First Days Are For Meanies
Originally published in Comfusion Review
Feeling trapped underneath the weight of the seat belt across my chest, I couldn't stop the voice in my head. I'm not going. I'm not going. I'm not going. I sat tense and still, hands clasped in my lap, head back against the seat, waiting for a moment to escape. Mom was driving me to my new school like it was an everyday occurrence. But leaving Fayerweather Street School for Pierce Elementary was not okay. It was like being taken from a commune to a gulag.
Mom said I hadn't learned anything at Fayerweather. It was too easy. I was angry with her for making me leave. I was angry with Fayerweather and with Holly my teacher for not teaching me better there so that I could stay. I was envious of my Fayerweather friends who were starting third grade without me. I thought that maybe if I showed her how much she was hurting me by forcing me into a strange place, Mom would turn the car around and promise that we would work something out.
Though my chin quivered and my heart beat faster at the sound of my own voice, I was beyond tears. "I don't want to go," I said quietly. I knew that angry words wouldn't get mom to stop the car. If I were adamant, yet diplomatic, maybe she would change her mind. "I want to go back to Fayerweather. Let's just drive to Fayerweather."
"Oh, Pussycat" Mom crooned, but the car continued on. We bounced down the hill of Temple Road and through the windshield I could make out white Four Square lines newly painted on the parking lot asphalt. I wanted to close my eyes and will myself back into my bed but we were already pulling into the circular drive at the front entrance. "We're here," she said, unfastening her seat belt. I am not moving. I am not going in. There's no one here. We're late. Too late to go.
My Plan B, to throw a temper tantrum when the car had come to a complete stop outside of Pierce School, was thwarted by the appearance of the principal outside the front door. Mr. Callahan wore a stiff, gray Elementary School Principal Suit. The head of Fayerweather was Sue Pea. She was a moody, eccentric not-so ex-hippie who wore her salt and pepper colored hair in a loose knot at the back of her neck and stood barely taller than me, age seven. Her son Caleb, who was a sixth grader at Fayerweather, seemed to spend most of his time hanging out in his mother's office. Though on any given day I would have taken Sue Pea and the comforts of Fayerweather over the cookie-cutter suburban institution I was about to enter into, I appreciated Mr. Callahan's friendly good morning and seemingly empathic manner. I noticed how rosy his cheeks were as he held open the green painted steel doors that guarded the front of the school. His short stature was somehow comforting. Maybe he'll understand. Maybe he won't make me go and then Mom will let me go home if he says I don't have to go.
Mom was already on the sidewalk and I was barely stepping out of the car when Mr. Callahan called to us from the top step. "Welcome. How are you today?" he asked. What? I'm not going in there. Mom shut the passenger door of our blue Chevette behind me I felt weak in the knees.
"Well" I heard her begin with a level of cheer that offended me. "We're a little nervous this morning." This isn't funny. I thought I'd die before walking up the front steps and through those doors to whatever was waiting for me on the other side. I didn't want to know. I'd rather do anything, be anywhere else. I'd go home and spend the whole day in a self-imposed Time Out not to have to go to that school.
It was completely quiet and there was no one else outside. I'd been so distressed when my mom woke me up to get ready that morning that I'd made us late for school by stalling. This was Plan A. If I made us late enough we wouldn't go. Though I had finished peeing in my bathroom, I refused to get up off of the toilet for a good eight minutes. I would have stayed butt-bare and glued to that morning-cold, hard seat if Mom's voice hadn't sounded frightfully more urgent each time she called my name from downstairs. After I had painfully pulled together the outfit that she had laid out for me, each article of clothing drawing me closer to my doom, I took my time going down the stairs, gratuitously counting each step to the kitchen where she was fixing the day's lunch. With a heavy sigh I pulled out my chair and sat down at the table as if that action might shatter every delicate bone in my fragile little body. Facing my bowl of soggy Cheerios, I proceeded to take every bite of my breakfast in torturously slow motion. A valiant effort, but Mom started to get angry and it was clear that my plan had backfired when I found myself standing on the front steps of Pierce School not twenty-five minutes later. As if being new wasn't alarming enough, now I was late on top of it.
I noticed the sun peering out from behind the roof of the small brick building. There were art projects taped up in all of the front windows; collages, butterflies cut out of construction paper and masks made out of papier-mache. This school is stupid. I wanna go home. It was one of those September days that started out cool, but warmed up by the time us Fayerweather kids pulled out our lunch boxes from our cubby holes. I shivered in my pilly white knit button down sweater, which I wore with a pink and yellow kilt, soft white tights and a pair of burgundy Mary Janes I had picked out for myself when Mom took me back-to-school shopping. I could smell her flowery perfume coming off of her long brown skirt and navy blazer.
I'd somehow made it up the steps and found myself standing inside the school hallway flanked by my mom on my right side and Mr. Callahan on my left. "Class has already started, so let's get you inside," was his suggestion. "Mr. Stokar and your new classmates are looking forward to meeting you."
