by Ellen Oh
I shake a lot of parmesan cheese on my pasta. “Mmmm, cheese. But that means you gotta scrub extra hard to get the sticky off.”
Justin groans. “Dad, why’d you have to make spaghetti tonight? I hate washing the pots!”
Our dad puts so much cheese into his meat sauce that it leaves a hard, sticky residue on everything. It’s why I didn’t let Justin have a rematch. Mom was coming home late, so I knew Dad was cooking today.
“Stop complaining and eat your broccoli,” Dad says. “It’s trash and recycle day, so Junie, you get to handle that tonight.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Even though Justin’s upset, it doesn’t stop him from eating a gigantic serving.
“Junie, can you get me a glass of water with lots of ice?” Dad asks.
I walk into the kitchen and I spot the sink piled high with pots and dishes. I’m a bit shocked at how bad it is, even more than usual. The big difference between how my mom cooks and how my dad does is that my mom cleans as she cooks, while my dad uses everything he can get his hands on and leaves a wreck. I kind of feel sorry for Justin, but not bad enough to switch. I fill up a glass and bring it back to my dad.
“So how was school?” he asks.
Neither Justin nor I reply. Both of us dig into our food as if someone is going to snatch it away from us.
Dad sighs and decides to start on Justin first. As I listen to Dad probe and Justin grunt in response, I can feel my mood change. I don’t want him to ask me about school and friends or anything. I don’t want to talk about how much of a loser I feel like.
Before Dad can ask me questions, I finish my food off and ask to be excused.
“Don’t you want any dessert?”
“No, thanks,” I reply. “I’m pretty tired. I’ll take the trash and stuff out, then go to bed.”
My dad looks surprised. I’m usually a late-night person. They have to tell me to go to sleep all the time.
“Don’t you want to wait up for Mom?” he asks.
“I’ll try,” I answer, and pick up my dishes to take to the kitchen. I leave them by the side of the full sink, grab the trash and recyclables, and dash off.
I know Justin’s seen the sink when I hear him yell, “I’m not washing all of this!”
In my room, I find myself staring at the phone. All my friends have cell phones, and yet none of them have called me. I pick up my sketchbook and I draw a picture of my friends laughing together as they all huddle around their cell phones. Behind them, I draw a small Junie holding a banana instead of a phone, a black cloud raining on her head.
Bitterness eats away at my insides, turning the food in my stomach into lead. Giving me indigestion. I wish my mom was here. She’d give me some gross medicine and stay by my side until I fall asleep. The sadness is back in full force. It’s so overwhelming that it makes it hard for me to move. I walk slowly to the bathroom to brush my teeth. It feels like ages before I’m changed and in bed. I’m so tired now. Even if I wanted to stay up to see my mom, I can’t keep my eyes open.
Mom drives me to school in the morning, but I make her wait until right before the bell rings. That way I can head straight to class. It’s now been two days since the fight, and no one seems to care enough to come and talk to me. I’ve moved officially into anger now. If they can’t be bothered to talk to me, then I don’t want anything to do with them.
There’s another principal’s announcement about the graffiti in the boys’ bathroom. More promises that they will find the perpetrator.
Meanwhile Patrice and I ignore each other in class. I refuse to look at her, bolting out of the room before she’s even gathered her things together. I spend lunch period in the counselor’s office pretending that the racist graffiti is still upsetting me, which is sort of true. It’s the reason for my fight with my friends. Ms. Blair seems very concerned, and I try to smile and pretend that I’m all right. I don’t want her calling my parents. Mostly, she leaves me alone. Lets me sit and eat my lunch at the table in her office. I take out my small sketchpad and doodle. The bell rings and I gather my things to head to fifth period.
Ms. Blair stands up to check on me one last time.
“I’m feeling fine, Ms. Blair,” I say with a smile. “I promise.”
She doesn’t look like she believes me. Stepping closer, she takes my hands and pats them gently. “Junie, you can come and talk to me about anything, not just about the graffiti. You can talk to me about classes, schoolwork, friends. I’m here for you. Please come anytime. My office is always available.”
