Walk a mile in H is/H er shoes [PICK ONE]

a collect ion of short f ict ional stories

Written by: Madyson Smith

Senior Communication Honors Major

Texas A&M University, Class of 2016

~ Acknowledgements ~

Thank you to Dr. Shari Kendall for a wonderful semester in your course, Language and Gender at Texas A&M University. Through your teaching, I have been exposed to various readings, films, ideas, and research regarding gender studies. Furthermore, I have been challenged to think beyond my own upbringing, values, gender, and race. Thank you for this opportunity to continue to expand upon my knowledge through this creative Honors project. In writing this, I have enjoyed the opportunity to reflect on the differing perspectives of people.

Thank you to the many researchers and authors, especially Eckert, McConnell-Ginet, Tannen, Goddard and Meân, Durham, and Boni, who have contributed to my academic knowledge of Language and Gender. Your works have influenced my knowledge and the writing of these fictional stories.

Also, thank you to Nikki Penniman and the “Chofilandia” Pinterest page. Nikki Penniman is the photographer who took my professional headshot photo featured on the cover. The “Chofilandia” Pinterest page supplied the cover image of the two pairs of shoes. The image from the “Chofilandia” Pinterest page can be found at the following website: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/558516791259018020/.

Lastly, thank you to all my readers of this fictional piece. I appreciate your time. You’ll find that many of the stories are seemingly not complete. These short stories are just a snippet of fictional lives that intertwine. It goes to show that the fight for gender equality is not over, not complete; it is unfinished. My goal was to demonstrate that I understand the psychological implications of societal gender construction. I especially strived to take on a different perspective than my own, to broaden my own perspective, and to think critically to portray another’s thoughts and feelings regarding gender. It is my hope that this collection of short stories will be entertaining to you, the readers, and thought provoking. I hope that it causes you to consider the interactions between language, gender, and society as well as to challenge the negative consequences of gender construction.

~ Veronica ~

I don’t remember when I started feeling it. Maybe, it’s always been like this -- no, that’s not true. Marriage used to be good...

“Verrrrronnnicaaa!”

It used to be. It’s been bad for a while. But I have repressed the bad for a while. Swallowed it down. Put it in a dark place in the pit of my stomach. Bile. There’s no denying it. Vomit as I stand over a plate of chips and spinach artichoke dip. I wipe my shirt.

“Verrrrronnnicaaa!”

Swallow. Breathe. Breathe. The kitchen is not getting hotter. The kitchen is not getting hotter. Footsteps. And exhale.

“Veronica, I was just calling you. Didn’t you hear me?”

I turned and saw Robert, my husband, standing at the top of the staircase to the basement, his arm leaning against the doorframe. He looked like an impatient boy, about to burst, but trying to hold it in.

“Sorry,” I stammered and turned back to arranging the chips on the plate.

“The boys don’t want to start the game until we have some food,” he stated.

What he really meant is: ‘Why don’t we have our food yet? Shouldn’t you know the drill? Thursday is boy’s game night in the basement.’

‘Yes, I know the drill,’ I answered him in my head. I started making excuses for why that stupid plate wasn’t down there yet: ‘I had to leave work early. Chloe was sick. She just stopped vomiting upstairs, was in bed now. In between prepping food, I was finally responding to emails. I’m on a deadline – a work deadline. That seemed more important than a food deadline.’

I crammed the last of the chips on the plate and handed it to my husband, who still hasn’t moved an inch.

“Chloe’s sick,” I said meekly, scrubbing at my shirt with my fingernail.

He raised his eyebrows. “With what?” he quipped, grabbing a chip and submerging it in the dip. Crunch!

“Maybe a stomach virus,” I answered. “Just hope it’s not the flu. She stopped throwing up though.”

“That’s good. Wellllll, watch it. Go check on her in a few,” he said as he munched on another chip. Then, he patted me on the back, turned, and retreated down the basement steps. I was dismissed.

I returned back to my “wifely duties” and watched the pizza rising in the oven, its grease and cheese were bubbling at the surface. Like me, it was ready to burst.

The timer said two more minutes. I glanced back at the pizza. I’ll give it three.

I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with tap water, and then trudged up the stairs, careful not to spill.

I reached Chloe’s door and made a little tap! tap! with my knuckles.

“Sweetie?” I soothed, pushing the door open. “How are you feeling?”

Chloe was awake, her small hand gripping a flashlight, pointing the light over one of her Magic Treehouse books. She barely looked up when I entered the room.

“Honey.” I placed the glass of water on her beside table, flipped on her lamp, and gingerly sat down beside her on her twin bed. “You know that’s bad for your eyesight,” I corrected.

