As in every high school, Marlborough had its cliques. Stephanie, Jessica, Clarissa, and Kelly were the ambassadors of the “in” crowd. I wanted terribly to belong, but since I didn’t, I remember taking pride in the fact that Mike Gould, the guy that all those girls wanted, would call me after school each day.
Mike went to Northborough, a high school in the next town over. All the girls flocked to him for as long as I can remember, no matter what school they attended. They all loved him and wished he’d love them back. He was the boy everyone wanted at their party, because he made the party, just by entering the room. With deep brown eyes, chestnut hair, and a perfect smile— accessorized with a pair of round dimples— Mike was the portrait of what it’s like to be exceptional. If it weren’t for his slight lisp, he probably would have been too perfect, but on a guy like this, even a minor speech impediment was cute. He knew all the popular people from all the neighboring high schools: the Southborough ninth-grade girls, Westborough’s eleventh-grade babes, and the Hudson twelfth-grade hotties. He dated them all briefly and left them pining. He was a legend and a bad boy who loved to ride dirt bikes, and I had the luck to call him my best friend.
Every day after school, the phone would ring and I knew his soft, sweet voice would be on the other end.
The greeting was always the same.
“Hey, what’s up?”
And I always looked forward to telling him.
Our friendship started completely by accident, in the summer of 1994, just after my mom and I moved out of Papa’s house and into a saltbox-style home of our own where Dad moved in with us for good. I was fourteen, I had never had a date or a boyfriend, and Mike was in the middle of an adolescent love triangle with my friends Jen and Megan.
“I’m done! He has to choose— it’s me or Megan!” I remember Jen announcing dramatically one day at my house. She came over often and I’d get to hear about her latest saga. Jen was into cropped shirts, lip gloss, eyeliner, blue eye shadow, and boys who owned beepers. She was a nice, normal, and frivolous distraction from the seriousness of surgery I often faced. That afternoon, she reached for the phone and thrust it in my direction after dialing Mike’s number, disregarding my mom’s strict policy against calling boys.
“Find out how he feels about me,” she ordered.
“He won’t know who I am,” I said softly.
This would be the first time I had ever spoken to a boy on the phone. Nothing compared to the nervousness I felt that day as I gripped our cordless phone— not needles, not hospitals, not operating tables. Mike and I had never actually met, but his reputation preceded him. I was scared.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jen reassured me. “Just tell him you’re my friend.”
So I did. The call was easier than I thought, and that night Mike picked neither Jen nor Megan to date. Instead he went out with Christine, a girl from the tortured, teenage-angsty crowd at my school. Within the next few days, Jen had found a new boy to obsess over. He even had a beeper. Megan, on the other hand, didn’t get over Mike quite so quickly, and I happily lent her my ear for it.
A few days later, I got a surprise phone call. Mike called me to talk. It had been business as usual that afternoon, turning the pins in my forearms and cleaning them for the second time of the day, when the phone rang. (The fixator devices attached to my arms looked like long, horizontal remote controls— and the process was not nearly as painful as lengthening my legs.) I was shocked to find out that Mike was interested to know who I was and wanted to know why he’d never seen me before. It really bothered him. He knew everyone there was to know— how had little me escaped him?
“Who do you hang out with besides Jen? Where do you go to chill?” he asked me.
When I told him I hung out with doctors and nurses and actually spent a lot of my free time at the hospital, I guess I intrigued him because from that day forward, he never stopped calling. Our conversations lasted for hours. We talked about everything under the sun, just two people getting to know each other and enjoying the learning process.
“What movies do you like?” he asked.
“Comedies,” I answered.
“Do you go to the Marlborough theater?”
“Not really,” I said.
Other times our talks consisted of heavier topics, like the hidden meaning behind songs we heard on the radio and how, in our young and naive lives, it all seemed to relate to us. He strongly urged me to switch favorite musical genres.
“Boyz II Men?” he’d laugh, mockingly. “You need to hear Nirvana.”
