Lord, please not again. Do I have to listen to him everyday?! I never hurt anyone…..why,
“Hey, Mary, where’d you get that rag you’re wearing, Salvation Army?!
How I hated home room! It was the time when the teacher, “let us be ourselves”, and talk for fifteen minutes about nothing. The rest of the class broke out in riotous laughter, while un-spilled tears lie within me. To hell if I was going to let him see me cry! I may be shy, not pretty or have nice clothes, but I had my pride. The taunting continued.
“You’re so ugly; I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole!” Then again, you’re so tall, you are a ten foot pole” More laughter.
I looked around at the crowded classroom and turned my head toward my tormentor. With his dark brown hair and freckles, I thought he looked like Howdy Doody with brown hair. He thought I was ugly? Had he never looked in a mirror with all his zits? His face looked like it had been hit by a land mine. Cruelty was just part of his make-up, or part of an insecure thirteen year old boy, who thought hurting others made him a man. The rest of the class laughed with him because thirteen year olds don’t want to be thought of as “different”, so went along. He wasn’t my only tormentor, just the worse.
Moving around all the time, and always being the “new” kid was a pain. No sooner had I made new friends and felt like a part of something, when my parents would inform me of our impending next move. This time was different. We were going to the place of my childhood. All I could remember were happy times. Playing with my friends, tricycle races…but I wasn’t a child, and you couldn’t call this a child’s euphoria anymore.
I looked around at the old neighborhood, and never realized how dilapidated it had become. Or was it always like this, and I just didn’t notice? I looked at the ugly gray row houses with the paint peeling from them, and the porches that at the right moment, would be nothing but kindling. There was discarded trash all over that people walked over ignoring its existence. Any grass that was there was completely dead and brown. It was a pretty large neighborhood, with identical row houses traveling for miles. You may say it was a white Harlem.
My only sanctuary was my art. Everyday after school, I ran upstairs to my room, broke out my painting smock, and began assaulting the canvas. My art teacher gave me some acrylic paint she had left over. She probably knew I couldn’t afford it. I could express myself and not fear any ridicule. I never showed anyone my paintings, they were mine, no one could take them from me.
I heard a sound and looked up. It was my big sister, Sandy. She was nine years older than me; but we had always been friends. Lately, I didn’t want her friendship or anyone else’s.
Disgusted, I said, “Don’t you know how to knock!” She had invaded my privacy.
“The door was opened. What are you doing anyway, Mom’s worried about you.”
“Let her worry, it’s not my problem.”, I snapped.
I continued painting trying to ignore her. Sandy continued her chatter; I just wished she would go away. She was sitting on my unmade twin bed, bouncing up and down on the springs, than stopped, and looked at the canvas.
“Hey kid, you’ve got real talent, I never knew you painted.”
“No one does, it’s the only thing that’s mine.”
“No, you really do have talent. There’s an art show day after tomorrow. You really should enter. First prize is $100.00.”
I laughed and said, “Yeah right, a poor kid like me is going to take some crummy canvas with paint smeared on it, and get a hundred bucks, you’re nuts.”
She started out the door, than stopped. She turned and looked at me.
“Look, it’s up to you, like it or not, you are good, and if you pass up this chance, you’re a fool.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I was called that", I said never taking my eyes off the canvas.
Sandy left the room, and as she left, turned back at me, and said, “You’re hopeless.”
But after she left, I seriously began thinking about it. I knew I was good, just wasn’t going to brag about it. When I was upset or hurt, I painted. Lord knows I had enough practice.
The next day I went to the art class and signed up. After all, if by some miracle I won, the $100.00 would be a Godsend. I didn’t notice him,at first, but David was standing behind me.
“You gotta be kiddin", he laughed. Are your paintings as ugly as you are?”
I had had a bad day, and was in no mood for his garbage mouth. I wanted to slap him so hard. Instead, I pushed him out of my way, and said,
“Just get the hell away from me!”
He was shocked, and said, “Oh my God, it talks!”
With daggers in my eyes, I looked straight at him and walked away. How many times was I going to just walk away? I was so tired of this, and him. For some reason, I turned around and noticed him entering the contest too. I never saw any of his work, but for some reason felt I had just lost. Who was I kidding, my stuff was just the musings of some poor kid with a wish.
The day of the art show came, and the auditorium was crowded with young artists and their parents. My entry was a painting of a sunset that I drew while watching the sun desert the clear blue sky over the Chesapeake Bay. I never went there, but imagined it in my head. I called it “Day is Done”. That’s when I saw him. He was strolling through the home made gallery and looked at my painting. He never bothered looking at the name on the bottom. I heard him whisper to someone,
“This one is really good, I’ve got some major competition!”
He continued to stroll the gallery. I was doing the same as we nearly collided.
He said, “Oh it’s just you, I thought I ran into a real person”.
I stared straight at him and said dryly,
“So did I.” He began to shoot off his mouth again when it was announced that the judging would begin.
The runners up were announced, and I’m sure they were happy their work was noticed, but disappointed about not getting the prize. As the first runner up’s name was called, I watched David squirm in his chair, his heart pounding, and sweat was pouring down his face. Funny, I was doing the same thing.
“And the winner is:” My heart pounded faster as the drum rolled. “Day is Done” by Mary Schlee. Everyone gave me a standing ovation as the man pinned the blue ribbon on me and presented me with a check. I was so happy and surprised. Tears of joy ran down my cheeks.
After I descended the stage I came face to face with my worst nightmare. I nearly fell to the floor when he offered his hand. I refused to take it. What, did he have a joy buzzer?
Quietly he said,
“Congratulations, Mary, it’s a beautiful painting. I didn't know you were so talented. I...um....well, how I act...I'm well...how do you say it."
"Are you trying to say you're sorry? If you are, you're not too good at it."
"Yeah, well, I uh, am. I never knew you had so much talent. You're so much better than I am, I've always wanted to paint that well, but could never get it right."
What could I say? I forgive you for being such a jerk? I'll teach you how to paint? I realized David had a severe insecurity problem but had just grown up a little bit. I didn't say anything, just smiled and walked away.
MARY E. LACEY
2010
