It's difficult to make people understand. Maybe showing will work better than telling.

In fifth grade, Ashley B. was on a mission. Sam had given her orders. You always did what Sam told you to do, otherwise Sam would put you on her personal blacklist, and she'd get you, too.

Field day. Sun and grass and stables and potato sack races and dirt: dirt on my face, dirt-tinged knees, dirt-covered elbows. Scratches and nicks, bruises and black&blues: not benevolent childhood injuries...

I trudged towards the horses. The day was nearly done. I had never been big on races and ball games, but still, I appreciated a day out of the classroom and under the sun. I was sent to get Kat and Ali from the stables. We were about to board the bus.

Inundation. Grass on face. Six-foot-tall girl on top of me suddenly, pounding head into floor.

Over before it starts. I get up. Stumble through a patch of trees, a New York City forest, eyes moist, body covered in black and green.

Sam sees me. She'd sent Ashely for me. She laughs and points and yells. So does Jennie. Jennie used to be my best friend. Leo watches from a distance, leaning on a tree. Silent. I can tell he doesn't think it's right, I can tell, but he recoils. The whole class seems to stand behind Sam, all 28 of them cackling.

I try to defend myself, but what good is it...

My voice is inaudible over the laughter. Kevin speaks up, but it is too late, it is too late...

I walk away. Board the bus. Sit alone. Stare. At nothing. At the bump on the floor of the bus where the wheel protrudes.



Mom finds out about everything, tells teacher, teacher tells guidance counselor, guidance counselor calls me and Ashley into her office, Ashley gets angry, class gets angry, class calls me tattletale, among other things....



Four
years
of
this...



AndIwouldratherbeinvisible.


And it's all coming back. And I know it shouldn't still affect me, but it does. And I know, and I know...

The little things still resonate with me. The falling outs, the party invitations that do not come my way, they make me remember. They make me doubt...everything.

They make me eleven years old, again, and rolling in the grass with dirtcoloredshame.