He did his best Kurt Cobain and sang a few lyrics of “Nevermind” over the phone with his guitar.
After a month of phone calls, that July I finally met the famous Mike face-to-face. My mom picked him up and brought him to our house. I waited anxiously under an umbrella at the patio table in the backyard for him to arrive. Katie stayed over that weekend to calm my nerves about meeting the boy I had been gabbing about. The night before, she and I had torn apart my closet for the perfect outfit I could feel comfortable in when I met Mike. Every pair of jeans I had purchased with my dad at Filene’s were cut at the knees to fit my short legs. They frayed around my ankles and squared awkwardly over my sneakers, looking sloppy and unfinished. They were the only pants I had, other than the pastel pink leggings I had yet to throw out from Texas.
The afternoon of Mike’s visit, I chose denim shorts and an oversized short-sleeved green T-shirt from UMass hospital. The sleeves easily covered the tops of my pins. It wasn’t the most fashionable outfit, but it was comfortable, and it spoke to a part of my life not many understood— but that Mike promised to try to comprehend. He wore a baseball cap and long, baggy shorts and brought a friend named Mike Dufault, or “Dufe” for short.
Mike didn’t even say hello when he came around back. Instead, he pulled out a Nirvana CD.
“Got a radio?” he asked. Then he sat down next to me, casually, as though we were lifelong friends.
We all sat and listened as the sounds of Cobain’s mournful guitar filled the yard. When Mike noticed the pins in my arms, I was relieved to find out that he wasn’t afraid or grossed out.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
I told him it didn’t.
“How long do they stay in again?” He stared at the pins, then back at me.
“Until I can reach the top of my head,” I responded.
A few moments passed in silence.
“If a monster came in here right now with a gun, Dufe, would you run?” Mike asked randomly.
“No shit,” Dufe quipped, and we all laughed.
Mike faced Katie and asked her the same question.
“Yeah!” she squealed.
“I wouldn’t,” Mike said. Then he turned to face me. “I’d stay here with you, because you can’t run. I’d stay right here.”
My heart raced and I looked away from his eyes, feeling a rush of excitement and shyness at the same time.
That fall, the pins in my arms were removed and I became a high school freshman. Most days, I ate lunch with a girl named Kelly Joyce, who was easily one of the tallest girls in school at five foot ten. She always offered to get my lunch for me (I couldn’t see over the buffet, let alone reach it) and in return, she’d get to snag an extra plate of fries for herself. Kids teased Kelly for her height and called her “Jurassic Joyce.” You just can’t win.
After an incident in junior high when I passed out from lugging my heavy book bag down two corridors, I was no longer allowed to carry my own belongings. I had needed to get from one end of the junior high school to another, and, as always, I would drag my green book bag by its straps. It was so heavy that wearing it on my shoulders would literally pull me over backward. But dragging it down the hallways was incredibly draining. By the time I got to my classroom, I just toppled over, like a turtle flipped over on its shell. That was the end of dragging my backpack.
Megan and I were still good friends and had nearly every class together. In high school
, Megan volunteered to carry the extra weight. Together we walked to each class and she’d keep in step with my short gait, becoming something of a barrier between me and the other students who might not even see me walking. During one of our hallway expeditions, she talked me into joining the Marlborough High sports medicine team.
Mike thought it was a great idea to get me out of my shell. Medical tape, injuries, bandages, bruising, strained muscles— I was familiar with them all. And this was an activity I could do with a friend, and a place where I could belong. I was looking forward to the memories before I even got started. I couldn’t wait to wear— to earn— my team jacket.
The sports medicine room was small, making it crowded for the half dozen students who waited around inside. The coach’s desk sat in the far corner of the room, and an ice machine rumbled next to it. Metal racks filled with supplies lined one orange-striped wall, while two wobbly padded beds and a small hot tub took up the remainder of the space.
