I was that one M&M that you have only one of, among a million others, trying to blend in The blue car rolled down the dusty road, coming to an abrupt stop in an empty lot. I jumped out and twirled around to face the camp. The sweet smell of pine trees circled around my head and I inhaled. The head counselor came out to meet me and showed me to my bunk. As I approached the wooden cabin, my feet slowed, and I closed my eyes ever so slightly, listening to the sound of gravel beneath my black Converse. Later in the month I would bound up the stairs and slam the screen door, but right now I was quiet, tiptoeing up the creaky steps and slipping through the door. “Hi,” one of the counselors said, smiling. There were about ten people sitting in a circle on the floor. “Hi…” “What’s your name?” “Nisha,” I muttered, looking at the ground. Starting with the counselor to my right, everyone said their name, everyone with the same expression, like dolls in a department store, staring at you with fake smiles and stating their name in a perfunctory manner. They asked me what I was most looking forward to. I told them that I was looking forward to wearing the new pajamas I had gotten (the words printed on the T-shirt read Ice cream for breakfast, cupcakes for lunch), and they laughed. As the new kid, I was worried about making friends, but I was feeling confident. Within the first few days, I noticed two girls whispering to each other. I ignored it; I didn’t really care if they had secrets between them. Throughout the day, I saw them talking to other girls in our bunk, laughing and flipping their high ponytails in the air like a fish on land. Later that night, they walked up to another girl and continued to whisper something in her ear. She smiled, and said the much expected, “Oh my God, really?” “What? What’s so funny?” I asked, curiously. “Um, it’s nothing. You, like, you wouldn’t get it,” one of them said, rolling her eyes, and they walked away. “But you told everyone else,” I murmured under my breath after the girls were too far away to hear. It started out small, but soon people didn’t want to sit next to me, and many of the girls didn’t talk to me when they passed by me during the day, or when we were sitting in the bunk at night. Walking to activities, the other girls would sprint until they were far away from me, and then they would slow down. If I got too close, they would sprint again. I got used to hearing the quiet crackling sound of pebbles flying in every direction as feet hit the ground. While rehearsing for the upper-camp play, I asked one of the girls (who was playing Le Fou, Gaston’s sidekick, in Beauty and the Beast) if her character died in the end. I couldn’t quite remember, and I knew in some versions, Gaston did. She replied, “You should die in the end.” I looked away, and lightly tapped on the broken piano’s keys. At night, I lay under my sheets, curled into a ball against the cold, and wondered, What was wrong with me? I fingered the boards protecting me from the floor, and waited for sleep to take a wrong turn and fall through my window. I began to notice more and more how excluded I was. All seven girls hung out together and ran away when I would try to join, like trying to catch your shadow, or dance with your reflection. I wondered if I was exaggerating; was I really being excluded, or was I just not making myself heard? Was I even being excluded? I wondered if maybe it was something I’d done… Was I too talkative? Too quiet? Too hyper? Too calm? I was that one M&M that you have only one of, among a million others, trying to blend in. Towards the end of the month, the girls began to act a little more friendly to me, including me in conversations, but all the conversations were about another girl in our bunk, whom everyone had turned on. While I wanted to be included and thought of as a friend, I didn’t want to participate in the awful things they said about her. Every time one of the girls said something bad about the girl, Carly, it seemed to hang in the air for a second, twirl in circles around each of our heads, mocking us, and run away into the forest, never to be found or taken back. I didn’t want to be searching for it with the other girls, trying to hide it so the object of their bullying never found out. I wanted to ask, Why do you suddenly like me, now that you hate someone else? But I also wanted them to continue to like me. One day, as I was heading to my next activity, I suddenly was overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. I slowly climbed up the small hill and picked up a bow. I shot the arrow, and it landed in the woods. Feeling like I could never do anything right, I went to retrieve it. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I focused entirely on the bull’s-eye, and I raised my left arm. I straightened my right arm and pulled the string back as far as I could. This is it, I thought. I let the string go… and the arrow fell in front of the target. I picked it up. This is why no one likes you, I told myself. And I shot the arrow. It hit red. I smiled, for the first time that day. I realized that I was OK, that the world hadn’t ended. Once everyone forgave Carly, it was back to ignoring me. The last night
Bullying
Standing Alone