Chloe shrugged and tossed her flashlight onto her mountain of stuffed animals.

“Are you feeling any better, sweetheart?” I asked as I tucked her hair behind her ear, simultaneously checking her for forehead for fever. A bit hot.

“Yeahhhhh, Mommmm,” she replied as she skimmed the page. Her eyes were locked down again at her book. I was dismissed.

“So, where are Jack and Annie now?” I tried anyway. I tilted the book up and peered down at the cover. Ah, mummies... “Ancient Egypt, huh?”

“Yeahhhhh, Mom,” Chloe sighed and fidgeted away. She turned to her wall.

‘I got it, I got it. You want me to go away so you can read in peace.’ Instead my bossy, “mother” tone came out: “Drink your water. Lights out in five. You need sleep missy.”

“Fineeee, but Mom?” Chloe shifted toward me and looked up from her book.

I stopped in the doorway. “Yes?”

“If I’m sick tomorrow... will you go... and buy me a... Seventeen Magazine?” she asked tentatively.

Seventeen Magazine? Why would my little girl want that?

“Seventeen Magazine?” I managed. “When have you read those, Chloe?”

“At Abby’s. Amanda reads them, and Abby does too,” Chloe explained.

“Well, Abby’s older sister is in high school,” I reasoned slowly. “You are only in elementary school. I think we should wait for you to read those magazines.”

“That’s not fair, Mom!” Chloe yelled and threw her book on the floor.

Not another child tantrum. Pleaaaaaassseeeee!

I calmly responded, “I do not want you to read those magazines at Abby’s house anymore. She shouldn’t be reading them either at this age. Now, if you ask again or if I even hear about it again, I will talk to Abby’s mother.”

“That’s not fair, Mom!” Chloe yelled once again.

“Life is not always fair. Goodnight, Chloe!” I shut off her lights and walked out.

I can’t believe I just used that cliché on my own sick daughter. But since when has she been wanting to read Seventeen magazine? She is too young for that! I remember that magazine: sex, fashion, beauty, periods. She’s too young to even know about periods, let alone sex.

Once downstairs, I could smell the pizza. Okay, maybe that was a little longer than three minutes. I grabbed an oven mitt and bent over to pull out the pizza and survey the damage. Just a little crusted. No biggie.

I tilted the cooking sheet over a serving tray and poked the pizza at its crust, more like a few jabs. With some work, it slid off onto a serving tray. I winced at the sharp heat and my stubbornness. I really should have waited for it to cool, but I wasn’t in the mood.

Screw plates. I grabbed a fist full of napkins and headed down into the man cave. It really was a man cave: dark, depressing, stinky. I lowered myself down and carried the pizza platter like a Hooter’s waitress – one hand, above my head, chest out.

Downstairs, I was given a multitude of greetings: “Veronica, you’re always bringing us food!” and “Heyyyyyy, now there’s a good wife!” and “Looks delicious. And I am talking about the pizza!” and “You shouldn’t have!”

I had to admit I liked the compliments and the attention even if they were from my husband’s hairy friends. I didn’t get that too often from him. When Robert came home from work, it was usually dinner, some TV show or sports on, and then the business journal in bed. If he is feeling social, it’s ten minutes with Chloe and a basketball in the driveway. I’m watching from the kitchen window. Sometimes, I’ll be painting or sketching at the kitchen table. Chloe doesn’t do Arts and Crafts with me much anymore though.

I looked over at my husband sitting down at his game table with his friends, a pizza slice in his hand, enjoying life without a care. Cards and poker chips were strewn about the table.

I tried to think back to the last time I had some fun. But then I remembered my schedule was: wake up, get dressed, make coffee then breakfast, pack Chloe’s lunch, wake

up Chloe, hand off coffee to husband, go downstairs and make more coffee, feed Chloe, drive Chloe to school, drive to work, work, pinch myself for forgetting to make my own lunch, grab lunch out on lunch break, work, drive, pick up Chloe from her after-school program, finally reach home, and then I was making dinner...

I had too much on my plate, and then again, I had nothing on my plate. I felt empty inside. Robert and I hardly talked anymore. I always try to ask him about his work or his friends, but he doesn’t seem to have anything to say. He just sort of usually mumbles or brushes it off. To fill the silence, I’ll recall some gossip or news I heard at work and tell it in long detail. I know he doesn’t want to hear about the crazy teenagers in high school or the unprofessional teachers or the strict, sexist principals or the yelling parents, but I can’t help myself. I missed my girl friends. The closest friends I had now was... maybe, the moms at the elementary school? Noooo. I don’t know.