"Pussycat, I'm going to be late for work," Mom said to me. "Do you want me to walk you to your class?" No. I want you to turn around. Let's get out of here. Let's run. I stayed silent and grabbed the hand that hung down at her side, squeezing her ringed fingers together. They began walking me down the long, empty corridor. My shoes were slippery on the shiny floor. There were doors leading to classrooms on either side. Narrow metal lockers lined the walls below yellow tiles. I thought only older kids had lockers, like the ones I'd seen on TV in "The White Shadow". I can't wear these shoes. My feet are gonna slip and slide like this all day. This school smells funny. I could just make out kids sitting at desks behind the windows of the closed doors as we walked past. At Fayerweather we didn't have classrooms. We had five floors of open space with round tables and little chairs and different areas like The Reading Area. I wanted The Puppet Area and The Water Table. Where was The Loft? I'd never even sat behind a desk before. At Fayerweather you could sit on pillows on the floor if you wanted to. You could sit in the bean bag chair, or on the big blue couch that everyone fought over for Morning Meeting and Show and Tell.
We stopped. I looked up and saw a sign covering the window in the door that I was suddenly facing. The sign said, "Mr. Stokar's Third Grade Class" in orange and green crayon with silver star stickers stuck around the edges. When I looked back I saw that we had come all the way down the hall. Soft morning light streamed through the windows at the other end on either side of those green metal doors, where just beyond our blue Chevette sat empty and waiting.
"Okay. Have a great day," Mom was saying with a cool mix of sympathy and optimism in her voice. She squeezed my hand for a split second, only to let it go again after leaning down to give me a kiss on the cheek. Wait. You're not coming in with me? I looked up at Mr. Stokar's sign and then back at Mom. I felt Mr. Callahan's meaty hand on my shoulder. I heard muffled voices from inside the classroom: a man's voice and then toneless children's voices repeating something back in unison. I heard footsteps and then the man's voice, now clearer and closer, say, "I think she's here" The classroom door swung open to a graying and hairy, round-bellied man wearing a powder blue dress shirt and not even a hint of a smile. Do old men run this entire school? He was twiddling a piece of chalk between his thumb and the palm of his dusty hand. Behind him, I saw a dark room full of kids who looked so much older than me. I think this is the wrong room. They were seated in a perfect grid of wooden desks and blue plastic-seated chairs with metal legs. All of the strange staring faces made me have to pee. This was it. This was as far as I could go.
"Have a great day," Mom repeated. I can't go in there. "Be very brave," she leaned down to whisper. Like a soap opera star in her climactic moment, I took one step backwards, shaking my head in pure terror, and collapsed into my mother's thighs. Mr. Callahan tried to wrap his scratchy tweed arms around me to keep me from losing my balance and to make it easier for my mom to walk away. They were working together, suspiciously well prepared for this intervention. My fingers clenched the chocolate colored corduroy of Mom's skirt, but she broke away. My eyes were blinded; a tidal wave of tears flooding over them. My cheeks were burning up and my skin felt damp underneath my sweater. I couldn't help but burst out bawling. My deep wails tumbled out of my throat faster than I could breathe and I heard myself gasping for air, realizing that my mom was leaving me with two strange, fat men and a room full of seven-year-old automatons. My overwhelming desperation echoed down the corridor and I didn't even care about who could hear me. I cried louder, pleading after her not to leave me here, but she did not look back. Mr. Callahan stayed behind me, holding me to him, letting my mom get away.
"You'll be fine. You're okay, you're okay," He chanted. His breath was hot and ghastly against my ear. I caught a last watery glimpse of my mom's back as the front door of the school closed behind her, shutting out the light from outside. Don't leave. Don't leave. Don't leave me. I suddenly realized that I had been pushed halfway into Mr. Stokar's door and all of the third-graders were still glaring at me. I swallowed my sobs in utter humiliation and blinked hard to suppress new tears. A boy in the front row with buckteeth and an unruly black mop on his head was gaping at me, practically drooling. Why don't you shut your mouth? Two girls with beaded cornrows who were sitting together in the back, barely stifled their giggles with cupped hands over their mouths. Why doesn't the teacher tell them to stop laughing? The force of gravity pulling from the floor beneath me weighed down the corners of my mouth. My cheeks were throbbing and my throat was on fire.
"See, you're okay," Mr. Callahan said even though I was breathing out of rhythm and my chest was still heaving in my shock and despair. I sniffled and wiped the salty snot from my nose with my sleeve. He stood upright and tried awkwardly to straighten out my bunched up kilt, twisting my tights around my shaking thighs in the process. Mr. Stokar was towering above me; his protruding stomach aligned with my forehead. He placed a monstrous hand on the small of my back and nudged me gently but firmly further into the room. He was not at all amused. He introduced me to the awestruck class. "This is Miss Kersley," he said, mispronouncing my last name. The classroom was silent as I entered, except for the squeaking of my new shoes on the waxy floor and the echo of my damp and heavy hiccups.