“Hey, there’s the ballerina!” “You have something in you, Alex. Something not a lot of boys have. You have the ability to speak, to communicate, through dance. I am very proud of you.” Those words play through my head every second of my life. I go to Kent Middle School. Ever since I started here, things haven’t gone too great. You see, I’m a dancer. Yeah, OK, fine. Tease me. It’s not like I can hurt you. The thing is, I love dancing. I take contemporary, tap, and jazz. For me dancing is a way to express myself. Authors express themselves through their writing. Artists express themselves through their painting or drawing. Singers express themselves through their song. But I express myself through dance. There is only one problem. Boys don’t think it’s cool to dance. They think cool is sports, cool is dressing cool, and dancing is definitely not cool. So I’m not cool. Not being cool pretty much means I’m a dead fish. Right as I enter the classroom people look at me and say something like, “Hey, there’s the ballerina!” Then they start twirling around the room. Of course, the teacher notices, and she has talked to them. They just won’t listen. So here I am, on the bus to dance class, thinking the same thing I always think about: those encouraging words my teacher told me the very first dance class I ever took. Unfortunately, some of the other kids take this bus too. Today, three kids from my class are on for the ride. I try to duck so they won’t notice me, but nope, it’s not working. “Hey, ballerina, where are you heading?” one of the girls asks me, shoving in front of the others. “Dance class?” “Yeah, actually, you’re correct,” I say, “I am heading to dance class.” “Did you remember to practice?” she asks, giggling. I just decide not to answer. Eventually, she walks back to her seat. I get off on Twenty-Second Street, walk to the building where my dance class is, and open the door. As soon as I enter the building, I know I’m supposed to be here. I walk to the back studio. When I walk in, my contemporary dance teacher is practicing. He is so graceful, turning and leaping in the air; I wish someday I could dance like him. “Hey, Alex,” he says, finishing his dance, “how are you?” I don’t really want to spill the beans about how I’m getting bullied, but I think my teacher might understand. I mean, he was a boy dancer in middle school too, right? “Hey, um,” I say, “I have a problem you might be able to help me with. In my class people don’t think it’s cool to dance. They’re bullying me just because I’m a dancer.” “Alex, why didn’t you tell me before?” he replies, surprised. “I had the exact same problem when I was in middle school. A lot of boys do. The best thing you can do is to stand up and show them what you can achieve. Show them how amazing you really are.” “How?” I ask. “Dance for them, Alex. I know you can do it.” “When would I dance for them?” “Do you have a talent show at your school?” “Yeah, next week.” “Perfect, sign up, and give them all you got.” * * * I walk down the hallway of my middle school, heading towards the signup sheet. I hear people whispering behind my back. And I’m pretty sure the topic is me. I pretend not to notice as I reach the sheet. One word printed on the sheet in big red letters sends my dreams crashing towards the floor: FULL. Impossible. It can’t be full. I came all this way and practiced extra hard. Just to be rejected? Wait, what am I saying? I’m not giving up now. I’m going to walk to the principal’s office and tell Mr. Lawrence what I think about this. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he says, “full is full.” “Please,” I say, “I want to show people what dancing really means to me.” The principal closes his eyes in thought. I hold my breath. He opens his eyes and smiles at me. “All right,” he says, “I’ll try to open up a spot for you.” “Thank you.” I walk out of the principal’s office, my heart jumping with joy. I leap across the stage, gliding and twirling. The audience is watching me do what I do best; and I am free. A sound over the loudspeaker awakens me from my daydream: “Alex Miller. Please report to the principal’s office right away. Thank you.” I hear snickers from my classmates, but I try to ignore them. I quickly get out of my seat and head down the hallway. When I reach Mr. Lawrence’s office I open the door and sit down. He clears his throat. “Congratulations, Alex!” he says. “You will be performing in the talent show.” I’m overjoyed. “Oh, thank you so much!” “You’re very welcome, Alex.” I walk back to the classroom with high spirits. I’m in a good mood for the next few days, too. There’s a feeling in me that I’ve done something right: stood up to people who have teased me; loved myself just the way I am. * * * “I know you can do this, Alex.” I’m in the boys’ room with my teacher, putting on the finishing touches. Makeup, hair. I know it’s weird. Welcome to the theater life. A head pokes in through the door. It’s Mr. Lawrence. “You’ll be on in five,” he says. I’m ready for the show. For the next five minutes I sit backstage, waiting for my cue. A staff member looks at me. “You’re on.” I am ready for this. I know I can do it. Those encouraging words my teacher told me the first dance
First Impression
