Bully

It was her. She was bending her head, busy bagging my groceries, and she had lost her slim figure, but I could recognize her. Her nails were painted purple, and her hands were still masculine, as I remembered.

We went to the same middle school 25 years ago. She was a dazzling, perfect girl who immediately attracted attention. She was a head taller than me, black hair shining with vitality. She was the first one in my class that owned a watch, which meant more than owning an iphone X nowadays. She often polished her nails in bright colors that matched her stylish well-tailored clothes.

We were not friends. In fact, in the first year, she barely looked at me. I was a skinny girl in dull, faded clothes, staying alone reading novels that most kids didn’t care.

One day in the fall of the second school year, she reached out her hand, square and masculine, and said, “Let’s be friends.”

My heart pounded fast; my brain went blank. Other girls giggled, making me feel awkward. After a brief hesitation, I replied, “Sure,” stretching my hand out and touching hers. I was not sure what our friendship would be like, but I knew that being her friend meant being part of the popular girl group.

After school, I was asked to join them at an abandoned playground and to play their favorite girl game — volleyball. I had no clue how to play volleyball. Obviously, it did not matter because they were willing to train me.

It was a desolate clearing coated with chaotic weeds, hiding behind the grove that faced our school. The moist air was suffused with pungent smell of grass. A bird fluttered through and flicked away. Only the rusty slide and the crooked monkey bar reminded people that it used to be a playground packed with joy and laughter of children.

Five girls, including her, stood in front of me. She was in the middle, already changed to her sports outfit — black shorts and a blue T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. In front of them was a big mesh bag with volleyballs.

She grabbed a ball from the bag and asked me, “Are you ready to hit the ball?”

Other girls started to laugh. A sense of foreboding came over me. Before I was ready, if I actually knew how to get ready, she tossed the ball toward me and hit my shoulder. All other girls got a ball, imitating her, and I became their target.

The balls hit me from different directions. I fantasized that I could hit some back like a pro of an Olympic team. I simply couldn’t. Each hit hurt terribly; their piercing laughter intensified the pain. I fell several times and could hardly stand up when they finally ended the “training.”

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” She glanced at me, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. Other girls laughed even louder. The triumphant troop strode away, leaving me crying quietly and wiping the dirt from my shirt and pants.

It took me longer than usual to get home. My parents were already at home. When my mom asked me why I was late, I made up a reason that made sense to her. She didn’t probe further. My parents rarely asked me anything about school as long as they knew I got good grades. After dinner, I went to my room and locked the door, weeping again.

Later ony granny knocked on my door and came in. I immediately switched on the tv.Granny asked me about my life at school. I replied to her rather harshly that she does'nt need to worry about my life. This was a problem of teens and i felt that since my parents could not solve my problems or understand whether i am sad or happy similarly my granny also would not understand. Little did i know that my parents were not concerned about my petty issues and were only busy about their own issues. My granny said to me," When you become a mom,you will understand the value of relation between parents and kids. Both should spend time with each other and no electronics can give a child happiness." I laughed sarcastically at my gran saying that even if my parents and granny were'nt there i would be happy with my tv. My gran was hurt at my words as i felt and she left the room. Before leaving she said, there's no particular age for a person to solve problems-whether old or young.

The following days, even the following months and years, I was those girls’ laughingstock. I wanted to fight back, but I did not know how and nobody helped me.

If life was a book, the days in the middle school were the pages that I wanted to tear up and fling away. But today, after 25 years, I saw her again.

When she was done with grocery bagging, she looked up and her eyes fell on me for a few seconds but quickly drifted away. I packed my groceries into the shopping cart, looked at her and said, “Thanks for everything,” heading out of the supermarket.

I did not know how long I’d been sitting at my kitchen table, pondering on the childhood experience that had been unconsciously buried for years. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my daughter Jasmine back from school.

“Mom, are you OK?” she asked, looking concerned.

“I was caught up by some old memories, but I am OK now.” I smiled at her. And she smiled back, ready to retreat to her room.

“Jasmine,” I turned to her, holding my middle-schooler in my arms, and spoke softly, “tell me about your day in school. I will tell you about mine.”

Finally i did understood after graduating out of school the value of my granny's words that what we all need at the end of the day is a person to talk to and not money. Me who was young then did'nt understand but finally i understood my granny's words said to my parents and me that we needed to spend time with each other.