I’m Sorry

She watched him get shoved down.  She watched him get tortured every day.  She saw him shoved into lockers.  She heard what they called him.  She saw how much it hurt.  She did nothing.   It had always been this way.  She was one of the popular kids, and he simply wasn’t.

His clothes were obviously hand me downs or recent purchases from Goodwill.  Her clothes were all designer, her walk in closet full to capacity.  He was small and weak.  Her boyfriend was an all star athlete who looked like he had hit puberty at age ten.  He barely talked, sat in the back of the classroom, ate lunch alone.  She was constantly deep in mindless conversation, sat surrounded by friends whether in class or not.  He was rarely seen outside of school.  She was at every social event of the school year.  He worked at the local bookstore.  She would never need to work thanks to her parents money.  They were polar opposites and somehow, they had gotten stuck together working on this English project.

She always invited him to her house, even though the expansive home obviously made him uncomfortable.  He always looked as if he didn’t want to touch anything for fear of ruining it.  Her mother, shocked at first that she would associate with such a boy, still managed to be welcoming and inviting.

She did her best to converse with him.  But it was difficult.  He never spoke about his family.  He never mentioned any friends.   She couldn’t bring up school because she knew it was hell for him, in fact she was one of the people who made it that way.  Mostly they talked about the project.  That was the one thing that connected them.  They both loved English.

Her friends told her how sorry they felt for her.  They told her how awful it must be to get stuck with him.  They told her to ask him to do all of the work.  She had parties to attend and shopping to do.  He’d obviously comply because he was obviously in love with her, who wouldn’t be?  Just blow off the project.  I can’t believe you invite him over.  He’s been in your house?  I hope you disinfected everything that came in contact with him.  What does your mom think?  Well, at least she’s being nice.

That night she was supposed to go to a party.  Instead she called him and invited him over to work on their project.  He declined.  She was shocked.  He claimed he was too busy to leave his house, so she offered to come over.  He immediately became furious and hung up.  He had told her to keep her conceited head out of other people’s business.   She took serious offense to this.  Conceited?  If she was conceited, she would have gone to that party and left him to do the work himself.  Determined to show him she really did want to work on their project, she gathered the pieces from her room and drove to his house.

Everyone knew where he lived.  It was the only house with no car in the driveway.  The only house that never gave out candy on Halloween or put up lights for Christmas.  It was, by far, the smallest house in town.  Peeling paint, weeds,  a screen door hanging on for dear life.  The curtains were never open.  You rarely saw a light on.  This is what he biked home to after being tortured all day at school and working his after school job.

She pulled into the empty driveway and knocked on the door.  No answer.  She rang the bell.  No answer.  Then she heard the crash.  She opened the door and ran inside.  There she saw him trying to help his mother off the kitchen floor.  There were liquor bottles lining the countertops and littering the floor. We all knew his mom had gotten sick after his dad was killed in action, but we didn’t realize this was her disease.  He looked up and ignored her, intent on getting his drunken mother to her room for the night.  He was struggling under his mother’s weight.  She reached out to help him, but all he had to do was look at her for her to know he didn’t need or want her help.  He did this every night.

After he disappeared into the hallway with his mother, she began to pick up the chair that had been knocked off its feet and the empty bottles on the floor.  She looked around for a trash bin as she carried the empty bottles through the kitchen.  This is why he wears hand me down clothing.  His mom can’t take him shopping.  She obviously doesn’t work, so he had to pick up that job at the bookstore.  This is why he looks so tired.  This is why he’s so quiet.  This is why I was never invited here.  He goes to school, and we make it hell for him, then he comes home to this.

She found the trash bin outside and emptied her arms of the bottles.  As she turned to come back inside, he was standing at the back door, silent.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed, before breaking into tears, “I’m so sorry for everything.”

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a new direction.

so, I’ve decided to get back into this whole blogging thing, mostly because I finally have access to a computer after my old one was deemed unusable.  I really don’t know what ”
direction” this blog was going in, but I’m going to redirect it.  Mostly because I’m a girl, and we have to change everything all the time.

in other news, I’ve decided to compile a “bucket list”.  This list will include things I’ve already done, but failed to document, be it via pictures, video, or some other form.  I’d actually like to start compiling some sort of scrapbook with a page dedicated to each of my bucket list items once complete.  I’ll be doing some things for the second time around, but it isn’t like anyone is going to dock me life points, so I don’t really give a fuck.  Starting from scratch is what people do at the beginning of a year, and that’s, in essence, what I’m doing here.

I had a bucket list as a kid.  A literal list written down as a kid of things I wanted to do when I grew up.  Actually, I had a few.  One of them I kept in this little tin piggy bank from Sanrio that had a tiny padlock on it.  It was blue and cylindrical and hidden ever so inconspicuously under my bed.  Let’s be honest here, my mom was a neat freak and there was nothing under my bed BUT that tin bank, so I don’t know why my seven year old self was utterly shocked when my mom called me into my room to talk about this little list I had made.

I came in and she sat me down on my bed next to her.  I knew I was in trouble the second she uttered her catchphrase, “Anything you want to share with me?”.  I racked my brain for things I’d done wrong and hidden from her.  There was no way she knew about her elephant figurine that I had broken while playing zoo even though I knew everything in that China cabinet was strictly forbidden.  The box in my closet hiding her stained work shirt seemed to be in the exact place I left it, so hopefully that wasn’t what she had found.  What was it?  I meekly answered, “no”, even though I KNEW there HAD to be something.  Then she pulled out the piggy bank and I knew I was in trouble.  I knew EXACTLY what I had written on that list.  I knew EXACTLY why I was in there. I suddenly regretting spending the night at a friend’s house a few weeks back and having a long conversation with her older sister, who was in high school at the time.  I knew I was busted.

She pulled the crumpled list from her pocket (which kind of annoyed me, as I had it PERFECTLY folded) and began reading.

  1. Buy a car
  2. Get a puppy
  3. Have a boyfriend
  4. Have sex
  5. Get married
  6. Have a baby

Now, please notice the order that list is in, as I’m sure that is the FIRST thing my mother noticed about her seven year old daughter’s “to-do” list.  I remember cringing right as she got to number four.  Then the questions began.  Where’d you learn about sex?  Who told you ?  What did they tell you?  When?  Why is it on your list before “get married”?  Why is it on your list at all?  What is this list for?  Why did you make it?  Why did you hide it from me? And the kicker-Have you done anything on this list?  Jesus christ, I AM SEVEN. Haha. But, she had a point, not only did I know all about sex, I knew it wasn’t just for making babies.  She knew an adult didn’t divulge that information, and she was going to get to the bottom of whose older sibling tainted her child.

I slowly answered all of her questions, never making eye contact.  I told her about the sleepover and revealed that my friend’s older sister was in sexual education at the local high school and decided to share everything she had learned with us.  I told her about the textbooks we flipped through and all of the pictures.  After confessing, she didn’t say a word, but she didn’t exactly look mad.  Being the bright, young child I was, I decided this was the perfect opportunity to make a closing statement.  My *genius* idea sounded a little something like this, “I don’t know why you’d be mad, mom.  I mean, you let me watch movies with you and daddy all the time and those grown ups have sex and are hardly ever married.  It’s just a fact of life, mom.  If I’m going to marry a guy forever, I gotta make sure he’s perfect at everything first, right?”

Needless to say, I did myself no favors and was grounded for a month.  No more movies rated PG-13+ for this seven year old…

So, on *that* note, I’ve decided to start another bucket list, checking off things using pictures/video/etc, and some of these life events will be repeats of things I’ve already done, but went undocumented.  “Have sex”, however, will not be on this new list. lol.