didn’t go to any school. Her mom started homeschooling the girl, just to try it. The girl loved it so much that she stayed at home. She’s stayed at home all through high school.
Eventually, she stopped crying about what happened. She didn’t want to disturb anybody at midnight when she was in pain or depressed. It didn’t take long for her to stop crying about everything. But that’s starting to change now. Old memories are brought up and shred in tears. And rants to friends.
She met her best friend at the perfect time. Depressed and lonely, even three years between she and her friend didn’t matter. The girl was heartbroken when her friend moved, but she’s now thankful for it. Because the way the kept in touch at first was writing. The girl has had the writing bug ever since.
Writing kept the girl sane during the lonely years. She’d make her villains the kids in class, and the love interests were always old guy friends she’d had a crush on. She kept them in her life by writing about them. Even though she didn’t speak to them after they turned fourteen.
Eventually she found YWS. She found friends there, other people who thought the same even if they weren’t homeschooled. She also found plenty of people that were. Her username is a happy one, just to remind herself not to stay in the shadows. She still can’t let go of that little girl part of her. The person she was before that day, before she even went to school. Even though her MSN is something dark (she created it at a time when she was just starting to explore the shadows in her life), she likes to keep her username light and fluffy. It’s the way she keeps her personalities in check. Both dark, and light.
Those who have talked to her know parts of what happened. She’s tried to remember everything, and the span of her memory surprises her even now. The girl is happier with her life now, but there’s still that day, that event, that taints all good experiences now. She tries to run, but she can’t. The only way to get rid of it is to write.
The girl could only write this if she wrote it, all of it, in third person. The events written of here feel so distant she sees it as if she were a ghost. She can only remember it as if she was hovering around that day. She’d felt like that often during those six months that changed her life. She’d imagine how this would look to an outsider. It’s the only way she got through.
The girl is me.
~Rosey Unicorn
To be honest, I don't think this is needed...
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