She cuts me off. “It’s Rowen. And I’m busy. Good luck.” The white moving truck with faded blue letters pulls into the driveway behind us. I stare ahead at the one-story house that is now ours. Unbelievable. I look down, into my folded hands. The never-ending car trip seems like a bundle of candy right now. Will things keep getting worse? “Bay,” my mom says gently. I look out the window, oblivious to her coaxing voice. Diandra lets out a snicker. Fine. Let my only sister think I’m an idiot. Works for me. I close my eyes, remembering California. The waves rolling in, the sun beaming down. I take a glance at the harsh reality. Snow falling. Short houses. Lakes, not oceans. Why Minnesota? Mom deserves the silent treatment. She caused the divorce. She caused the move. Diandra doesn’t care, Mom doesn’t care, and Dad’s all the way on the other side of the world, deciding to live his life in Australia. Why didn’t he take me with him? Why did Mom have to package me up and ship me to the opposite of California with her? I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car. I hold out a finger and let a snowflake land on it. The delicate thing melts at my touch. Shivering, I tug my scarf tighter. Diandra hops out of the car, swinging her backpack after her. Only a few more years, I remind myself as she whips her dazzling blond hair around herself. Just a few more years before Diandra can drive off, searching for boys or something. Mom is out next, turning off the car, the old engine stuttering to a stop. She hurries around the car, her high heels clicking as she moves in a strangled run, working against her impossible shoes. I brush aside my mess of dirty-blond hair that is in two knotty braids. “Bay,” Mom repeats, raising her eyebrows in exasperation. I turn away, facing the street. No cars pass. An occasional jeep or something rolls by, a trail of exhaust following. “Come on, let’s be rational. What can be so bad with change?” My mom rattles on, but my eyes are fixed on the street, tuning her out. I scan the houses facing ours and turn back to the bumpy pavement that needs work. Then, a bike rides by. Wait, hold it. A bike? In winter? On the calm streets caked with a layer of fresh snow? A biker in this weather? A biker with—wait—no coat on? This is strange. I’m off, racing after this bike. My mom is taken by surprise, screeching after me, “Bay! Bay! What do you think you’re doing? Diandra? Diandra!!! Bay!” My feet thud against the pavement, my breath coming out in puffs of fog. I don’t know what’s taken hold of me. Maybe it’s the move. Maybe it’s the sight of something strange. Or maybe it’s everything tied up in one big knot. The fact that once I finally make a friend, I’m whisked off to another town, expected to rewrite my whole life. The fact that this is impossible for me, and that I never fit in. The fact that this girl might be someone else who’s in her own world. Just another person who is out there, different, odd. Awkward with everyone and everything. I keep running. The biker finally stops in front of a house a few blocks down from ours. She takes off her helmet, letting her short, choppy brown hair come into view. The biker rests her bike against a sign that reads “No Parking from 5 p.m.–7 a.m.” and locks her bike to it. “Hey,” I greet breathlessly, after I’ve caught up to her. The girl looks at me with her blue eyes, puzzled. She looks thirteen, my age. I also notice that she doesn’t seem to be cold at all, even though her arms are bare. “Hello?” she responds. Her eyes scan me. I hesitate, then continue, a little nervous, to be honest. This girl’s intimidating. Or maybe I’m just intimidated by everything. “I’m Bay and I’ve just moved in. Few blocks down. I know…” She cuts me off. “It’s Rowen. And I’m busy. Good luck.” Then Rowen turns on her heel and is marching inside her tan house. Her hair bounces with her stiff body. I’m speechless. My mouth is still open. I ignore the urge to call out and close it, disturbed by her rudeness. I tug at one of my braids, biting my lip, feeling tears welling up. “Just another one of those girls,” I whisper to myself. I just stay there, standing, staring at the house until I give in to myself and turn away, my head down. I slip off my Toms and walk home barefoot, ignoring the biting pain of the cold. The snow melts against the bottoms of my feet, leaving footprints. I give in to the pain, slipping on my shoes. I shiver and continue walking down the middle of the seemingly abandoned street. Thoughts turn in my head. I already messed up. School hasn’t even started. Thank God it’s winter break. I arrive at our new house and stand there, sighing. Our new house doesn’t even look good. It’s off-white with red shutters. Our old house was a brilliant but calm green. I remember introducing Coral to it, and how I could fool around with her, relieved that she didn’t care how insecure or awkward I was. But now, I don’t have anyone who cares that I exist. I stare at my dull house with hate. Then, I nearly get run over and have to hop out of the street to avoid the honking car. This brings me back to my senses. The door bangs open and Diandra runs out, shooting darts at me with her sharp eyes. Her hands curl into fists. “Baylie Natalie Gale! Where were you?” she shouts. “Around,” I tell her. She emits an exasperated noise and storms back inside.
