by Ellen Oh
MY MOM WAKES ME UP earlier than usual the next morning with a serious expression on her face.
“Junie, why didn’t you tell me about the racist graffiti?”
She must have finally read the email from school.
I rub my eyes. “They said they were sending all parents a letter about it,” I reply. “I figured you’d read it.”
She’s stroking my hair and leans down to give me a hug. “That must have been awful to hear about it,” she says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I don’t want to talk about it because I’ll have to talk about Patrice and the fight, and I’m not ready. It hurts too much.
Mom is looking at me with that gaze that makes me squirm with guilt. But she doesn’t push it. Instead, she nods and gets up.
“Okay then, why don’t you get up now and I’ll drop you off at school. If you don’t mind being a little early.”
I bolt out of bed. “I don’t mind at all!” Anything to avoid Tobias.
When I come down for breakfast, I marvel at the spread of food on the table. Mom must have been really upset about the email. Breakfast is the only meal she can actually cook. She admits that it’s because everything but the eggs comes premade, so it’s hard for her to mess it up. Justin is polishing off a plate of eggs, sausage, and hash browns. As I sit down, he grabs two large biscuits and starts slathering jam on them. There’s only two left.
“Don’t you have to leave for the bus now?” I ask pointedly.
He looks at his phone. “I still got time.” His bus comes twenty minutes before mine.
I hurriedly grab the last two biscuits and put them on my place mat. They’re the buttery kind with lots of layers. I open one up and peel off thin slices to eat. The biscuits are still hot and so soft. My mom brings me a plate of food, and I am content.
“Justin, you really need to go now,” Mom says.
He shoves one biscuit into his mouth, wraps the other one in a napkin, grabs his bag, and waves goodbye.
I’m dipping my biscuit in the gooey center of my sunny-side-up egg when Mom sits down with her cup of tea.
“How are Patrice and Amy doing? They must have been pretty upset about the graffiti.”
Thinking of them and the graffiti brings the fight back into my mind. The eggs no longer look as appetizing as they did a second ago. I force myself to eat them anyway.
“Yeah, they were really upset.”
“The principal says they are going to have a parents’ meeting Friday night with updates from the police,” she says. “I’ll be pressuring them to have some kind of schoolwide discussion on diversity and the dangers of hate speech like this.”
My stomach is now gurgling, and I’ve completely lost my appetite. I smile weakly at my mom and tell her my stomach is a bit upset and I have to go to the bathroom. She looks troubled, but she lets me go.
Mom drops me off at school but doesn’t push me on anything else. It’s early and the buses haven’t arrived yet. They must have painted over the gym fast because it’s open again and I’m one of only a handful of students in there. I sit on the bleachers near our normal meeting place. Amy arrives first.
“Junie! You’re here early. You okay?”
I shrug.
“You know, I wish your dad would let you get a smartphone. We were texting last night, and it would’ve been good for you to have been on it. We were talking about Patrice’s idea.”
This past summer was when most of my friends got smartphones. They’ve been texting and using social media apps. Meanwhile the only way I can talk with them is to actually call them from my home phone or use email. But let’s be real, no middle schooler uses email. However, my dad doesn’t believe middle schoolers should have phones. Justin got one only because he was starting high school. But knowing they were texting all night makes me feel more isolated than ever. There are five of them. Couldn’t one of them have called me last night? Was I not worth talking to?
“I have a phone at home,” I respond in a low voice. “You could have called me.”
“Oh, it’s much easier to text, Junie.” Amy isn’t really listening to me. “You’ve just got to convince your parents to get one for you.”
My lack of a cell phone makes me an inconvenience. Too much of a pain to call me. That’s all my friendship means to them.
“Well, it’s good I can’t text. It’s a stupid idea anyway.” I can feel how petty I’m being, and I know it isn’t right to be like that, but I just can’t help it.
“Don’t say that, Junie,” Amy says gently. “You don’t know how upset Patrice was. It was really scary to think that we go to school with people who hate us all so much they’re willing to vandalize the school. She’s right. We can’t just do nothing.”
I am the nothing they couldn’t bother to call.
“As if anything we do would make any difference at all,” I say abruptly. I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.
“That’s a terrible attitude to have.”
“You know it’s the truth.”
“No, it’s not true!”
I look up in surprise to see Patrice and the others have arrived. Patrice stands in front of me, her arms folded as she glares.
“Junie, you’ve been so negative about everything for a while now,” Patrice says. “You’re always shooting down anything we want to do. I’m sick of it. This time it’s too important, and I’m not going to deal with your negativity. If you can’t be supportive, then I can’t be your friend anymore.”
I’m not the only one shocked by her words.
“Patrice, that’s way harsh,” Hena says.
“No, it’s not! Junie’s been a bummer all summer. She barely hung out with us, and when she did, she was nothing but negative and depressing. And don’t act like I’m the only one who thinks so. We all agreed we were tired of her attitude.”