“Uh, honey?” Robert asked, interrupting my thoughts. I turned; I thought he was cuing me to leave, but he continued, “You might want to go ahead and call work if Chloe’s still sick in the morning. Give them a heads up.”

“I’m on a deadline for the Art Competition! Some material is supposed to go out tomor-” I sputtered out. Then, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and regained my “wifely composure.” I managed, “Chloe seems better. I just checked on her.”

“Good. We can talk later,” he said and returned to his game of cards. And as I walked up the stairs, he bellowed out, “But do call the school tomorrow; they’ll understand if you can’t come to work because Chloe’s sick.”

There comes the heat again. My face was turning red, I knew it. A little catch in my throat. I don’t remember when I started feeling it. This rage toward someone I love. Marriage used to be good... But now, it feels like a prison. I can’t open my mouth to scream.

~ Kevin ~

Why did we have to pack up and move here? Was there honestly anything appealing about this place? The humidity? I can’t even breathe here.

I glanced around at the lunchroom... These high-schoolers were actually dressed up like they were going to the rodeo or farm after class: light jeans and boots and shiny belt buckles and stupid pearl snapped shirts.

I lowered my eyes to my ensemble: my black jeans and tailored, striped sweater. These clothes fit me... and my spirit. Already, I missed home. Home, where it was cold and rainy. Home, where I had all my friends. I looked up. This place was not home.

“Hey!” a perky voice squeaked. The source was blonde, bouncy, beaming. Her smile was as wide as the dumb cowboy hats the guys wore outside in the parking lot. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she asked.

She sat down next to me and pushed my tray to make room for hers.

“My name is Amanda,” she smiled.

I fidgeted with my fork, pushing my canary-yellow macaroni around on my tray. Mental note: bring lunch tomorrow. This crap is a joke.

Loud laughter erupted behind me. I whipped my head back and saw the source of all the ruckus: a group of white, well mostly white, guys. Most of them were wearing letterman jackets with jeans and their annoying cowboy boots. And they seemed to be interested in my table... or maybe just Amanda. She looked like a Mandy to me. I’ll call her Mandy.

I didn’t answer her, so she continued, “What’s your name?”

“Kevin,” I mumbled and chewed on a piece of yellow rubber, I mean, macaroni.

Snickers. What is so funny?

“Well Kevin, welcome! What did you do at your old high school?” she asked.

More snickers. I looked up at her, a quizzical look on my face as if to say, “What?”

“You know,” she urged. “Like sports, any activitiessssss?”

“Uh, um,” I stammered, looking off. I didn’t really feel like getting into this with someone I didn’t even know. Especially with a judgy girl like Mandy.

“Oh come on, Kevin” she prodded and shoved my shoulder a bit, all the while a smile on her face. “It is Kevin, right?”

A quick nod from me, and then I dragged out, “Why do you want to knowww?”

Aside from the awkward class introductions by teachers, this bubbly girl was the first person to talk to me. Black guys are intimidating, even one as slim as me. On second thought, maybe I wasn’t intimidating. I was the one who was intimidated, and I preferred my lunch silent... Maybe I shouldn’t have asked Mandy that question.

I looked around the lunchroom desperately. I wanted an out. The table next door was still leering on. They did look threatening; most of them were big and had muscles,

even with their lettermans on I could tell.

“I’m just curious. And those guys over there are too,” Mandy replied and pointed to the next lunch table. In response, the crackers, well mostly crackers, hooted and hollered at her attention. “Don’t worry, they won’t bite,” was all she said in response.

I tried to muster up a laugh, but I didn’t think Mandy was all that funny. So, I just coughed instead.

Unfortunately, Mandy took this as a cue. “So, cough it up! What did you do?”

Think of something, anything that’s easy to lie about, I told myself. Blank, blank, blank... my brain was coming up BLANK. All I could think was: Art, Theatre, Newspaper, and the LBGTQ Club. It would be suicide to say these things. I knew it. My parents knew it. Why did we come to this conservative hellhole?

“They don’t think you play football,” she laughed. Commenting on my size, that’s a low blow. More snickers from far away.

“I don’t.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to? I mean, no offense, you’re black... It’s kind of a big deal for your people and the people here. Everyone plays!” she exclaimed loudly.

“Sure, I would,” I sighed. Make ignorant Mandy happy and maybe she’d leave me and my slim-man blackness alone.

Riiiiiiiing! Lunch was finally over. I had barely touched anything on my plate since Mandy came along.

Mandy stood up and so did the laughing big guys at the next table.

“He’s in!” she called to them as the bumbling boys came our way.

A group of them paraded by my loner table. “Bueno, we’ll see you on the field!” one of them snickered to me and patted me on the back hard. He was handsome and tan, full of testosterone and guy swagger.

