hands me a tissue from the flowered box on her desk, and says, “This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you a day pass. Come in tomorrow, bring your ID, and we’ll be good. Don’t bring in your ID, and I’m filing a report and you’ll get the suspension. Understood?”
“Yes. Understood. Thank you.” I snivel, wiping my nose. “Thank you. I can get it tonight.”
Apparently, that’s too much information for Sheila, because she snaps, “Just bring it in tomorrow,” pushing a clipboard with a xeroxed form across the counter. “Fill this out, it’s your day pass.”
I scribble in my name and student ID number, and then sign and date it.
She signs it, stamps it, and hands the form back to me. “Find your ID.”
CHAPTER 10
REMEMBERING
S eemy was freckles and two tiny pigtails at the nape of her neck. She was wiry arms and delicate wrists and no need for a bra. She was calling men “Hey, mister” and women “Hey, lady.” She was vending-machine monster tattoos and grabbing my hand when we crossed busy streets. She caused whiplash in boys.
I was broad backed and big footed. I was still growing taller. I was not thinning out. I was the not-fat sort of fat with muscled legs that don’t fit into skinny jeans, a belly that was round even after the stomach flu, and hands my mother said could build an ark. I worried that I would be too big for a firefighter to rescue me. I sounded stupid whenI giggled. I sprouted tiny boobs at ten that have stayed the same size, and I got my period at eleven, and even though my mom started in on me early about loving my body and my shape and my size, it was hard not to wish it all away.
It’s dumb to still be hurt that I was always too big to be the baby when I played house with my friends on the playground as a little kid. No one could pick me up to rock me to sleep.
I could never tell my mom how badly I wanted to be a wiry girl. Her entire mission as my mom was to get me to love myself for who I was, to appreciate my strength. And it’s not that I didn’t appreciate it. I just wished it came in a smaller package with a narrow waist and bony ankles.
I used to think that Mom and Dad getting back together was the thing I wanted most in the world. And then I met Seemy and I knew I had never truly wanted anything before, not the way I wanted her to be my friend. It was a want and a wish and a prayer and a hope that came from the same place that makes you believe in Santa, or that monsters disappear when you hide under the covers.
Seemy would laugh at me because in the beginning I always looked so surprised when she showed up for plans we had made. Once she said,
Oh, you poor, big old bear, have you even
had
friends before?
And I told her,
Not real ones. Not like you
. And she squealed,
That’s so sad!
and hugged me.
There was a little park near Seemy’s house that we called Twee Park. It was tiny, a grove of trees circled by a wrought iron fence that hung heavy with thick vines. A short cobblestone path led from the latched gate through the trees and opened into a small circle, a blue bench at its edge. The trees made it shady, and the early weeks of that first summer we spent hours sitting on the bench drinking iced coffee, cracking each other up and making plans for city adventures that never happened.
That was before Seemy made two declarations. The first was that both of our looks were
utterly, unforgivably forgettable
. The second was that we should probably start drinking or else our summer wasn’t going to be any fun at all. Where Seemy was from upstate, kids spent summer nights around bonfires deep in the woods, drinking beer and roasting marshmallows. She made it sound like a Ralph Lauren commercial.
We’ll run around the city all summer with a buzz, looking totally amazing! It will be like a movie!
I agreed. Of course I agreed. In the beginning I would have said yes to anything Seemy suggested, because for some reason she had chosen me to be
“Yes. Understood. Thank you.” I snivel, wiping my nose. “Thank you. I can get it tonight.”
Apparently, that’s too much information for Sheila, because she snaps, “Just bring it in tomorrow,” pushing a clipboard with a xeroxed form across the counter. “Fill this out, it’s your day pass.”
I scribble in my name and student ID number, and then sign and date it.
She signs it, stamps it, and hands the form back to me. “Find your ID.”
CHAPTER 10
REMEMBERING
S eemy was freckles and two tiny pigtails at the nape of her neck. She was wiry arms and delicate wrists and no need for a bra. She was calling men “Hey, mister” and women “Hey, lady.” She was vending-machine monster tattoos and grabbing my hand when we crossed busy streets. She caused whiplash in boys.
I was broad backed and big footed. I was still growing taller. I was not thinning out. I was the not-fat sort of fat with muscled legs that don’t fit into skinny jeans, a belly that was round even after the stomach flu, and hands my mother said could build an ark. I worried that I would be too big for a firefighter to rescue me. I sounded stupid whenI giggled. I sprouted tiny boobs at ten that have stayed the same size, and I got my period at eleven, and even though my mom started in on me early about loving my body and my shape and my size, it was hard not to wish it all away.
It’s dumb to still be hurt that I was always too big to be the baby when I played house with my friends on the playground as a little kid. No one could pick me up to rock me to sleep.
I could never tell my mom how badly I wanted to be a wiry girl. Her entire mission as my mom was to get me to love myself for who I was, to appreciate my strength. And it’s not that I didn’t appreciate it. I just wished it came in a smaller package with a narrow waist and bony ankles.
I used to think that Mom and Dad getting back together was the thing I wanted most in the world. And then I met Seemy and I knew I had never truly wanted anything before, not the way I wanted her to be my friend. It was a want and a wish and a prayer and a hope that came from the same place that makes you believe in Santa, or that monsters disappear when you hide under the covers.
Seemy would laugh at me because in the beginning I always looked so surprised when she showed up for plans we had made. Once she said,
Oh, you poor, big old bear, have you even
had
friends before?
And I told her,
Not real ones. Not like you
. And she squealed,
That’s so sad!
and hugged me.
There was a little park near Seemy’s house that we called Twee Park. It was tiny, a grove of trees circled by a wrought iron fence that hung heavy with thick vines. A short cobblestone path led from the latched gate through the trees and opened into a small circle, a blue bench at its edge. The trees made it shady, and the early weeks of that first summer we spent hours sitting on the bench drinking iced coffee, cracking each other up and making plans for city adventures that never happened.
That was before Seemy made two declarations. The first was that both of our looks were
utterly, unforgivably forgettable
. The second was that we should probably start drinking or else our summer wasn’t going to be any fun at all. Where Seemy was from upstate, kids spent summer nights around bonfires deep in the woods, drinking beer and roasting marshmallows. She made it sound like a Ralph Lauren commercial.
We’ll run around the city all summer with a buzz, looking totally amazing! It will be like a movie!
I agreed. Of course I agreed. In the beginning I would have said yes to anything Seemy suggested, because for some reason she had chosen me to be
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