Unexpected Experiment

Whenever I've got writers block, or I'm itching to write but can't conjure a creative thought, I think about my childhood. I was a freak, so there's ample material nestled back there. 

This piece is the result of such a time. It was written about a year ago, and went through its first edit today. While editing, I was reminded of how surprisingly experimental the work was for me. 

For the sake of context I'll post the entirety of the writing,

Hope this doesn't skew the experiment.

although I'm sharing for the purpose of feedback on the portion that surprised me - a description of a game of dodgeball. The piece isn't particularly long, but if you're not overwhelmed with free time and want to get to the point, I'll highlight the dodgeball scene so you can skip to it. 

I didn't change much in my first round of edits. Perhaps because the memory is mine, so it's easy for me to picture. Childhood memories are so abstract in such vividly clear ways, though. I'm unconvinced I've given the reader anything like the film playing in my head. 

Behind Enemy Lines

By Kay L. Steele

From Kindergarten through Sixth Grade, I attended a new school each year. Each new start, I made adjustments to my attitude and personality according to my experiences making and losing friends the years before. Some years, these adjustments enabled me to make very close friends, and remain amiable to most of my class mates. Other years, these adjustments we less successful. Far less successful. Perhaps, the more distant these adjustments were from who I inherently was, the more likely to fail. 

The last week of second grade, the one year I attended two different schools, I managed to make enemies of everyone I’d ever met, and many I’d never even seen. Kids glared and made ugly faces at me in the halls. Shunned me when picking kickball teams at recess. Gossiped “behind my back” in the bathrooms as though I was deaf. I sat alone at lunch. My yearbook went unsigned, except for my teacher. Several kids even told me they hated me. Looking back, I have no idea how it could occur to seven-year-olds to act so cold. I hadn’t a clue what I’d done to receive such treatment until the end of the last day. One girl, Sylvia, took mercy on me. Mercy or pity. Either way, I am still grateful to her. She walked home with me all week, and remained my friend even at school, under heat from everyone we saw. 

Finally, on our last walk home, Sylvia took me at my work when I said I didn’t know what I’d done, and explained the situation to me. There had been a school talent show the week before. Mostly, it consisted of multiple groups of five to ten kids dancing their renditions of the Macarena. There were a few who sang, one who hoola-hooped. But mostly, the Macarena. The whole school assembled in rows of criss-crossed legs on the carpeted gym floor, to watch our classmates. Afterward, a slideshow of pictures taken throughout the year played. Apparently, a picture I found funny came up. I laughed aloud at the face a girl was making. A girl I didn’t know, but who happened to be sitting right behind me. I didn’t and don’t remember the picture, or even laughing at a picture, and I have no idea who this girl was or how she had such influence over our peers. I’m rather impressed with her, in retrospect. But there was nothing I could do to rectify my situation. We moved that summer and I started 3rd grade as a stranger to all. 

I still remember Sylvia. I don’t actually remember if her name was in fact Sylvia. It could have been Cynthia, come to think of it. I know it started with an S sound, and was traditionally hispanic. I remember conversations, and walking home after school, and playing in our neighborhood. I didn’t register the depth of the friendship we built until that last day of school. It’s only now that I recognize the value of the kindness she gave me. I imagine we’d still be friends had we not been parted, or kept in touch.  

Fourth Grade was a similar experience. I had my first boyfriend, Brian. I broke up with him very publicly, by crossing out the lovey-dovey graffiti we’d plastered on the underside of the “Lewis and Clark Elementary” sign at the school’s entrance. From then on, we spent recess plotting ways to trip each other. 

Other than Brian, I’d done a pretty clean job of making and keeping friends. Until about midway through spring. It must have been spring, because recess was sunny and everyone wore t-shirts. I can’t recall the exact reason, but I believe it involved yelling at a “popular” girl named Brook for teasing my friend Brandy. I told Brook that her mascara looked stupid and she was ugly. I didn’t know any of my friends had ever talked to her, let alone called her friend. Those who witnessed the scene encouraged me and justified my words. The next recess, a line was drawn making clear who was my friend, and who were Brook’s. 