I don’t know why, but her words make me tear up, and I have to take several moments trying not to cry. I swallow over and over before I finally can speak.
“Thanks, Ms. Blair.” My voice is hoarse and rough from all the tears I swallowed back.
The rest of my periods drag painfully long. I keep my head down and my earbuds in so if I see any of my friends, I can pretend not to see or hear them. But the first time I think I hear my name called in the hallways, I immediately glance around. I don’t see anyone.
It’s not until the end of the day that I finally see any of them. I spot all of them together, looking happy and laughing, not missing me at all. It stops me in my tracks, and for a moment, I can feel my heart breaking. I slow down, not wanting to run into any of them. It isn’t until they all scatter that I start walking again.
My anger is completely gone, but the sadness is back. Actually, it never left. At this moment, surrounded by so many people, I feel utterly alone. There is this constricting pain in my throat. It’s so tight.
When I get to my bus line, I notice that the bus is late. I see Tobias standing head and shoulders above all the other kids. I don’t want to see him or even hear him breathe. I’m not ready for his bullying. I’m never ready, but especially now when I feel like my world is falling apart. I don’t know what to do. I catch my breath in short little pants. I feel heavy. Each step is harder to take. My heart hurts. I’m too young to have a heart attack, right?
Tobias sees me coming, and I can see the sneer on his pale brutish face.
“Hey, it’s the communist pig!”
I wish the bus would come already, but our driver must be running late today. All the other buses are loading up except for us.
Tobias is now standing in front of me.
“Is it true you people eat nasty rotted food that smells like garbage? Is that why you smell? Huh?”
He is poking me hard in the shoulder. I walk away but he keeps following me and poking me.
“There’s a missing-dog poster in our neighborhood. You guys ate it, right? You dog eaters.”
I’m shaking with rage now. And he’s hurting me. He pokes me again, and this time I slap his hand away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Or what, commie?”
I don’t reply. He goes to poke me again, but I swerve out of the way and he misses. Some people giggle, and I can see the rage in his face. At that moment, the bus pulls up. Tobias shoves me hard to get to the bus and I go flying onto the ground, landing painfully on my hands and knees. I can feel the tears overwhelm me. There’s no way I’ll let any of them see me cry. I turn away from the line of kids getting on the bus. I’d rather walk the two miles home.
There’s not a lot of people on the sidewalks by the time I start walking through the suburban neighborhood my school is in. The buses are all gone, and so are all the cars picking up students. I take the long way around school to avoid seeing any teachers or staff who are now starting to head home.
I’ve never actually walked home before. But I head toward the main street, which I recognize from my bus route. I’ve stared out the window of my bus enough to know the way. What would normally be a ten-minute ride is going to take an hour because I’m limping badly. The pain in my knees makes every step seem like my legs are on fire.
My thoughts are a jumbled mess. Anger, hatred, sadness, fear, and disappointment. I spiral through all of them. But the thought that stays with me
the most is seeing my friends together and how they’ve clearly forgotten me. That they’ve decided I’m no longer worthy. Is that why Tobias picks on me? Because I’m a loser with no friends?
My chest is now hurting more than my knees. It feels like a heavy weight is crushing me, but it’s all internal.
Patrice is my oldest friend. We met in kindergarten. I miss those days.
I was a very shy and quiet child who barely talked to anyone. During recess, I always envied all the other kids who could climb to the top of the jungle gym. It was very high, and I was too scared to even try. But one day I got the courage and I made it all the way to the top. Except when I looked down, I got scared again and I froze. Being shy, I didn’t cry out for help. It was Patrice who saw I was stuck and climbed up to show me the way down. Ever since, we’ve been best friends.
