I was in seventh grade Language Arts. We had been asked to write a bellwork composition about the hardest thing we'd ever had to do, a broad topic and I have always been one to think broad thoughts. Nothing came to mind immediately so I considered my life so far.
First came thoughts of volunteer work at the nursing home and how all the smells of old that stuck to you the rest of the day, even if you only went in for an hour or two in the morning and left right after, not lingering a minute more to chat with Mrs. Wren about how old she was and how she wished she was dead or with Mr. Ducatt about the War (just which one I was never sure). That seemed like a bad road to travel down, however; I had gone a representative of St. Tim's - Good old Saint Tim's - trying to get in some brownie points with God or something. Better not offend.
I thought next, naturally, of other religious turmoils. First Communion had turned into some distant and foggy white memory, but I didn't remember it being anything difficult; it had been more of an obligation. By receiving my third sacrament I was choosing to become a Catholic through and through, but when you're seven and come from my family the choice is only a tidy theory. Not to say that I wasn't scared to death of the fire and brimstone for the childish sport I'd made of picking apart frogs caught off-guard by the swimming pool drain, their bellies even more bloated than in life and longing to be poked by me, Doctor Vanessica, a compromise between Vanessa and Jessica. First Communion had been more of a blessing to be regarded with the same passivity as infant baptism and more ceremony than confession, the most frightening of them all. It hadn't been such a big deal to me at the time, but I figured I'd better do it anyways - again, not that it was a choice. Still not a strike for hard times, though.
Hmm. What about that time Great Grama died? That sucked. My sister and I were playing that most dangerous of church games: Who's Gonna Laugh First? As usual, I lost. I got a tearful spanking from my mother before I could run away. Other than that, I didn't remember a thing. Grampa's, too, received the same fate. They had died been close to the same time, maybe even the same year, so I couldn't remember much from either goodbye.
For Pete's sake. What had I been through was difficult to handle? I sure complained enough to write an entire novel on the subject, but here I was, unable to think of something worthy of my mechanical Papermate, the clean wide-ruled sheet staring back at me like it had been for the past five minutes as I tried to think of a tragedy. I was still alive, wasn't I? No one molested me when I was little, my sister generally only got me back for things I started, my parents were at least passably normal...
I had to make something up, and quick. I knew the routine: Mrs. Smith was going to call on me because I was so unchallenged in her class that I managed to effortlessly attain a one hundred and seven percent average, meaning that I would probably have something "nice" to share with everyone else, meaning I always imagined people disliked me for being a "suckup" when in reality sometimes all I wanted to do was fail (a test, not a class; that was far too risky) in order to prove I was at best average. And here I was - no composition and the second hand growing dizzier and dizzier on the yellowing wall clock. How was this happening?
I had to make something up. It had to be believable and immature - something the kid behind me would have written, something shallow and very middle school. A scar? I hadn't a clue from whence most the teeming nicks and scabs decorating my awkward body originated. Stolen bike? Never happened. Mean neighbor girl who told me trolls lived under the house? Made me sound too stupid, even for this apathetic crowd.
A-ha! Sharing my room with my sister last winter break. Nana and Papa had come down for the holiday and I was forced to let her enroach upon my territory while Aunt Rita (living with them as a result of Great Grama's aforementioned death) enjoyed the riches of Erin's Room, she ultimately being the only one sleeping alone in the house the entire week.
It was perfect: it had happened, it was as superficial as I figured most of my classmates' stories would be, and it was... not hard at all. In fact, it had been quite nice. My sister had plucked my eyebrows for the first time while I cursed (Apparently I still didn't know those kinds of words.) and we talked about boys and sex, something of which I still knew next to nothing thanks to my "when a mommy and a daddy want to have a baby reeeeeal bad, they pray for it" parents and my severe illness during Body Parts week at school. It was fun to think I was important to my normally disagreeable teenage sister, even if only because we had to get along to make Mom and Dad look good in front of the family. She even gave my comforter a special scar of lipstick the color of berry stains, just how I never figured out.
Whatever. No one cared. Maybe if I ducked enough behind the midget of a boy in front of me I could be spared just this once...
We donated that comforter this afternoon - bigger beds in rooms the size of change that still lingered with memories of bouncy balls and Lion King soundtrack dances. I wondered where that notebook was and why I didn't decide to study the art of words instead.
