Stone cold and surprisingly serious for an itty bitty ten year old, he answered, “My best friend, Nina Cotillard.”
I don’t remember likening myself to any prosthesis horrors after that, let me tell you.
The other kids would avoid direct eye contact with me but I’d always catch glimpses of them gawping at me. Most of them preferred not to talk to me directly, preferring to chuck notes at my head. Occasionally I’d intercept a note not for me but about me. As hard as I tried to destroy every trace of these, the words they used about me have always remained. There was also this weird no touching thing that carried on for years. Most of the time, I could ignore it and sort of almost appreciated having my own little bubble. Other times, it was ridiculous. There was this one mousey girl, Rowan, who was absolutely terrified of me. I remember once, our teacher was prattling on about something or other and we were all sat on the carpet, listening intently. I don’t know why, but I seemed to be the only one that couldn’t stand this teacher though that’s a whole other story. Anyway, her name was Mrs. Schlender and absolutely everyone else thought she was the bees’ knees and would clamber for a spot on the carpet at her feet. I would always be in my chair at the back and I never minded that too much. Who did mind it was everyone else. Especially Rowan. She had her spot but for the few times her spot was taken, it was a full on tantrum.
Once, it was time for a carpet lecture but Rowan was busy chatting to her bestie, Winney. I don’t know what about and I don’t care to think too much upon what it could’ve been, especially since I distinctly remember catching them looking at me, looking away and cackling. Whatever it had been, they were both slow to sit down because of it and when they did come, the only space left was at the back, with little old me. As the reality of the situation dawned on Rowan, I remember how wide and shiny her eyes went.
Woof, here we go, I thought.
But then Winney gave her a nudge and said, “Don’t worry, babes, I’ll protect you.”
That stung but it was never worth making a fuss around those two – they’d always outperform you. At any rate, it plugged up the water works and the pair sat down just on the outskirts of my bubble.
Miss launched into some teachable moment overture about us all being human or some variation on that theme. She went off on a tangent along those lines at least once a week, filled with lots of pointed glances at me which I did my best to ignore and avoid giving the impression I wanted any part in this. Looking for any excuse to disengage, mercifully my bladder began to complain. Not wanting to make a fuss, I quietly began to roll myself away from the carpet crowd. It had taken some training but the teacher didn’t immediately jump up and try to follow me into the bathroom. She remained seated, watching me carefully. As I rolled forward, my tire squeaked, drawing the attention of Rowan. Her head turned slowly, and when she saw me not trying to loom over her, just trying to quietly make my way towards the bathroom thank you very much, she let out a wail. What I saw in her eyes was abject terror and it cut far deeper than any of Winney’s words. She hastily scrambled on all fours as far away from me as possible. Not so subtly and not one of them questioning Rowan’s overblown reaction, the rest of my class began scooting away from me as well.
Mrs. Schlender, not even a little bit appreciative of being broken away from her reverie or the fact that I was quietly trying to bow out of it, snapped, “What on Earth is going on back there?”
Rowan blubbered, thrusting a finger in my direction, “Her face, her face! She snuck up behind me and made me look at her face!”
Trying to avoid Mrs. Schlender’s icy glare, I insisted I was just trying to get to the loo. Her face softened for a moment but that moment passed all too quickly.
Rowan kept blubbering, “Miss, she knows no one likes her melty face! She looks like a monster and she snuck up behind me and she scared me with her monster face!”
I was speechless. As the tears welled up in my eyes, I did my best to choke back the sobs, vowing that I’d never let them see me cry.
Well, that all went out the window as soon as my class broke into a chorus, chanting “Monster Girl.”
I desperately tried to hide my face behind my hair, paralysed by embarrassment. The teacher was trying and failing miserably to get a word in edgeways as the chorus got louder and louder.
That’s when Mason, head and shoulders above his peers even back then, stood up and bellowed, “For God’s sake, knock it off!”
A hush fell over the classroom…only to be broken by Mrs. Schlender breaking the silence to yell back, “Mason! How dare you scream the Lord’s name in vain?”