Mandy laughed, “See you later, Rodrigo!”

“W-what?” I stammered, tripping over my chair. Did that really just happen?

But the guys kept walking and didn’t turn around. Mandy winked at me and then started following them. I grabbed her by her shirt. She twirled around to face me and dusted off the bottom of her shirt.

“What?” I repeated. I squared up my feet to her. With a bit more confidence: “What was that about?”

“You said you wanted to play football. They told me the “new guy” could come to practice to try out. That’s you,” she smiled and started walking backward. “After school, field house. You might want to suit up. You can’t run in jeans.”

I don’t run, period. How do I explain that?

Riiiiiiiing! Lunch was officially over, and I was officially late. Shit! My first day and I’m already late to a class.

I retrieved my backpack from off the floor. Where was I going? I rummaged for my printed schedule. Found it. 1 p.m., 1, 1, 1... Where was I going at 1? I glided my finger down the schedule sheet. Art.

Thank you, God! Finally something I can be relieved about. I power walked down the hall. I knew I passed the Art Room earlier. A few more rooms and I’d see it...

I rounded the corner and I was met with colorful designs posted up on the walls. This was definitely the Art Wing. Then, blackness... I halted. There was also a pale Asian girl sitting down outside the room. Her dark hair fringed in front of her face, and she stared down at her black long-sleeved shirt. This girl was dressed in all black, and she didn’t even look up as I walked closer.

I glanced at the Art Room door, wondering if I should go in. I stopped in front of the mysterious girl, but I didn’t know what to say. Finally, after standing there for a minute, I just dropped my backpack and sat down next to her.

“Painting today,” the girl finally said and tugged down on her black sleeves.

“Why you out here?” I asked.

“I don’t like painting,” she mumbled without looking up. Her eyes traced the lines on her wrist.

“But you’re in Art?”

“I hate the smocks... and the rolling up your sleeves part,” she breathed. Another tug on her sleeves. She glanced up at me. “Why are you out here?” she asked pointedly.

“I’m late,” I offered.

“I see that. And you’re new.”

So, she did notice. I didn’t realize how small this school was.

“Yeah, I’m Kevin,” I responded.

“Jun,” she said. “Do you play football?”

“Why is everyone asking me that?” I blurted.

Her eyes darted down the hall. “I saw those football guys laughing at you at lunch.”

How small is this school? I thought. I followed her eyes down the hall. She was watching another group of guys in jeans and letterman jackets. Their boots clacked down the hall away from us. And they were slamming each other into lockers. I could faintly hear them talking about dicks and chicks and bros before hoes.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “They just wanted to know if I played.”

“Yeah,” she breathed as if she already knew that. “They’re gonna recruit you.”

“So, are you going to go in?” I changed the subject.

“No, but you better go in.” Jun cautioned, “Mrs. B doesn’t like tardiness. And she especially doesn’t like it if you call her Mrs. B or Veronica.”

I stood up bewildered I was taking instructions from this tiny Asian girl named Jun.

And before I opened the class door, she said, “Good luck, Kevin.”

Good luck? Good luck for class or did she know something I didn’t know? I inhaled and opened the door.

I walked in and saw students were already at their seats painting away. The teacher meanwhile was leaned over one student, pointing to an area of on her canvas.

“The new kid,” she bellowed. She stood up and walked toward her desk. Grabbing a sticky note from there she read off, “Kevin?”

I stood in my place close to the door, feeling awkward once again.

“Yeah,” I responded, glancing around. I didn’t see a free spot.

“I think you mean, ‘Yes ma’am’, right?” the woman corrected. She took off her glasses and wiped them on her smock.

“Yes ma’am,” I stammered.

“Well, welcome to Art. I’m Mrs. Bernstein. Don’t you forget it,” she sighed. “You can take a seat right here.”

She pointed to a small table I had missed. It was already set up with two plates of paint and two canvases. The table was in the corner by the window and the teacher’s desk. Perfect... I started toward her and then she shook her head.

“Do me a favor first and tell Jun to come inside?” Mrs. Bernstein motioned to the door behind me.

I turned around and poked my head out. Jun was still sitting down staring at her arms. She looked deep in thought and I hated to interrupt her. She looked like she wanted to hide.

“Sorry,” I started.

“I know, I know,” Jun sighed. She gathered her stuff and walked in with me. On our way to the table, she grabbed two smocks. When we got to the table, she threw one of them at me and then tied hers on swiftly. She sat down next to me at the small table.