After a considerable wait and excited whispering among my classmates, Ms. Hart stomped into the room. She had long, thick legs and wild hair that ran down her back. Hauling an armful of files with a stiff, cold expression, she didn’t smile at any of us when she entered. But she did appear to size us up before she finally began speaking.
“First thing all of you need to learn is how to rip tape,” she said through tight lips. No “hello,” no “welcome to the club.” Just instructions.
Everything was strictly business. It never occurred to me to find that odd or take it personally. I assumed that was just her way. “When you’re out on the field, you’ll need to bandage an athlete quickly, and the faster you can rip tape, the better,” she said, picking up rolls of medical tape from the racks. “This is how you do it.”
With her pointer finger and thumb pressed firmly on the edge of the tape, she tore off a piece in one swift movement.
“Understand?” she asked, fixing her gaze on me. She tore another piece of tape, and then slapped it on her thigh. She tore over and over again, shredding through the roll with ease.
“Go practice.”
Megan and I grabbed some tape and stood by the two beds, where we decided to stick the torn pieces. For Megan, it was no problem tearing through the thick white roll. For me, it was a little harder. I could grip the roll, but pulling it and tearing with enough dexterity to quickly rip the tape was not happening. My little hands didn’t have the strength.
“Come on, Tiff. I’m beating you,” Megan joked, sticking her fifth piece of tape on the edge of the bed. She was only kidding, but I envied the ease with which she completed the activity. Not to mention the ease of just being her. Megan always wore her blond hair in a ponytail, pulled halfway through the elastic. Her bangs were neatly curled with a blow-dryer and round brush— the premier style of the mid-’90s. She wore easy-fitting clothes, like a T-shirt and jeans, paired with big, silver hoop earrings. Her style reflected her personality, and her big, confident smile made her inviting. Megan was not a girly girl. She was easygoing, fun, and athletic. I wished I could be more like her.
As I stood there trying to figure a way to catch up, something shiny caught my eye: a pair of medical scissors hanging on a little hook behind mountains of gauze.
“Oh, really?” I shot back to Megan, already confident that I’d found a way to win.
I grabbed the scissors with a smile and began to cut the tape as quickly as she tore. I’d watched nurses do this on many an occasion when I was in the hospital, so I knew what I was doing. And I did it well.
Soon Megan and I were even, and I felt like a pro. Like I belonged. Megan and I giggled our way through two rolls of tape, and in the midst of our race, I thought I noticed Ms. Hart scowling at me. I pressed on anyway.
Then we moved on to a new task.
“Not everything you deal with on the field will be easy,” Ms. Hart said.
She narrowed her stare in my direction. I pretended not to notice.
“When there’s an injury, we apply ice. Sometimes the ice feels worse than the injury, but our job is to make sure they keep it on their bodies. How can we tell them to do this if we don’t know what it feels like? For five minutes you are all going to take turns placing your foot in this bucket.”
She scooped ice out of the ice machine and into a small trash can while everyone looked at one another. Is she serious?
But Ms. Hart was not the type of teacher you defied. One by one, my fellow students took off a single shoe and sock and stepped into the bucket, grimacing and giggling as quietly as possible. I lined up last. Secretly, I was hoping the clock would wind down and we’d be done for the day, letting me quietly skip out on the assignment. It was not that I didn’t want to do it. I would have loved to deal with the crazy, painful assignment just like everyone else, and to laugh and joke about how badly it sucked to sit there with my foot inside a bucket of ice. I wanted so much to be just like everyone else.
But I couldn’t.
I knew that the amount of pain I’d feel in my muscles and joints would exceed the pain felt by anyone else. Thanks to all the surgeries I’d been through and the fact that my disability played on the same team as severe arthritis, the ice wouldn’t just sting and then numb my foot. It would pierce my joints, creep up my leg, and take every muscle in my body hostage for the rest of the night. It would prevent me from moving my foot and leg, and from functioning for hours after I left school. Even if I sat down for the rest of the night, or just went to bed, I would still feel the chill of the ice controlling me. My arthritis would have a celebration in my body. I was no stranger to pain. I respected it, but the pain I endured was for a reason.