I saw the opportunity to escape the room and swiftly rolled myself to the toilet to cry in peace. Mrs. Schlender managed to corral the class and they were quiet for the rest of the lesson. Though in the silence, and in the playground for some time after, there were impossible to place whispers of, “Monster Girl.”
They called Mason, “Monster Hunter.”
Neither of us cared. If I was the Monster Girl and Mason the Monster Hunter, then so be it. At least he wasn’t afraid of me.
We did the blood pact soon after that. I pricked my finger, Mason scored his palm and we shook each other’s bloodied hands. All throughout primary school and straight through secondary school, Mason was the only person that did not purposefully avoid touching me.
Mrs. Schlender used to joke about us going out together or getting married when we were older. Not only did the thought make my skin crawl but Mason would also vehemently protest the completely wrongheaded notion.
She’d always chuckle to herself something like, “One day you two will figure it out,” and start right back on the jokes again.
Now that I have the words, I wish I could go back and snap at her, “There’s nothing to figure out; we already know who we are.”
But then few of the adults in my childhood were ever ones to listen. People were always telling us how our lives would go like that and they’d always get it so wrong.
As we returned to the living room, I quipped, “Well, when the pizza runs out, I suppose you’ll do for company.”
“Oo, ranked second best to pizza. Nina, I’m touched!” Mason smirked.
“Yes, well, don’t let it go to your head; those sweet chilli crisps are a close third place.”
Almost just as soon as we’d retaken our seats, an awkward silence wedged itself between us. Mason was sure not to let it drag on too long.
He turned to me, legs crossed, and, affecting a lisping, child-like voice, asked, “Hey, wanna tell ghost stories?”
I snorted, “What are you, twelve?”
“That was the voice I was going for,” Mason replied, sheepishly, “And what’s wrong with a good ghost story?”
I groaned, “Ghost stories are - just the whole idea of ghosts really - it’s so dumb.”
Nervously, Mason laughed, “Hey, the dead don’t like it when you speak ill of them.”
I began, “Oh, come on, I mean-“
“They really don’t like it.” Mason reiterated, staring at me intensely.
His face was serious and he held this expression for a few seconds after the laughter died in my throat. We stared at each other, a feeling of discomfort clawing its way up my back. The unbearable silence was broken by Mason’s hoarse laughter. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that, judging by his laugh, not even he was completely sold on it.
Eventually, Mason said, “Lovely weather we’re having.”
I sniggered but had to admit defeat, “Honestly, Mason, its fine. It’s probably best we call it a night and-“
“No,” Mason spoke, firmly, before softening his tone and adding, “I mean, I don’t mind hanging out with you. It’s nice, we’ve not just sat and talked in a while…”
Before I could stop myself, I said, “Well, it’s nothing against you personally; I just generally don’t like people.”
Mason became mockingly mawkish, “I know all about your misanthropic condition. But because I’m s
uch a Saint, I choose to look past it.”
I whooped, “God, you sound just like Mrs. Schlender.”
Mason lost it, “Oh my God, I’d completely forgotten about her,” Barely able to stifle a giggle, he asked, “Do you remember the time she told me off for ‘being too rough’ when all I did was literally pat you on the back?”
“That was so weird. I always wish that I’d said something to her, like, ‘Don’t worry, Miss – I’m not actually made out of soggy cardboard.’”
Mason had tears in his eyes. I was laughing too but my Mother’s mantras rang in my mind. She meant well.
“What’s wrong?” Mason asked.
“Do you remember Rowan and Winney?” I asked, quietly.
“Yeah, difficult to forget, really,” Mason chuckled, “I remember Rowan drew this portrait of me with big, luscious lips, massive eye lashes and these honestly ridiculous cheek bones. I only wish I looked that good,” His sniggering trailed off and he then added, quietly, “Winney punched me in the jaw once. Left me a nice little fracture to remember her by.”
“She did?” I’d completely forgotten about that bantam altercation.