Ms. Bernstein approached our table and looked Jun in the eye. “I’m sure you’ll tell Kevin what to do, right?” Jun grimaced and Mrs. B took that as a yes and moved on to the giddy table laughing next to us. Those girls were painting flowers.

“So...” I asked and picked up a paintbrush.

“You can paint whatever you want. The rule is there are no rules. Just paint from the heart,” Jun said stoically. She pointed to a cheesy bright sign on the white board that said basically the same thing.

“Oh, okay,” I laughed. I stopped myself from dipping my paintbrush in a magenta color. I dipped it in purple instead. Meanwhile, Jun mixed white and black on her plate to make a dark gray.

I think I was making a friend. As much as I hated moving here, it would be nice to find a friend. Even one who didn’t really talk... Jun glanced back at the table of laughing girls behind us.

“Is it bad here?” I asked as I started layering my canvas background, purples and blues. Maybe I could slip in magenta later.

“Define bad,” Jun said as she set down her brush.

“I mean are you happy here?”

“I’m not sure I could be happy anywhere,” Jun replied. She picked up her brush and didn’t look back at the girls again.

Just that moment, a girl walked into the class with a note for Mrs. Bernstein. She must be an Office Aide. I watched her hand the note over and walk off. Mrs. Bernstein read the note and then sat down at her desk. She grabbed the phone and began to dial.

“Robert, it’s me,” Mrs. B spoke into the phone. Maybe, it’s her husband. Probably.

“Look, Chloe is sick again... I know... She was fine all day until after lunch... I just got a note. They called the front office here... I can’t leave now. The class just started... Are you on your lunch break?”

I stopped listening. I didn’t want to hear about my new teacher’s personal life. Her “adult problems” seemed so easy to handle. Meanwhile, Jun and I continued to paint: my purples and blues, Jun’s grays and dark grays. I didn’t know what kind of art I was creating yet, and I don’t know that Jun did either. If we were both painting from the heart, it was pretty clear that nothing much was there.

From the looks of it, Jun was a loner who isolated herself from others. And judging from her scars on her wrists, she cut herself too. Does she still? I wondered.

And me? I am a new kid once again, and I hate it. I had already reinvented myself at my old high school. I was the new Kevin, and I was happy. But, me coming out as gay was something my parents hated. I knew that deep down inside.

My parents had tried to be supportive as I became more involved in Theatre and Art. My friends accepted me for who I am. They told me it didn’t matter if I were gay, straight, black, white or orange. I covered important topics about gender equality as a Newspaper reporter; my favorite to write were opinion articles. But when I became President of the LBGTQ Club that was the final straw for my parents I think. They jumped at the chance to move us here. As soon as my dad got the new job, he took it. No family discussion. Just an order to start packing my bags...

And last night’s dinner was the most painful to endure. That’s when we had the family discussion. Mom and Dad cautioned me to wait to reveal I was gay here. They want to make sure it isn’t “just a phase.” They have no idea. They can’t understand.

So, I am a new kid again, and I hate it. I hate it because I feel once again stifled and constrained. Back home, I eventually felt comfortable confiding in my friends that I was gay. I was comfortable because they knew me. They knew my heart. Here, no one knows me. I don’t want to be labeled gay; my parents don’t want me labeled gay. We know the stigma that comes along with it. So, for now, I’ll remain the new guy – that’s my label. The new guy who can only paint canvas backgrounds and who avoids the football field. Note to self: leave school through the side doors, away from that field.

~ Amanda ~

I don’t know why I still let those football boys boss me around like that, especially Rodrigo. Rodrigo and I aren’t together anymore, I mean not really together. I wish we were though. But still, I shouldn’t let him tell me what to do. Why is it so hard to say no?!

Rodrigo and I had been inseparable from the day we met...which was unbelievably only this August, only a few months ago when I left middle school and started high school. It had felt like I had known him my whole life, considering how close I thought we were.

I still remember every detail of my first day of school. After feeling like I had started out my day horribly, having already pissed off one of my teachers already for having to re-sharpen my pencil every five seconds, I was happy to head to a different class: Spanish. I knew from comparing schedules earlier I would find many of my other semi-popular friends from middle school in this class.

However, it looked like I arrived early. I claimed a seat in the back of the room. Shortly after I sat down, Rodrigo, a sophomore I would soon discover upon meeting him, would confidently collapse into the chair beside me, smiling as he went.

I remembered I had glanced over at him, suspiciously, and then did a retake as his handsome appearance amazed me. With his shaggy brown hair, dark skin, and deep brown eyes, I quickly acknowledged that his boy was hot. It took me a longer moment to acknowledge that he was really there and about to talk to me. He chose this seat.

“Rodrigo Garcia,” he had introduced himself. A smile crept up his flawlessly tanned face. He spoke with an accent and I loved how his name rolled off his tongue.