“Ms. Hart?” I began softly when it was my turn. I stepped toward her desk, motioning for her to come closer to me.
“Yes?”
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” I nodded toward the door, hoping to move her away from the other students.
“What is it?” she said. She wasn’t budging.
“Is there something else I can do?” I said softly.
“What?” she replied loudly.
“Is there, um, maybe, something else I could do instead?” I repeated hopefully. “I’ve had a lot of surgery on my feet.”
She stared at me blankly.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to do . . .”
“You need to feel what the athletes will feel,” she replied loudly.
“Yes, I know. But could I place my hand in the ice instead?” I suggested, showing her my scar-free extremity. “I’ll still feel the cold and I’ll still understand the athletes. I haven’t had surgery on my hands, see?”
She stared back at me hard. It made me nervous. Her gaze was blank and uncaring.
Swiftly, she moved the bucket aside and placed two egg crates in the center of the room.
“Let’s talk.”
She sat on one, and then motioned for me to do the same. For a moment I thought she was preparing for me to do something else— maybe she’d be a mock patient. Perhaps she was going to pretend to be a difficult football player who needed to be bandaged with ice. Maybe this gruff teacher wanted to see how I would handle the situation, I thought excitedly, and I readied myself to impress her.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I heard her say next.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of disease you have, but you’re obviously a dwarf. Why don’t you tell me what you can and cannot do?”
I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Her words paralyzed me.
Ms. Hart inhaled deeply and continued.
“Maybe sports medicine isn’t the best thing for you to do. Maybe you should find another activity.”
Each word out of her mouth was sharp and jagged, puncturing my pride. Yet I was too frozen to respond.
I felt a wave of heat pass through me. I had never been told that I couldn’t do something. It went against everything I was raised to believe. What was she talking about, a disease? And a dwarf? I knew I was born with a
bone condition, but a dwarf? And I had a disease on top of that? Why hadn’t my parents told me?
My eyes burned from holding back tears. I wanted to assault her with my words, hurting her back, but my breath was taken away. I couldn’t move off that egg crate. I felt like I had met a monster. And Mike was right; I couldn’t run away.
I could tell everyone else in the room had heard what she said, Megan included. But they all kept busy, avoiding my gaze as they bandaged already-wrapped ankles, and ripped tape until their rolls were empty. They were trying not to be there, and to act as though they hadn’t noticed my humiliation. I felt so alone.
Tell her she’s wrong! a little voice howled inside me. Tell her you can do anything! Tiffanie, say something!
I said nothing.
Instead, I stood up, and everyone looked away as I walked toward my backpack and then the door. Behind me, I heard Ms. Hart putting the egg crates back on the shelf. She had already gone back to business as usual.
I was so angry with myself for allowing everyone in the room to hear what she said to me, and for being too stunned to respond in any way.
When Mike called me that afternoon, I told him everything through tears and heaving sobs. Somehow I had managed to put on a fake smile for my mom as she drove me home, but as soon as I got on the phone with my friend, it all came out. I cried and cried and told him everything. Mike listened, quietly, until I was done. Then he had just one request. And despite my hesitation and embarrassment, I made my way downstairs to hand off the phone.
“Mom? Mike wants to talk to you.”
Like an angry tidal wave, my mother crashed into Marlborough High School the next morning. Mike had told her everything that I was too embarrassed to share. Her hands clenched into fists by her hips, my mom demanded to speak to the principal, Mr. Clemens; the vice principals, Mr. Clancy and Mrs. Carlson; and the head of the athletic department, Mr. Long. She did not, however, want Ms. Hart anywhere near her.
My father accompanied her on her quest for justice. I was along for the ride, too, even though I still felt more awkward and upset than vengeful. Once everyone was ready to meet, we all piled into a conference room. As far as I was concerned, I was simply going to retell what had happened and how it made me feel.
Dwarf: A Memoir Page 8
