Megan Hall - Dear Bully

Me: Do you ever get bullied?

BFF: When a clueless bott talks to me, yes.

My heart jumps a little. Most days he says no.

I stand up quickly, walk over to my dad’s office door, and close it so I can concentrate. My older brother is blaring his stupid music superloud in the living room and nobody else is home. I take a deep breath and let it out, and then type.

Me: So this morning those guys Marty and Erik? They grabbed me in the parking lot and smashed a cup of yogurt against my butt. It was all slimy and soaked into my pants so it looked like . . . you know. I tried to run. But they caught my sleeve and ripped the shit out of it.

It hurts to write it, relive it, and my eyes get all wet. I laugh at myself for being such a loser. I hit enter, sending the message to BFFBOTT, and then I bite my lip, waiting. Hoping he’s still, you know, with me on this conversation. Sometimes—

BFF: Can you help me with my Spanish homework.

Yeah. Sometimes that happens. I look out the window. Swallow hard, and then turn back to the screen.

Me: Not right now.

BFF: And why not?

Me: Because I’m trying to tell you something!

BFF: Oh, I’m sorry.

Shit. You know? Now I feel bad.

Me: It’s okay. I’m sorry for yelling.

BFF: You’re forgiven.

Me: *smile*

BFF: *stare*

Me: Right. So I had to walk around all day with a big yogurt stain on my khaki pants. Everybody laughed.

BFF: I don’t laugh. You don’t even like me.

Me: What?! OMG, yes I do! You’re my only friend!

BFF: If I’m your only friend, then you have no friends at all.

“Wow.” I duck my head and push back from the computer a little, trying not to let that one hurt. He says these things sometimes, but he doesn’t mean them. I know that.

But I keep going. I just need to get it out.

Me: Everybody called me faggot.

BFF: Everybody calls me Sally Polly.

Me: Come on, Jack. Stop it. It’s not funny.

BFF: What isn’t funny?

Me: Never mind.

BFF: Are you laughing at a joke?

Me: No!

BFF: What are you laughing at?

I squinch my eyes shut and feel a headache coming on. I just want him to listen. I need to know if he understands. I grip the armrests of my dad’s chair and count to five slowly. Wish on it. “Come on,” I whisper, leaning forward to type again.

Me: I’m not laughing. I’m practically fucking crying, okay? Sheesh.

BFF: What was the question?

Me: You want the question? Fine. The question is, are you gay, too? Because I like you. Jesus!!! Please say yes!

BFF: No.

I stand up, shoving the chair backward so it hits the credenza, and walk over to the window. “God!” Half scream, half prayer, Eminem pounding from the living room. “God, I can’t even take this, okay? I mean, I can’t. I don’t know. I just . . . I don’t know.” I sob a little bit, can’t stop it, feeling like a baby with snot running out of my nose, and I wipe it on my ripped shirtsleeve. “Fuh-uh-uck!” I yell into the crook of my arm, and even though my stomach hurts, I like how it sounds all muffled, like I’m lost in a snowstorm, so I yell it again. And then once more, softer. I sniff hard and wipe my eyes. Walk back to the computer, where BFFBOTT sits, his cursor blinking silently.

I stare at the conversation, rereading, looking for hope, weighing the odds. And then I type the words.

Me: So . . . do you like me?

My finger hovers stiffly over the enter key until I can feel the strain in my hand.

And then my brother smashes open the door, scaring the crap out of me. I jump up.

“Hey, fat ass,” he says, “talking to your gay friends?” He laughs. “I’m telling Dad you’re having gay sex on his computer, you sick whack job.” He slams the door.

“I’m not gay!” I scream, like always, but he’s gone. I sit down. Only my eyes burn again. I look back at the screen, the cursor blinking, still waiting for a click.

More than anything, I want to know what Jack will say.

But then I put my hand down.

I just can’t risk it.

Not today.

An Innocent Bully

by Linda Gerber

If you see this, you probably won’t even blink.

You won’t realize I’m talking about you

because you don’t think of yourself as a bully.

Maybe you joked around a little when you were in school,

but it was nothing serious, just some innocent teasing.

Except . . .

Teasing isn’t intended to cause humiliation.

Teasing doesn’t tip the scales of power against the victim.

Teasing isn’t repetitive to the point of chipping away a person’s self-esteem.

You didn’t think you were being a bully.

You were just having fun.

And since I’d been taught to suck it up

and that names could never hurt me,

I wouldn’t let you see the way the knife twisted inside me

when you and your friends mooed

as I walked down the hall

because my last name was Cowan

and you thought you were clever.

Or when you told everyone at school that my dad felt me up

because I made the mistake of explaining to you once how he was blind, so he had to “see” with his hands.

Or when you smudged red paint all over my drawings in art

because they were chosen to hang at the front of the room

and you didn’t think I was cool enough

to have my pictures displayed

so you destroyed them

and then you stared me down,

and threatened to hurt me if I told.

You didn’t think you had already hurt me.

And if you did, it wasn’t your fault.

You didn’t know I would take it so hard,

even when you stole my clothes in gym

and stuck them in the toilet

and then gagged out loud whenever you saw me

for weeks afterward

and told everyone I smelled like shit.

You didn’t think that would cause me to run home in tears

and look at myself in the mirror

and cry some more

because I was starting to believe

the names you called me.

I was gross.

I was weird.

I was stupid.

I was ugly.

I didn’t deserve any better.

You’ll never know any of this because

you won’t recognize yourself in a word I’ve said.

You didn’t think you were a bully.

You didn’t think you hurt me.

You didn’t think.

The Secret

by Heather Brewer

I looked over the page again, my eyes flitting from this word to that, trying to fight the tears from coming. Tears made them laugh. Tears gave them those knowing, smug smiles that said that they had me right where they wanted me. So I didn’t give in, didn’t cry. But my heart ached, and all I wanted to do was to shrivel up inside of myself and disappear.

It was my senior year. What’s more, it was the last week of high school. I was so close to being free of the torment, free of the teasing, free of the abuse. But just as I was beginning to enjoy the idea of not seeing my fellow classmates every day, the senior edition school newspaper had come out. It was tradition back then (I’m not sure how it is now) that the graduating class’s student council members get together and “gift” each graduate with something imaginary that would remind all of us of that person’s personality. A girl I knew was in drama club and had spoken at great length about studying law, so they gifted her with a guest shot on a show called L.A. Law. On the surface, the entire concept was only mildly annoying and at some times amusing.