.1.......
The moment I think I don’t remember, the first memory comes unbidden and crystal clear.
I was six. I sat in the middle of the school gymnasium while they sorted us into our classes and passed us off to our teachers on the first day of first grade. A Wonderful Day of Firsts. The first time I wore the blue corduroy dress with the overall straps. The first time I was around a lot of other kids my age without Mom or Dad there.
My name was called. I knew my name then, but not now, and in the memory it’s a garbled noise. A finger pointed to my destination, a group of kids in the far corner. Mr. Lahm’s class. I clambered to my feet—adorable in my shiny saddle shoes—and hurried to join them.
Six girls, five boys. I sat down beside a girl with curly brown hair and purple pants. She said hello and told me her name was Priscilla, but I could call her Sissy, because Priscilla sounded like the name of one of those fancy white cats that eat food off glass plates. I thought about telling her that Sissy wasn’t very good, either, but I wanted to make friends.
The boy sitting on Sissy’s other side kept looking at me, so I thought he might want to make friends, too. But when he saw me staring back at him, he put his fingers in front of his eyes and waggled them in opposite directions, like his eyes looked different ways. Him and the boy next to him started laughing, and it didn’t sound very friendly.
Every time he looked at me that day, he did that with his fingers.
That was the clearest part of the memory. How horrible he looked, making fun of me.
.2.......
The second memory comes all at once, instantly.
Ryan Lancaster was the name of the boy who made fun of my lazy eye on the first day of school. The other kids stopped laughing after a while, so he moved on to other things to get their attention.
One of his targets was Sissy. Everything about her. The size of her perm. The size of her stomach. The amount of hair on her arms. How she liked her peanut butter sandwiches cut right down the middle instead of diagonally.
One day in gym class, we had to play kickball. Sissy moved to the plate as the teacher rolled her the ball, and when she kicked it, it soared over the infield, past the outfield, and hit the fence. Our team cheered; Sissy ran to first base as fast as she could, which wasn’t very fast at all.
Not fair! Ryan Lancaster yelled from the outfield, instead of running to get the ball. Sissy moved on to second base.
Why is it not fair, Ryan? the gym teacher yelled back.
Because, only boys can hit the ball that far, but she’s on the girls’ team! She’s not a girl, she’s a boy!
Sissy stumbled halfway between second and third. I’m not a boy! she yelled back.
Liar!
I’m not a liar!
Sissy’s a boy! Ryan called.
No, I’m not!
The chanting started. Sissy’s a boy! Sissy’s a boy!
Quiet, all of you! the gym teacher yelled. The field fell silent. I sunk against the chain-link of the backstop and wished I could disappear. The teacher rounded us up and herded us back inside. I trailed at the end of the line with Sissy behind me, her face red and tears dribbling down her cheeks, though she bit her bottom lip in a valiant effort not to cry.
I thought I might be able to say something to make her feel better, but all I could think was I’m so glad it’s not me.
3.
Why are the memories coming now?
I liked to draw. In fourth grade we had to take a different mandatory recreation class every day: Tuesday was music, Wednesday was gym, Thursday was library, and Monday and Friday were art. Art class was basically a paper and crayons party, but the teacher sat me in a corner of the room with a pencil and I drew the first thing that came to me—an owl perched on a tree made of hands.
Then Ryan Lancaster ran by, scribbled black crayon across my page, and said, It wasn’t that good anyway, what are you angry about? The teacher made him go to the principal’s office, but Ryan didn’t seem upset about it.
School taught me that I liked to draw, but home was where I could do it without protecting the picture at the same time.
Mom and Dad loved that I did art things. Well, Mom loved it, and Dad was okay with it, though he clung to the idea of me playing tennis. He wanted more championship trophies to add to his collection, but with my name on them instead of his. He never got them, and only complained about it on my birthdays and Christmas, when he and Mom presented me with another crop of sketchbooks, pencils, markers, brushes, paints, canvas. Everything I needed to empty my head of the images that grew there like parasites. Surreal landscapes, twisting hallways, subtle gleams in the darkness like knife edges at night.
They’re all so dark, Dad said one day, watching over my shoulder as I worked at the kitchen table. Why don’t you paint things like a blue sky, or a field of flowers, or a bird flying on a breeze? Something happy that your mom can put on the fridge.
She can put these on the fridge, I said.
Maybe just one flower? he asked.
There are no flowers where I live, I said.
.4.......
I met Jeffrey in middle school.
It was a Tuesday.
The cafeteria was serving pizza sticks, and the cafeteria only served pizza sticks on Tuesdays. I was in line for pizza sticks behind a kid wearing a sweater vest. I was trying to comprehend the sweater vest when a group of boys in football shirts came up, said hi to Sweater Vest, and cut him in line.
They’re going to eat all the pizza sticks! was the first brilliant thing out of my mouth.
Sweater Vest turned around. I’d seen him a few times in the halls but never paid attention to him. He had these big brown eyes and thick blond-brown eyebrows like honey caterpillars. Honeypillars. Like they could wrap you up and keep you warm on a cold winter day. They pushed together in the middle when he looked at me.
He said, I’m really sorry; you can go ahead of me.
Are you sure? I asked.
I was surprised because usually when a large group of popular kids cut in line, everyone pretended like nothing had happened and that was that.
He nodded, so I took his spot, and I got the last pizza sticks.
Later, I watched him sit at the far end of the same table with the football guys, off by himself. With nachos.
I tapped him on the shoulder and said, Do you want to sit with me and my friend? You can have half my pizza sticks.
He looked to where I pointed, to the table where Sissy sat with her back to the wall, picking the ham out of a chef’s salad.
Sure, he said.
I said, My name’s ( ), and I like pizza sticks.
He said, My name’s Jeffrey, and I’ve never gotten any pizza sticks.
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