“I love your backpack. Very cool!” he continued.

I was a shy, awkward freshman. I laughed at my bright and glittery backpack. I managed to say, “Thanks. I’m Amanda. I’m a freshman.”

“Sophomore,” he replied.

In that second, a group of students darted into the classroom after the bell rang. One of my middle school friends, Mia, had been one of the ones to walk into the classroom. She came and stood in front of me. Rodrigo had looked up to acknowledge her.

“Hey, dude. Name’s Mia,” she immediately had said, thrusting her hand forward.

He took it and helped himself up. “Rodrigo. I was just about to get your friend’s number and then you can take my seat.”

My heart that taken a dive. My number. And how he wanted it.

I ripped a sheet of paper out of my notebook, rebelliously, and scribed my name and digits on the paper.

“I’ll text you,” he had promised as he walked off, turning to smile back at me. He had sat down next to a group of his friends on the other side of the class. They had laughed in our direction while la profesora stood up to address the class, “Hola estudiantes!”

In less than a week, after a few “Netflix and Chill” sessions, late night texting, and laughs, Rodrigo and I were official. For him, I was his first serious girlfriend. For me, he was my first boyfriend. He was my everything.

And to my surprise, two months later, after we had made love for the first time, Rodrigo broke up with me. He said he was “confused” – whatever that meant – and that we would just be better off as friends. I thought he wanted to date other girls, but I haven’t seen him with anyone else yet. He still hangs out with, like, all the guys on the team and my friends and me occasionally. Sometimes, he even puts his arm around me when the other guys are around.

He pretends like nothing happened. He still compliments me on my clothes or my looks and kisses me on the cheek; he hugs me. He still means, to me, my life. After knowing that he’s broken up with me, I still am holding on to him, not being able to let go.

That’s why I’ve started to wear more makeup and shorter skirts, tighter clothes. I know it’s pathetic, but I’m hoping Rodrigo will notice. My mom doesn’t understand this

though. She says the only person who realizes is my little sister, Abby. She’s claiming I’m a bad influence on Abby. But I don’t see the connection at all. Abby copies what’s on TV, what’s in magazines, not what I do. I always find her stealing my Seventeen magazines. And I tell Mom this all the time.

Returning to the reality I had left, I looked up from my textbook and realized that Rodrigo was now on the field sprinting towards me in the stands.

“Hola chica!” he exclaimed. His football buddies trailed behind him.

One of the guys called out to me, “Do you think that twig guy is going to come try out for the team?”

“Kevin?” I asked, closing my textbook and placing it beside me.

“Yeah, him.”

“Well, like you asked me to, I told him where you have practice, but I don’t know.” I explained, “Kevin didn’t seem that into it.”

“What do you mean ‘not into it?’ He’s a guy and he’s black,” one said.

“He’s small though,” reasoned Rodrigo’s friend, Demarcus.

“Not much of a man.” Laughs.

Then, Rodrigo provided his input: “Yeah, but he’s probably a runner. Quick on his feet... Small and speedy.” More laughs.

“Small and speedy, huh?” It was Mia’s voice. She was walking in from the parking lot to come and sit in the stands with me.

“Hey!” I called out and patted on the metal next to me, motioning for her to come sit. I put my textbook in my backpack.

“I saw that dude,” Mia reported, sitting down next to me.

I turned to her. “Who?”

“Small and speedy... Kevin, I think? He wasn’t heading this way,” she explained.

“I told you guys,” I whined. “You always try and make me recruit guys for your team.”

“We need you, Amanda. We don’t have enough guys on the team. And guys listen to you when you ask. You’re a girl. Well normally they listen. Did you not look hot today?” Rodrigo said with a snicker.

Heat flashed to my face. I was embarrassed at that, but all I could do was flash an angry look at Rodrigo as he and his friends laughed.

“Why not recruit some girls?” Mia inquired, changing the subject.

“Are you serious?” said three football guys.

“Why not? You know I could play,” Mia retorted.

Mia was one of the sportiest girls here at Reagan High. She played volleyball, basketball, and ran cross-country and was planning to play soccer in the spring.

“Pshhhhh, girls cannot play football. It’s football!” Rodrigo protested. “Girls do not have the strength or endurance to play the sport.”

“Or the balls!” Demarcus piped in. Laughter again.

I rolled my eyes. Boys being boys. Why do I hang out here so much?

“I bet you I could play football better than that stick, Kevin,” Mia spat.

“Let’s see you try and prove it...” challenged Demarcus.

Then Rodrigo turned to me. “Amanda, come with me. Let’s get Kevin on this field!”