Patrice is an only child, and we shared everything together and learned all about each other’s favorite foods, books, movies, and hobbies. Not that we had the same taste. She loves romance and I prefer action movies. She doesn’t like spicy food, and I’m Korean so I’ll try to put Tabasco on almost everything. And yet we were still as tight as friends could be. We had sleepovers and summer camps and have been there for each other through appendicitis (Patrice) and a broken leg (me).
The only thing we didn’t do together was ballet. Patrice is an amazing ballet dancer. She’s been dancing since she was three. I love watching her dance, but it’s not my thing. I like art. She can’t even draw a straight line. It never mattered before.
Amy transferred in third grade and was as shy and quiet as I was. It was Patrice who befriended her, and we soon became the best of friends. Amy’s a dancer also, and she signed up for the same ballet classes that Patrice was taking. Even though they spent more time together because of it, Patrice and I were still the closest. I always knew I came first.
Until we started middle school.
Livingston Middle School has kids from three different elementary schools. It’s where we met Hena, Lila, and Marisol and formed our own little clique. Six new friends all hanging together. But in the process, I’ve slowly been pushed away from my closest friend.
I dash away a tear that slips out. Everything hurts. I feel like I’ve been walking for hours. My slow pace has finally brought me to the park near the bus stop. I see a bunch of kids hanging out at the swing set, and I immediately cross the street. I don’t want to see anyone from school. I cut through the parking lot of the townhome complex and come out closer to my block.
Sometimes I hate my house and my neighborhood. I wish I could live near Patrice; then maybe we’d still be close. If only I lived there, then I could get rides to school with Patrice like Amy does sometimes. I could walk home with Patrice and hang out at her house after school. I wouldn’t have to leave as soon as my parents came to get me. I could stay over and walk the two blocks between Patrice’s and Amy’s houses.
I don’t blame Amy. I really like her, and she’s been a good friend to me. It’s not her fault that she has become a more convenient friend for Patrice. It’s my fault for not trying harder, not fighting to keep my place in the friendship. I have no one to blame but myself.
By the time I get home, I’m hurting bad. The house is empty. Justin has soccer practice, and my parents are at work. I drop my bag and head to the bathroom. My palms are completely scratched up and bloody, and my knees are even worse. I guess that’s the problem with the ripped-jeans style. No protection for your knees.
I wash the blood away and realize that there are shards of glass in my knees that I wasn’t even aware of. Now that I can see them, the pain is so much worse. I try to pick out the pieces, but they’re in too deep. I need tweezers. I wish my mom were here. She’d know what to do. She’d take away the pain. But she isn’t here. I’m all alone.
I’m frustrated and tired and so very sad. I know I can’t leave glass shards in my cuts. I sit down and pull out everything I see. It takes a long time, and by the time I’m done, my knees throb so viciously, I can’t stop the tears.
I hobble to the kitchen and pull out the medicine box. I need something to make the pain go away. All I want is to stop hurting. I reach for a bottle of ibuprofen and I shake some out. They pour out into my hand. Ten or more of the little brown pills. I’m staring at them. How many do I have to take to stop feeling so bad? What would happen if I took all of them?
I just stand there, holding this handful of pills and thinking of everything that has happened, and the pain in my heart overwhelms me. Right now, right at this moment, I can’t take it anymore. I don’t want to feel this sadness. Why does this hurt more than my messed up knees?
I roll the pills around in my palm. How many will stop the pain forever? Five? Ten? How many is enough? I pour the whole bottle into my hand. There’s now a huge mound of medicine that is slowly starting to overflow. The tiny balls spill onto the ground, one by one. I can hear the light tapping as they hit the tile floor.
I’m mesmerized by the pile of little round pills. Maybe this is the answer to all my problems. No more Tobias. No more school. No more loneliness. What’s the use of being here anymore if it hurts so much? When my friends don’t care about me anymore? I’ve fought with Patrice in the past, but we always made up in the same day. But over the summer there were weeks when we didn’t talk to each other. She took an elite ballet program with Amy. It would’ve been weird if they hadn’t gotten closer. But I thought going back to school would be different, but it’s not. It’s infinitely worse.
