Counting to Ten Again

I’m counting to ten, my fist clenched in my lap. But when I open my eyes again, you’re still standing there. And I can tell by the look on your face that you’re waiting for a response. But I don’t have one. Not one you’ll like anyway. 

“Lauren, please see me after class.” 

You walk away and ask someone else to answer the question on the board. 

I stare at your shoes and bite the inside of my cheek. Why do you always call on me when you know I don’t know the answer? When you know it will only make the other kids tease me and laugh? I feel like you do it on purpose. 

After class, I walk up to your desk with my arms wrapped tight around my binder. Maybe if my hands are full I won’t feel the impulse to smack or scratch. Maybe. 

“Lauren, I wish you would try to answer the math questions.” You look at me with sad eyes. 

But it reads as pity. And nothing I hate more than pity. The kids making fun of me, I can deal with. But don’t feel sorry for me if you’re not going to do anything to help. 

“I don’t know how to do it.” 

“I can help you. But not if you don’t ask.”

I grind my teeth together. “I’m asking now.” It comes out like a growl because my jaw is still clenched. 

“Why don’t you ask during class, though? Someone else might be needing help too and everyone will benefit.” 

I close my eyes to count to ten. Why don’t you see that I’m the someone else needing help? 

“Lauren?” 

My eyes shoot open and I can’t help but glare at you. “They make fun of me when I ask for help. That’s why.” 

Before you can answer, I spin on my heel and hurry from the room. I’m going to miss my bus if I stay any longer. 

The bus is almost worse than school. Less adults mean less rules being followed. And the bus driver doesn’t care if people are being mean unless it turns into a fist fight. And since I’m small, he wouldn’t think I’d ever start a fist fight. 

Maybe he doesn’t even notice. 

“Do you even brush your hair?” 

It’s Misty in the seat behind me. She’s always the first to start in on me. 

“Look at that rat’s nest.”

“I bet birds could live in your hair and you wouldn’t even notice.” 

I ignore them. I count to ten. 

My hair is curly and if I could shave it all off, I would. But my mother wouldn’t be happy. And since she’s the only one nice to me… I try keep her happy. 

“What are you wearing?” 

Jill now, a few rows back. 

“I swear those shoes are for babies. I saw them at the baby store with my mother.” 

“Well, what do you expect? She’s barely taller than a baby.” 

Laughter. 

I make eye contact with the driver in his large mirror over the window. But he looks away without a word. 

I close my eyes. I count to ten. 

My mom meets me at the bus stop. It’s only more ammunition for the others, but she likes to do it. She talks while we walk down the street to our house. 

“Dr. Sherry needs to move your visit this week to Friday. She said something has come up. But she emailed me a few websites for you to check out on meditation and centering yourself. In case the counting to ten isn’t helping.” 

It’s not. But I don’t say that to my mom. She thinks Dr. Sherry has been helping my anger. I wish she was. 

“And she said to make sure you’re writing in your journal about what’s making you mad so you can talk about it when you see her. Has that been working? To discuss the reasons?” 

I shrug. 

No, of course not. Because telling Dr. Sherry about Misty and Jill and the others teasing me only leads to conversations about my self-esteem. Which isn’t the problem. 

The problem is that these girls at school think they’re so much better than everyone else and take it upon themselves to make fun of anyone else they deem less than. 

And I am less than. 

You’re standing in front of my desk again. School barely started and here you are to make my day awful.

“Lauren, would you like to try the problem on the board?” 

I look at the board. The numbers and squiggles mean nothing to me. I look up into your face. Your flat face with the sad eyes and the stupid smile you think means you’re being helpful. 

“No.” 

Someone behind me laughs. I don’t know who it is, but it doesn’t matter. I try to count to ten.

“Lauren, is there something wrong?” 

I glare at you. You’re still holding out the dry-erase marker to me like I’m going to change my mind. Like I was joking.

Someone else laughs. 

My eye twitches. I can’t keep doing this. This sitting here day to day while everyone nitpicks everything about me. Every day you single me out and make things worse. 

Every day someone laughs. 

“Lauren, are you going to try the problem on the board?”

And I try to keep it in. I’ve tried to keep it down. 

But no more. 

I grab the marker out of your hand and climb up on top of my desk. I’m now eye to eye with you and I’m thrilled to see you aren’t looking at me with sadness any more. There’s shock there. And maybe a little bit of fear. 

“I said, no.” 

And I thrust the marker into your left eye with all the strength I can muster. There’s a squish and a pop and the sensation shoots all the way up my arm. 

No one is laughing now. In fact, they’re screaming. And I much prefer that sound. 

You’re on the ground, clutching your face and I stay standing on my desk to look around at my classmates. 

I find myself smiling.