I immediately leaped up, abandoned my things on the bleachers and trailed after Rodrigo. I was happy to go search for this Kevin with Rodrigo. No problemo! I liked when it was just us two anyway.

Dang it! I thought too soon! Mia and the rest of the players followed us; they were running. Mia caught up to us and pointed toward the side doors.

“Come on! We’ve got to hurry! Before Coach starts practice in five minutes!” Demarcus urged.

“I saw him... sitting on a bench over THERE earlier! He was with Jun, that Asian who is a lesbo!” Mia panted.

As we got closer, we spotted Kevin and Jun. They were sitting on a green bench right outside the door. Were they even talking to each other? Honestly, it looked like they were just staring back at us. They looked a bit scared actually.

~ Jun ~

“What did you do? Did you tell anyone?” I demanded.

Kevin raised his eyebrows at me and then looked back at the mob rushing towards us. “What do you m-mean?” he stammered. He was on edge.

“That you’re gay? Did you tell them?” I whispered urgently.

“I’m not... gay,” he whispered back defensively.

“I don’t talk, don’t worry. I observe. So, why are they running toward us?” I asked.

Kevin stared at the football players and the two popular girls. His eyes bulged in his head as he saw the group sprinting. He scanned the parking lot. He was trying to find a way out. I could only imagine what thoughts were going through his head.

“I’m bi,” I offered meekly. It was sad. But maybe, that would comfort him.

He turned back to me with a confused look on his face. Then he glanced down at my wrists. It burned to have him stare there. Then Kevin bolted up.

Comfort him, what was I thinking? Kevin must know how shitty this school makes me feel, so judged, so shitty -- shitty enough to cut my own wrists. (I haven’t in a while though. Thanks to Art and weekly meetings with the guidance counselor.)

Kevin ran out into parking lot, his unzipped backpack bouncing on his back. I watched the scene unfold: Kevin hit by a car, his shoes and papers flying up, him sprawled out on the asphalt, face and arms bloody. The two girls screaming over his body... and the football guys trying to lift him up... Mrs. B stepping out of her car with her hands covering her mouth. She was shaking as she approached Kevin on the ground, the new guy.

Meanwhile, I sat motionless. I was an observer. I traced my last cut line with my sharp nail. Fresh. Tingle. I sat motionless.

~ Imogen ~

Normally, I love my job as a guidance counselor here. It’s perfectly challenging. It’s equally rewarding. Working with high school students is great, because it is a unique time where students are continually growing and developing and making difficult decisions that impact their futures.

However, every once in a while, there are those days... those days where I feel like I don’t have the answers. I know I am supposed to have them. I am a professional counselor. But, sometimes there are situations that arise that are novel, complex, unimaginable, personal.

It is a normal Tuesday afternoon. 4 o’clock. School just ended: kids are starting sports practices, teachers are grading assignments, parents are picking up their kids, and buses are loading. I am in my office getting ready to pack up for the day when the assistant principal bursts into my office. This sexist guy. What does he want now? I brace myself for this news. Inhale.

Though he bellows out fragmented sentences, he speaks in an authoritative manner. “Child hit by teacher... Veronica... Bernstein. Kid is fine, minor injuries. Police and parents are being notified. Principal and APs are speaking to the kid, Veronica, and some students who are witnesses.”

Oh, that was a lot of information to handle. I exhaled.

“What do you need me to do to help, Bill?” I asked calmly.

“Stay late. Talk to each child individually to assess their mental states,” Bill ordered. “And Imogen?”

“Yes?” I glanced up from my papers.

“Take good notes. We’ll need them. Talk to Mrs. Bernstein too,” Bill instructed.

“Mrs. Bernstein?” I breathed. Gulp. Karma’s a bitch.

“Yes, depending on the decision, you’ll need to talk with her and the various children regularly.” Bill spoke quickly and opened the door.

A girl dressed in black stood there. Bill darted past her without a word. So, Bill. I squinted at the girl. The dark bangs, dark clothes. Jun.

“Jun, honey,” I soothed, standing up from my desk. “I’m really busy today. Something important with the school has just come up, so I can’t see you on short notice.”

Jun didn’t move. She stood motionless in front of my desk.

“Come see me tomorrow morning, all right?” I suggested.

I grabbed her wrists to assure her, and Jun winced. Drawing my hands back, I saw a spot of red blood on my right hand. I grabbed Jun’s arm and flipped it gingerly. I raised her shirtsleeve. Blood again.

“Jun!” I cried.

Jun tugged her sleeve down. “It was just a scratch. My fingernail. See?” She revealed the cut again. She was right; there wasn’t that much blood.