Let’s just say, my side of the line was pretty lonely. My entire class along with every other 4th and 5th grade class, had turned on me. I felt absolutely hated. I begged every morning to stay home from school. I cried every night, trying my hardest to explain to Mom and Dad how every nine and ten-year-old in school could possibly hate me. But they were, as any rational adult would be, convinced I had to be exaggerating. 

Brandy, like Sylvia, remains fondly tucked in my heart. She was a dear and loyal friend, and stuck up for me just as much as I stuck up for her. Brandy spoke vehemently for everyone and anyone she heard being gossiped about or bullied, actually. I learned a lot from her. Not immediately, of course, but now that I’ve reflected for fifteen or so years. 

Unlike the kids in 2nd grade, the ten-year-olds pretended to be friends sometimes, when they felt no one was looking or they had something to gain. And they didn’t exclude me from dodge ball at recess. Instead, I was their prime target. Even so, I felt a sense of gratitude and loyalty to them. At least recess wouldn’t be boring. It was easier, as well, to pretend I was their friend if they were also pretending.

Our version of dodgeball involved large rubber balls, and a brick wall. To start, all but one kid lined up on the wall. That one kid hucked balls until one of the wall kids was hit. The wall kids could move left or right, but they had to remain touching the wall at all times. Those hit, or who were caught not touching the wall, joined those with balls, until everyone everyone was hit and the last kid standing was the winner. The winner was always the one kid who didn’t start on the wall for the next game.

I won one time. The game started and the first ball was aimed at me. It missed and hit the kid next to me, who picked up a ball and joined the thrower. Together, they threw both balls at me. Both missed. One hit the wall, the other hit a kid. And so the game went. Most of the time, kids aimed at me. Luckily, most nine-year-olds don’t have any aim to speak of. By the time there were only three or four left on the wall, the throwers were getting extremely frustrated. Especially the throwers who’d been trying to hit me from the get-go. 

Suddenly, I was the only person left. But they weren’t going to declare me the winner so easy. With whispers and nods, a line of kids formed in front of me, each holding a dodgeball at the ready. Every ball we had was aimed at me. Apparently, the game wasn’t over. 

I was on the far left with my back to the wall. On cue, with the attempted unison of leaderless fourth-graders, they let fly the rubber. Without thinking, I spun to the right, my face and stomach now facing the wall. A moment later, I spun right again so my back was again against the wall. Two balls hit just behind me one after the other. The twangy clank of rubber against brick rang loud in my ears. I kept spinning against the bricks: back, clank, face, clank, back face clank clank, back clank face back, face clank back, clank face... 

I spun for the last time, back to the wall and facing the awestruck firing line. There was a pause before the final throw. It struck me square in the gut just under my elbows, raised to protect my face. The ball was thrown by a gangly, awkward girl with glasses who was always one of the first out. With that throw, she became infamous. She continued to get high-5s even after the recess bell had rung, we’d returned to our classroom, and our teach had demanded several times we settle down. I’m certain that girl went on to be a star college athlete, bolstered with all the confidence of Michael Jordan himself. 

There was a pause, though. Just before the uproar of triumph over Gangly-Girl’s gut shot. Every jaw in the line before me gaped, every brow ruffled with a face-twisting combination of disbelief and wonder. "How did she... that's no possible..." they muttered. No one could hit me. In that pause, I was invincible and victorious. In that pause, Brandy whooped. The line was still drawn, I still had only one friend. One person would walk by my side back into class. But in that pause, I was the most popular kid in school. 

-----

*4/10/13 Author's Note: It's the word clank, isn't it? Perhaps a brainstorm is what I need. What is that noise rubber dodge balls make when they hit brick? It's distinct. Sharp. Recognizable. I don't think it's clank.