I can barely hear any of their words anymore because my heart is beating so loud in my ears. This is what they talk about when I’m not with them. How much of a pain I am. My chest hurts and I feel like crying. I have to get away from them. I grab my bag and walk out of the gym. A teacher stops me to ask me where I’m going. I can’t see who it is because now the tears are flowing and I’m sobbing. The next thing I know I’m in the counseling services waiting area. I’m not a fan of coming here, even though it has comfy sofas and tables where you can sit and work.
Ms. Blair has been my counselor since last year. She has these warm brown eyes that make you believe she really cares. She’s all about talking through your feelings, which is why I avoid her at all costs. I don’t like talking to adults in general. And I definitely don’t want to talk about my emotions with them. She takes me to her office and seats me at the round table in front of her desk. It’s a bit dark and has no windows, but the walls are covered with colorful artwork.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong, Junie?”
“I’m fine,” I respond. No, I’m not. I’m hurting. But I’m not going to tell her that.
“Is it because of the graffiti incident? Has that made you feel bad?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” That’s better than her digging into my emotions.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head vigorously. “I’m fine now,” I say. “I think I just needed to cry it out. Can I go to class now?”
Oh wait, Patrice is in my first period with me. I don’t want to see her. I deflate. Maybe it would be better to stay in the counselor’s office. I rub my eyes. It’s hard to keep them open. I’m just so tired. I want to sleep forever.
“Actually, would it be all right if I stayed here instead?” I ask. “All that crying wiped me out.”
Ms. Blair’s eyes are so sympathetic that I feel the urge to cry again, so I look down at my hands. I start picking at a scab from a cut I got a few days ago. I pick at it so hard it starts to bleed.
Ms. Blair pulls my hands away and wipes away the blood before cleaning it and putting a bandag
e on it.
“Do you think you might be willing to tell me why you cried?”
I keep staring at my hands. “I don’t really know.”
“Well, if you ever feel like talking, my door is always open.”
I nod, even though I know I’ll never come and talk to her.
“If you want, you can put your head down on the table and rest until second period.”
Without a word, my head sinks down on the conference table and I close my eyes. I just want to sleep. The next thing I hear is the second-period bell. I jump up to my feet and thank Ms. Blair before dashing out of her office.
In fourth-period social studies class, Mrs. Medina gives us a new assignment. Everyone groans dramatically, but she claps her hands to quiet the class down.
“We’re going to do a little project that I like to call living history. Where we study the different generations that make up our society.” Mrs. Medina beams at us. She’s tall and attractive with cool black eyeglasses that make her look smart but in a posh way. “You guys are Gen Z, born between 1997 and 2012. Before you are the millennials, also known as Gen Y, who were born between 1981 and 1996. Then there are the Gen Xers, 1965 to 1980. But this project is not going to be about X, Y, or Z. Instead, this project will focus on one of the older generations.”
Mrs. Medina puts up a graphic on the Promethean board. It says:
The Greatest Generation—1901 to 1927
The Silent Generation—1928 to 1945
The Baby Boomers—1946 to 1964
“These are the three older generations,” Mrs. Medina continues. “The greatest generation suffered through the Great Depression and fought in World War II, while the silent generation were children of the Great Depression and fought in the Korean War. The baby boomers were called that because of the increase in births after World War II. Their war was Vietnam. Each of these generations were deeply affected by the war of their time.”
Mrs. Medina comes to stand in front of us again.
“Your project is to interview someone from the silent or boomer generation and get some interesting highlights of their life story. The list of questions will be posted online, and this will be your end-of-the-semester project, so you have a lot of time to finish it. You guys complain, but you actually might enjoy it!”
They all groan again, but I’m too miserable to care.
After class is lunch period. I have no intention of going to the cafeteria, so I wait until everyone leaves and then I walk over to Mrs. Medina’s desk. Her knowing eyes are watching me over the top of her black frames.
“Junie, you’re always so polite,” she says with a kind smile. “Too polite. You patiently wait and let everyone cut ahead of you instead of pushing yourself forward.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t mind waiting. Besides, now I don’t have to worry about anyone waiting after me, and I can have more time with you.” This was what I’d planned. I could ask questions without anyone else around and avoid my friends.
Mrs. Medina laughs. “Smart thinking! What did you want to ask me?”
I chew on my lip. I had been beating myself up trying to come up with a question to ask her.
“Why does it have to be from the silent or boomer generation?” I ask. “My parents are pretty interesting. But they are Gen X, I think.”
Mrs. Medina tilts her head to the side as she listens to me, her hands clasped on the desk. “This is a good question, Junie,” she responds. “And yes, I definitely want you to interview someone from an older generation than your parents’. You see, the silent and boomer generations are old now. In fact, we are losing many from the silent generation. I think it is so important to record their stories before they are all gone.”
It strikes me that the silent generation is my grandparents, and the idea of losing them causes a painful twisting in my heart.
“My grandparents are from that generation,” I say. “I don’t think I know a lot of their stories. But I do know they lived through the Korean War.”