“Yeah, it wasn’t a big deal or anything but she was pretty strong for someone so tiny. I nearly cried…But it was all okay in the end because Mrs. Schlender told me that ‘big boys don’t cry’ and that just made me want to scream instead,” Mason explained, making no effort to conceal the bitterness in his voice, as he rubbed the spot where he’d been hit. Finishing the thought, he asked, “Why do you mention them?”
I was reaching out for the right words, but they proved as elusive as trying to grasp moon light in your hand.
Mason tried again, “Nina, what happened?”
I felt winded, paralysed in the moment. I remembered the rain, my hair clinging to my face. I could feel the tarmac underneath my palms, gravel working its way into grazes on my knees, my elbows, my chin. Ringing through my ears, I could hear Rowan and Winney cackling.
As I scrambled back to my chair, I heard one snicker to the other “See, I told you, she’s so weak and pathetic she can’t even fight back.”
I felt the anger then, blasting through me like a gust of cold night air. All I saw was red. I grabbed one of my crutches, grey with some pink sticky flowers, and brought it down on Winney’s head as hard as I possibly could. Instant water works. Rowan looked on, stunned into silence and inaction. I gave her a good whack too. She screamed, finally drawing the attention of Mrs. Schlender. It took her and the two playground monitors to peel me away before I finally stopped trying to clobber the girls. I don’t know what Mrs. Schlender said to them, if anything – little seemed to change for those two. I, however, got a very stern talking to from the head teacher with Mrs. Schlender hovering nearby. Stony faced, he told me words to the effect that this was a very serious incident, that I couldn’t just take my anger out on other people like that, that I clearly had deep seated issues and that these needed to be ‘dealt’ with. The school drafted in a perfectly nice, perfectly inoffensive teaching assistant that accompanied me everywhere. I spent a month in isolation and for a long time afterwards I could barely even cough without the TA flinching. If I’d thought my Mum would’ve listened to me, would’ve been around much to listen, I would’ve probably complained incessantly about it. At the time, I simply stopped saying much of anything to anyone – everyone had stopped listening a long time ago, anyway.
“Nina, you can talk to me. Any time.” Mason tried again.
I shook my head, “Never mind. It’s stupid. It’s not fair to throw a pity party at a captive audience.”
Mason scoffed, “I’m hardly a captive; I’ve chosen to be here.”
A bit more cutting than I meant to be, I shot back, “Out of a sense of misplaced obligation, no doubt.”
I regretted saying it as soon as the words left my mouth.
Mason sighed, “Nina, I’ve known you since you were five years old. There’s no need for this. You can talk to me.”
I wasn’t going to take the bait. I shook my head, unwilling to even make a sound. He sounded just like that old counsellor...
Mason withdrew, “Alright, if you don’t wanna talk, you don’t wanna talk,” He peered at me out of the corner of his eye, hastily adding, “But I’ll be right here whenever you do.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t escape the cloying ring of that Therapist’s voice in my mind.
After that Halloween night, Mum traded off our relationship to a stranger.
The Therapist was called Manisha Sharma, though she always insisted I call her ‘Mindy.’ I almost never did. I saw Mrs. Sharma about twice weekly to begin with. I didn’t say much in those early sessions. After much begging, my sessions were moved to fortnightly and then eventually monthly. I didn’t say much more in those last sessions either but I’m getting ahead of myself. The first few sessions we had were incredibly awkward encounters, made no less awkward by her insistence that I use that ridiculous, falsely familiar nickname. She soon twigged I wasn’t talking and started bringing a great big black Labrador to our meetings. I loved that slobbering, thick as anything dog. You’d call for it and it would turn too suddenly, bashing its head on the side of a chair or knocking something over, but it’d always come lolloping over as though it had no other care in the world than whether or not you were going to give it a biscuit.
Mrs. Sharma had hoped to distract me or bribe me into talking, but it didn’t work. She’d sit there on the far side of the room, a distant echo ringing out at least once every hour we spent in each other’s company, “I’m right here whenever you want to talk.”