No one will even miss me. I just want to sleep and never wake up. Never have to feel this horrible pain again. Never have to worry about taking the bus or being bullied or dealing with racism or losing my friends. That last thought sends this sharp stabbing pain into my heart. My friends don’t want to be friends anymore.
I stare at the pills and my hand trembles. More and more pills fall down, pinging one by one as they bounce on the floor. I hear myself sob. I’m scared. I’m so scared of my own thoughts and feelings. I let my hand fall, and I hear the cascade of pills as they drop and roll everywhere. Exhaustion hits hard and suddenly. My eyelids are so heavy, and I’m tempted to just lie down on the floor. Instead, I force myself to go up to my room. I don’t even bother to change out of my dirty, blood-covered clothing. I just climb into bed and sleep.
I’M AT A THERAPIST’S OFFICE. Both my parents have taken off from work to be here with me. Apparently, Ms. Blair had called my mom to tell her she was concerned about my well-being. When my mom came home and saw all the pills spilled next to my bag, she freaked out. She woke me up in a panic and was about to call an ambulance when I told her I hadn’t taken any pills. But I admitted to her that I’d thought about it. And that’s why we’re here. At a therapist’s office. Actually, this is the second therapist we are seeing. I didn’t like the first one at all. She made me feel even more depressed than I already was.
Yesterday, we spent the morning and early afternoon in doctor’s offices. First, they took me to my pediatrician, Dr. Rose. She’s been taking care of me since I was a baby and I really like her. She knows me pretty well and got me to tell her a little about what was going on. After drawing my blood and doing a full physical exam, she advised my parents to take me to see a psychiatrist and also a therapist. My mom is a very solution-oriented person. She immediately had four appointments set up for me.
The psychiatrist was this old guy who smelled weird and had a blinding white smile. I didn’t like him. He asked a lot of questions, which I responded to with one-word answers, partly because I wanted him to stop smiling at me. At the end he diagnosed me with “major depressive disorder with suicidal ideation.” He said a lot of words I didn’t understand but that made my mom cry, and then gave me a prescription for antidepressants. Because I wouldn’t talk, he advised my parents to get me into therapy right away.
Mom, being Mom, had already beaten him to it. She’d scheduled two appointments for the next day and took down more names of therapists
that he recommended. I was just relieved that I wouldn’t have to go to school.
Afterward, my parents took me out to lunch. We went to my favorite restaurant, a little Japanese café that has a Maneki-neko statue. It’s this cute cat that waves its left paw up and down. I once asked Ms. Tomoko, our waitress, why it waved, and she explained that Maneki-neko means “beckoning cat,” and waving the left paw means it’s inviting customers into the restaurant. Ms. Tomoko has been taking care of us since I was a baby. She treats me more like I’m her granddaughter than a customer. And she loves my art. I’ve been drawing pictures at every meal there all my life. In fact, they have one of my drawings of their cat on the wall right behind the cash register.
Today, I wasn’t very hungry, but I ordered their delicious miso ramen and fried pork cutlets called tonkatsu. I didn’t want Ms. Tomoko to worry, so I forced myself to eat.
“Junie, do you want to have your friends come over?” my dad asked.
I shook my head and slowly slurped a ramen noodle.
“Did something happen with your friends?” Mom asked. “I noticed they didn’t come over this summer as much as they used to. But I thought it was because you were all in different summer camps.”
I separated out the bean sprouts and seaweed from my noodles, making a pile on the side of my bowl. I stared intensely at the shiny circle of oil in the middle of my broth.
“Do you want me to call Patrice’s and Amy’s moms and schedule something for you girls this weekend?”
Carefully, I put my chopsticks down and folded my hands in my lap.
“Please don’t, Mom.”
“Did something happen? Did you guys have a falling-out? What about Hena and the others? Lila and Marisol, right?”
“They’re all still friends,” I said quietly. “Just not with me.”
“Why not with you? What’s going on? Why are they still friends but not with you?”
