Now We Are Ten by Beth Eyler
“she wouldn’t dare call me names out there”
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Dina leans over and whispers in my ear, “You’re a tardo.”
I want to punch her stupid buck tooth face in. I don’t. I already have to spend an hour and a half after school today. Instead I turn and look out the window. It is a grey, wet day. The trees have lost all their leaves and look somehow broken and vulnerable. Beyond the trees is the muddy baseball diamond. I wish I was playing baseball. I will be the first girl on a major league team, I just know it. Dina is such a wimp she wouldn’t last an inning and she wouldn’t dare call me names out there. I’d shove her face in the dirt and make her eat it. Dina starts shooting spitballs at the back of my head while Mrs. Wacker drones on, her back to the room as she writes on the chalkboard. My hands clench into fists my body tenses ready for a fight.
I turn back around and hiss, “Your ass is grass.”
Mrs. Wacker turns to face the class, she wears one of those old lady shirts you know the ones they sell at JC Penny’s that are made of some cheap synthetic material in garish clashing colors with a big tied bow that droops beneath her crape paper neck. Mrs. Wacker looks over her glasses at me, “Beth, why don’t you share with the whole class?” I shake my head no. There is something lodged in my throat I cannot get my voice around it. It is lodged deep, it is painful, it makes me wish I could disappear. I know what is coming and I am powerless to stop it. I try to hide behind my shaggy bangs, my body tries to shrink into the wood of my desk. Mrs. Wacker smiles; she knows what’s coming too. I think this must be the best part of her day.
Without taking her eyes off me she says, “Please get out your Oregon History books and turn to page 104.” I silently pray for her death. I want to rip her ugly mean evil eyeballs out of her face and stomp them into the mud under the tree outside. I want to smash her mother of pearl glasses to tiny bits and shove them down her empty eye sockets.
When we all have our books out and open to the right page she asks who would like to begin reading. Several other kids raise their hands but she continues to stare at me. A girl in front of me is frantically waving her hand in the air she so badly wants to read to the class about Lewis and Clark.
“Beth, please start at the top of the page.” Mrs. Wacker says. The girl in front of me deflates.
I look at the page, I stare at the page, I pray to the page to magically make sense. The black ink on the white page laughs at me, or is that Dina? The blood pumping through my body is so loud it roars in my ears, my vision goes all red and blurry. The words dance and jump on the page nothing makes sense. There is something in my throat and my lips won’t move, my face is hot with embarrassment and shame. As the silence stretches I think, “I hate you. I hate you, I hate you. Die. Die. Die.” And I am not sure who this mantra is for, Mrs. Wacker, or myself. Both.
I fight past the thing that is lodged in my throat and I stutter, I squeak but I don’t think I make any sense. The class begins to laugh and Mrs. Wacker’s smile widens.
There is a hurricane of rage yowling in my head.
“Now class, don’t laugh, it’s sad really, this is what comes of having pothead hippy parents. Beth will never amount to much; she’s too lazy, stupid.” She gives me a look of false pity. “What am I going to do with you? If you don’t straighten up and do your work you might end up repeating fourth grade with me. I don’t think either of us wants that. Discipline, that’s what you need. We’ll go over this chapter together after school."
Mrs. Wacker walks over to my desk and her sensible inch high heels click clack across the floor. She pulls out her red pen and puts a dot next to the six other dots under the square marked Wednesday on a piece of masking tape on my desk. All the other days of the week are also filled with red dots. Another 15 minutes after school. My mom is going to kill me.
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Years later I am fourteen years old and my best friend and partner in crime, Leaf and I are in the local Newberry’s store stealing candy, Maybelline lip gloss, and sunglasses when Mrs. Wacker turns down the aisle. Leaf and I freeze with knockoff discount store Ray Ban’s on our face with the price tag dangling over our noses.
Mrs. Wacker gives me a satisfied look and says, “I sure did straighten you out didn’t I.” It’s not really a question, just a statement of fact. That old familiar thing lodged at the back of my throat returns. I am ten again, I feel a rumble of rage churn my stomach and I realize I have balled up my fists. I shrug; move my head in a vague nod. I look at her through my long purple bangs and notice for the first time how short she is. She is looking up at me now, peering over the top of her too big glasses, bright fuchsia lips in a tight thin smile. I hold her gaze and her eyes dart away from mine, she pushes her shopping cart past us and I mutter to her back, “Stupid bitch.” She stops short for a heartbeat but doesn’t turn around. She harrumphs and continues down the aisle. Leaf and I laugh and stuff the sunglasses in our backpacks along with the pilfered Snickers, lip gloss, and Baby Ruths.
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Header image courtesy of Millo. To view a gallery of his street art on NAILED, go here.
Beth Eyler is a teller of tales and a listener of stories. Beth has a B.A. in Film and recently received her Masters of Social Work and is currently dreaming of her next useless degree. When Beth isn’t doing social workie things or writerly things she likes to read and sing silly made up songs with her daughter.