Part 76 (1/2)

”Shana, we don't like you. You think you're cute.”

”Don't look surprised, honey, we've got proof.”

”Remember the bus rides all those years in the past?”

”You were too good to speak on the bus and in cla.s.s.”

”You always looked down your nose at us.”

”I didn't say anything, didn't want to cause a fuss.”

”But, you zebra b.i.t.c.h, your cozy days are through.”

”We'll make these school days a living h.e.l.l for you.”

With those final words came a slap across my face.

And they taught me that among them I had no place.

ALMOST EVERYDAY.

The fingers. They pinch.

The mouths. They spit.

The feet. They kick.

The hands. They hit.

The fists. The punch.

The teeth. They crunch.

The hands. They shove.

The mouths. They munch.

The feet. They smoosh.

The hands. They push.

The shoes. The squoosh.

The doors. They smush.

And they almost never leave a mark.

THE WORDS.

I tried to tell, but the words got stuck in my throat. And when they were dislodged, they came out all wrong.

The three of us were sitting in the sunroom. Dad, Mom, and me. Black. white, and between. I was eight years old, but my soul felt so much older. I was weary from years of uncried tears.

I looked from mother to father, noting all of their differences. Her softness, his hardness. Her pleasantness, his sternness. Her hope, his anger. Her optimism, his pessimism. I decided to shoot straight down the middle, making my words plain.

”I don't like my school,” I said, then held my breath.