Thank You
By: Emily Boyle
"Mental Eruption" by:
Elizabeth Jarrins
Fifth grade. I hated fifth grade.
I had no friends. Well, I had one, but she was in a different class and had made new friends pretty quickly.
They were better than me. So she left me.
I remember the first day of class. I remember my desk was across from a boy. I knew of him, he was one of the guys who was really funny and good at sports and had a lot of friends.
I envied him.
I hated him.
I must have acted rude towards him by accident. On the first day of school, we were assigned roles for a project. Mine had something to do with being funny.
He told me to trade with him. You’re not funny like I am, he said. You’re nothing but a crybaby, he said.
So I traded. I thought he was right, after all.
We played a game where we had to tell a fact about ourselves. I was very boring, so I talked about how my dog ate my favorite video game. They all said I was a liar. I don’t know why. My dog would eat things all the time. Well, he’d chew them up, but the way my mom always worded it was “ate” it, so I did too.
So they called me a liar.
In October, I was invited to a party. I was shocked, no one in my class really tried to talk to me before then. She handed me the invitation and turned to her friends. It sucks I have to invite everybody in the class, she said. Some people I’d rather not have at my house, she said.
She glanced at me when she said it.
Her friends laughed. And they walked away.
In fifth grade, my dad would always brush my hair before school. My mom worked and didn’t have time for me. My hair would look puffy like a lion’s, and the kids would make fun of me.
We didn’t have much money either, so kids would laugh at my clothes. They were on clearance at Wal-Mart, and I guess that was wrong.
I began to fear school. I was different. I’d cry when kids made fun of me, because I didn’t know how else to react. Don’t cry at school, my mom said. Nobody will like you if you do, she said.
Another girl really hated me. She shared my name. She was also named Emily. I didn’t like her, and she didn’t like me. She’d make up stories and lies to get me in trouble. She’d go crying to the teacher saying I was being mean to her. I didn’t know why.
Why did she hate me? Why was she mean to me? Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry.
My teacher would get mad at me for bullying the girl, and I’d cry. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not a liar, I’m not a bully, you have the wrong Emily.
I hate being named Emily.
In my class, there was one girl who would talk to me. She didn’t think I was weird or a crybaby or a liar or anything. She was so kind to me, and would sit with me at lunch. I think she pitied me. She was incredibly pretty, and let me hang out with her and her friends at recess. She radiated kindness, and she was my only friend then.
I felt bad for being friends with her. What if she got bullied for being friends with me? What if people started to hate her? It would be all my fault.
I try to block it out. The memories from back then. I was weird and different and people hated me.
But she helped me. She was my only friend at the time.
While I was a poor peasant in a sea of wealthy people, she shared her wealth and kept me going.
No matter how dirty I got her.