The first few times, her voice was light and warm though this steadily dissipated as it dawned on her the fact that I was not going to talk to her. It was never anything personal and I’m sure if I’d started talking she would’ve been very good at her job. She was certainly resourceful, I’ll give her that.
For example, there was one time, after things hadn’t quite gone how she’d hoped with the introduction of the dog, when she tried to get me to ‘draw my feelings.’ She’d laid out quite a spread of crayons and paints and tissue paper.
I’d barely glanced over the art supplies before I said, “No thank you. I don’t like drawing.”
This was after I’d tried to clobber Winney and Rowan with my crutches. After that, I wasn’t allowed near coloured card or pencils, let alone scissors or hot glue guns, lest I use any of it as an improvised weapon.
Mrs. Sharma had asked me, “And why don’t you like to draw?”
Once, I’d picked up a rogue crayon that was left out in a classroom from some other artsy activity the rest of the students had done whilst I’d been shepherded away to practice anger management techniques with the TA or something like that.
It was a bright, bright red and when the TA saw it in my hand her eyes became wide and terrified and her voice developed a booming quality I had not thought she was capable of.
“PUT THAT DOWN.”
It was enough to put my stomach in knots and make my eyes water. I dropped the crayon instantly and tried very hard not to do anything else that would bring out that voice from the TA for a long time afterwards.
But all I said to Mrs. Sharma was, “I just don’t.”
She didn’t press the issue. Instead, she pursed her lips and repeated the mantra, “Well, I’m right here if you ever want to talk about it.”
The next session, she tried again but changed tact, substituting last week’s art supplies for fuzzy felt shapes. I turned my nose up at those too, saying I didn’t like the feel of them.
Mrs. Sharma tried her best but she wasn’t the problem. The problem was that there was only one person I wanted to speak to and that person kept running away from me.
I shook my head, “Yeah, no, I’ve thought better of it. I don’t want to talk about it.”
A resigned look spread across Mason’s face. I felt a pang of guilt but I refused to back pedal now. In spite of myself I could feel my face
going red. I found myself almost thankful we’d been plunged into darkness.
The more I thought, the more I found that I really didn’t want to talk about.
After donning the mask, so to speak, there was more to the aftermath than just a silly internet urban legend. It took a few weeks for the photographers to send the full sized copies of the class photo. Obviously, the preview copies had been too tiny to get the full effect of what I’d done. But it was immediately obvious on the final photos.
Being only ten or so at the time, an age where days feel like weeks and weeks like years, I quickly forgot about my little stunt. I was rudely reminded a few weeks before we broke up for Summer that year.
My first tip off that things weren’t exactly fine and dandy was the TA herself – she was almost completely silent that entire morning. Other than a polite ‘Good morning, Nina’ and the most functional of communication, she was extremely quiet. There was no interrogation about my ‘makeup practice,’ or whether I was going to ask Mason out to this or that extracurricular event. My first thought was that perhaps I’d fallen through a crack in space time into a parallel universe.
Like I said, I was ten. I’d also just finished Howl’s Moving Castle and I was tearing through the Chrestomanci series. I loved the idea that I could just open a door and be somewhere different and exciting, a whole world away from baby voiced adults, a lonely home and skin grafts. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it but I liked to think, when the TA or Mrs. Schlender or whoever it was would be dragging me up and down the steps to the classroom, about my chair being able to rove around on its own like the wizard Howl’s castle.
My second thought was along similar lines but I was half expecting to turn around and see all of the adults’ eyes replaced by shining black buttons. To be perfectly honest, that thought, after what happened happened, was never far from my mind as a child.
I was very much in my own head for most of that morning, replaying the scenario of falling into another world in my mind again and again. I imagined myself leaving the classroom and in the next breath be roving over lush green grass in a flying steam powered chair. Sometimes there was the Witch of the Wastes and I’d dispatch her by essentially telling her off or yelling at her to leave Sophie and Howl alone. Or the Queen of Shadows or the Other Mother would rise up, insisting that I was their daughter and I would scream at them to leave me alone because they weren’t my real Mum. And they’d listen.
I Hate Halloween Page 3