“They sound like the perfect people to interview for this project!” Mrs. Medina says.
The word record is stuck in my head.
“Mrs. Medina,” I ask abruptly. “Would it be all right to do a video presentation of my interview?”
Her face brightens in delight. “That would be marvelous, Junie! Not just for this project, but for your own family history. I’m sure your parents would love it also.”
I spend the rest of lunch talking to Mrs. Medina about oral history projects and good questions, and then I wander over to my next class before the bell rings. I make it through the rest of the day without seeing or talking to any of my friends. But the truth is, none of them made much of an effort to see me either.
Maybe I didn’t even need to try to avoid them.
I put on my headphones but keep the music off as I join the crowds headed out of school. It’s a chaotic mess as new sixth graders try to figure out where to go and seventh and eighth graders push each other around. I keep my head down as I walk to my bus line. From the corner of my eye I can see Hena, Lila, and Marisol lining up for their buses. They look really serious. I hurry past, but they’re too busy talking to spot me. At my line, I hang back, avoiding Tobias, who is busy picking on some unlucky sixth graders. The bus arrives quickly and everyone boards. Sitting in the front means I’m the first one out at my bus stop. But before I leave, I hear the kids behind me talking about more graffiti.
“They found more racist graffiti in the boys’ bathroom.”
“That’s gotta be a student.”
“What a jerk.”
It’s such a horrible feeling to know that you go to school with people who hate you for something you can’t ever change.
As I walk home, I try my best not to think about how horrible my day was. But it’s like my mind is on autoplay, and all it does is show me a highlight reel of all the bad. The sharp pain I have inside me is now just a heavy sense of sadness that aches low in my chest. It’s not a new sensation. I’ve had it on and off since last year. It’s become a familiar pain. It tells me I’m all alone.
I’M SO TIRED WHEN I get home that I lie down on the couch in the living room and I doze off. The sound of the front door slamming wakes me up.
Sitting up, I see my brother throw his bag on the floor and head to the kitchen. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I follow him. He pours himself a bowl of Frosted Flakes and milk and begins munching. It looks so good I make my own bowl.
“How’s it?” he asks through a mouthful of cereal.
“Sucks,” I reply.
Justin nods. “High school’s a little better.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“No, seriously. It’s so big, you can easily avoid anyone you hate.”
My friends did a pretty good job of avoiding me today. The thought turns my cereal flavorless. I finish it anyway as I watch Justin eat a second bowl of cereal, this time of Cocoa Krispies.
“You smell bad,” I tell him.
“Coach made us do suicides during practice.” He raises his arm and fans his underarm odor toward me.
I gag but also sympathize. I’ve seen my brother’s soccer drills. The suicide sprints are definitely the worst. I wouldn’t last a minute.
“Go shower before you kill me,” I say as I lean as far away from him as I can.
Being with Justin helps push back the creeping sadness. It’s still there, but now I can feel other things, like annoyance at my brother, who is sticking his gross armpit right in my face.
“Get away from me, you pig!” I shove him hard.
Justin laughs and walks over to the fridge to grab some Gatorade.
“Is Tobias still bothering you?” he asks after a long chug.
I pause for a moment. “No more than usual.” I guess that’s true, even though it doesn’t feel it.
Justin scowls, making him look pretty intimidating. Over the summer, he got a lot bigger and taller. Now he looks like he goes to high school. I a
dmit that he is pretty good-looking for a brother, although I would never tell him. He already has a mammoth ego.
“You want me to meet you at the bus stop and talk to him?” He cracks his knuckles like he’s some tough thug instead of my dorky older brother. “I don’t have practice on Friday.”
“Nah, don’t make a big deal about it. I’m fine,” I respond. Which is a lie. I’m far from fine, but I’m not about to tell Justin that. He takes his position as the oldest pretty seriously and believes in looking out for his little sister, even though I’m as tall as he is. Also, he never told our parents about the bullying when it involved him. But now that it’s just me, he might rat me out. I don’t want to worry my parents. I’ve never given them any trouble. They love saying that to everyone. I’d like to keep it that way.
Justin finishes his drink and bonks me lightly on my head with his fist. “Suit yourself,” he says, walking toward the stairs. “But let me know if you need me.”
I rub my head and grumble, but it feels good to know my brother has my back. It sucks not having him on the bus ride.
“Hey, Justin,” I call out. “Before you shower, you want to shoot some hoops?”
He comes running back with a big smile. “Winner gets dishes?”
“First to ten, spot me three points?” I ask.
“Cool.”
During dinner, Justin is still complaining about my win.
“I’m never spotting you points again, Junie. You’re such a cheat!”
“I won ten to five,” I reply. “The three points didn’t make a difference.”
Justin is glaring at me over his spaghetti. “You cheated. You took advantage of me being tired, and you cheated.”
I smile evilly. “That’s on you. You didn’t have to agree. But now you got dish duty.” I giggle at my little rhyme as he snarls at me.