“It was an accident,” Jun insisted.

Accident. Right. I needed to investigate this accident.

“Jun, I’m sorry. Go on over to the nurse. Talk to her for a while and she’ll get you a band-aid. Tomorrow morning, we’ll talk too?” I glanced at my door, signaling for Jun to leave. I was waiting for a child to walk in. Any minute. Or Mrs. Bernstein... Crap!

“I saw it,” she stammered.

I turned back to Jun.

“What did you see, Jun?” I posed.

“The accident, Ms. Pasternak,” she breathed.

I cracked my office door and motioned for Jun to take a seat. I calmly returned to my chair behind my desk. Jun plopped down in the chair across from me.

“Explain what happened, please,” I requested.

“You know, Ms. P, I observe. I don’t talk,” Jun started.

“That’s true, but you know, Jun, you talk with me,” I reminded her gently.

I inched the candy bowl towards her and nodded. Jun grabbed a peppermint and popped into her mouth quickly. She looked relieved.

“The new kid, Kevin, is the one who got hit by the car -- Mrs. Bernstein’s car. She was driving. Kevin ran into the parking lot. It wasn’t her fault. I bet she was distracted too because her kid is sick again and her husband, Robert, won’t ever pick up the kid,” Jun blurted.

“How do you know this, Jun?” My mouth went numb hearing this.

“I saw it happen,” Jun stated. “Kevin was sitting on the bench with me after school when all of a sudden the football players and Mia and Amanda came rushing toward us. Kevin started running. He thought they were after him. So he took off, right in front of Mrs. B.”

“Right in front? And you say she was distracted? How do you know that?”

“I told you. She was probably rushing to pick up her kid. Kevin and I heard her on the phone today in Art class.”

“What did you hear her say?” I blurted. I felt like I was gossiping, definitely crossing a counselor’s line. I should be asking about Kevin. I know that.

“She asked Robert to pick up Chloe because she was sick. And I think he said no because he had to work late, because Mrs. B got really upset. She started crying. She didn’t think anyone saw, but I did,” Jun explained.

“Okay, Jun,” I breathed. Change of subject. “Are you okay? Do you want to talk about how you feel? What about your wrist?”

“I don’t want to talk about how I feel. I think someone – you – should talk to Mrs. B about how she feels and to Kevin,” Jun said.

“I will talk to Kevin today,” I promised her. Selfishly, I hoped I didn’t have to talk to Veronica today.

“That’s all I came to say. Kevin was running away from something and Mrs. B was in pain before she hit the new kid,” Jun whispered.

“You said Kevin was running away? What was he running from?” I asked.

“Himself. The truth.”

Jun got up from the chair and walked to the door calmly. She stood in the doorway and turned. “And what about you, Ms. P? Are you running from the truth?”

I sat motionless for a few seconds. I pondered over Jun’s words. The truth. What was she talking about? When I glanced up, Jun had disappeared. I thought to myself she really was a strange, observant kid. I stood up and closed the door. I leaned against it. The

truth. Am I running from it?

Without thinking, I instinctively grabbed my cell phone from my jacket pocket and dialed. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Then I heard an answer, “Hello? Imogen.”

“I’m sorry. I’m having a long day of work. And it seemingly just started,” I whispered into the phone.

“It’s okay. I understand completely. I just want to see you, Imogen. I miss getting to talk to you. We can meet for drinks tonight? Catch up?”

I inhaled and closed my eyes.

“We can’t keep doing this,” I breathed.

“Imogen, doing what? We just talk. We’re friends,” he reasoned into the phone.

“Talking to another woman is enough,” I snapped.

“Imogen, I’m not seeing another woman,” he pleaded.

“I’m talking about me, Robert. I am the other woman. Talking to me is enough to ruin a marriage. You need to stop talking with me. We cannot be friends. We cannot meet to talk about “work.” You cannot come home late to your wife. You need to fall in love with your wife again and take care of her. She needs you right now.” The words all came gushing out. Truth.

A tear rolled down my cheek. How could I have been so stupid to think we were just

friends who were in the same field, friendly colleagues?

“What do you mean, Imogen -- she needs me?” Robert asked. He was confused, but I didn’t have any more answers to give him.

“Call Veronica,” I ordered and I hung up the phone.

The truth hurts.

I realized this more and more as the stories unfolded before me... As each child came in to talk with me and as Veronica sobbed to me the next morning... I listened patiently as I heard about feelings, obligations, parents who don’t understand, societal pressures, sexual urges, friends, children, marriages, secrets, and loneliness.

This time I had an answer: The truth hurts, but you have to confront the truth. You

have to be confident in who you are as a person and what you want.