Discovering Undiscovered Territory


“How dare she smile at me like that,” I thought. “Why is she so happy anyway?” I don’t know why it bugged me, but it did. Angelina always frolicked around, smiling, and generally making a fool of herself. I kinda thought of her as this bright green, grinning frog with a velvet, pink bow stuck in its slimy scalp.
“Hey Becca!” grinned Angelina, “Why so glum?”
I just glared at her and stared until she gave up, and guiltily got up and left.
Serves her right, I thought. And now for this other situation. Why were all the worst things happening to me? Why did I, of all people, have to do these dumb community service hours just in order to graduate? Of course, Angelina the Angel (so I had dubbed her) had already completed all her hours and had even done so years back in 9th grade. But I, the Unlucky, the Unfortunate, still had to do them all. Of course.
I gritted my teeth and vigorously blinked my eyes. Well, business was business. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do. That’s probably the most sensible thing I’ve thought of in years. Gosh, I don’t know what on earth is getting into me. I firmly stamped down the wide school hallway until I reached Ms. Courtley’s office. The owl knocker on her door glared at me with its yellow jewel eyes and I stared defiantly back. My green eyes are certainly a match for your fake, yellow ones, you dumb owl. Dumb knocker. I picked it up and apathetically dropped it several times. The door swung open.
Ms. Courtley stared me up and down, her temple pulsing purply, her eye twitching. “What is it, pet?” she squealed.
Don’t call me that, I thought. Don’t you dare! That had been one of father’s special nicknames for me back then (you know, back when life was slightly normal). Ms. Courtley’s sudden stillness (definitely an unusual occurrence) brought me out of my reverie.
“So, what is it you need, dear?”- this, as she apparently studied my nose.
“Well,” I drew myself up, “definitely not what I’ve been coming here for the past few years to do.” I paused. “Obviously.”
A look of real surprise crossed her face. “Really?”
“No!” I replied irritably. Gosh, some people honestly can’t tell when someone is sarcastic. How sad. Then I paused and licked my lips. “I’m here to figure out what the heck to do for my community service hours.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. Yep, real funny, huh? I smirked at her. Real sad that little Becca still hasn’t completed her graduation requirements? And that she’s got basically failing grades and the teachers hate her, as well as all the students too? Yep, nothing funnier. Well, no need to show your thoughts so plainly on your face, Miss Ninny.
“So Becca,” she began, nervously glancing at her fingers every few moments, “We’ve already gone through all the options- tens of times. What do you want me to do?”
I glared at her silently. Well, of course not what the school hired you to do, I mentally shot back. Figure out something yourself, Miss Ninny. Isn’t that what this school hired you to do?
After seeing my stubborn silence, she began. “So,” she faltered, “you can do the nursing home option…”
“Eww.”
“Or,” she flipped through some papers, “you can volunteer in a soup kitchen...”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding??”
“Or, let’s see… how about being a mother’s helper?”
“Wouldn’t want to inflict me on a child, would you?”
“Uh, uh…no, I guess not…” She awkwardly paused. “Well, how about here, you could volunteer at the juvenile prison.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll do that,” I smiled superficially.
“Really?”
“No!” I again replied, irritated by her gullibility.
She continued down the list, nervously fluttering around, her wrist bones popping. It went on another twenty minutes until she informed me she had no more time.
“Becca darling,” she gained courage, “I don’t know what to do for you. You don’t want to do whatever I suggest to you. What would you like for us to do? Graduation is only a skip and a hop away,”- she giggled nervously at her own weak joke-“and,” she gasped, “you still need forty hours.”
Yes, Miss Nincompoop, I am aware that there are only three months to graduation, or why else would I be bugging you?
“Come back tomorrow, Becca, and until then I will do my best to uncover some new options.”
I turned my back on her and stalked out. I bumped into Myra, who said in a sugary sweet voice, “Becca, we missed you in class. Where were you?”
“How sweet,” I smiled back mirthlessly. “I was at Ms. Courtley’s office, in case you felt a strong urge to know.” She just stared back, half stunned. It serves her right, I thought bitterly. Why do all these people pretend to be nice to me when really, I know they all hate me?

Outside my window that night, the rain pounded itself into the roof and hit the windows with a loud cracking sound. The wind swept and swirled through the few solitary trees outside. I sat huddled on my bed, stonily staring at the wall. I stayed like that for hours. What a terrible day. No matter what, everything that happened to me turned out bad. Horrible. It had really all started after father had left. That was when my life had become worthless. Eventually, out of sheer exhaustion, I fell into a restless sleep, where dark forms flitted about and voices spoke in hushed tones. The dream faded and was replaced by a new scene. A kind-faced man with glasses was tossing a little girl high up in the air as she giggled delightedly. A girlish, fresh-faced woman looked on, her brown eyes dancing with joy. Her eyes zoomed in on me and turned into dancing elves who were blowing into funny little horns. The noise of the instruments woke me with a start. It sounded freakishly real. But, I considered, maybe it was due to the whistling of the wind.
The next morning, I trudged through the huge maple door and dragged my feet up the main staircase, a scowl on my face. I sat down in the most inconspicuous chair in my homeroom class. I was early. But those extra minutes were not to be enjoyed in glum silence as I liked, because moments later, a cluster of girls burst through the door. Among them, I recognized Meryl, a girl I knew slightly from the summer camp I had gone to. She was busy making friends by the second, I noted bitterly. Well, I smirked to myself, who wouldn’t want to be friends with a pretty and social butterfly like her? Through all the bustle, her eyes landed on me.
“And what’s your name?” she asked in her eager way.
I gave her my best venomous smile and remained silent. This would be sweet revenge to see her embarrassment.
“Oh,” she suddenly blushed red, “Becca, it’s you. I…I…I…don’t know why I didn’t recognize you right away.” She turned away quickly to hide her shame.
I curled my lip and stared at her back until she glanced uncomfortably back at me. I continued staring and she continued glancing uncomfortably, occasionally attempting a grin, which failed miserably, because I only grimaced harder.
During lunch break, I was called to Ms. Courtley’s office. I rapped on the door in a manner that would have provoked anger from just about anyone. But Ms. Courtley pulled it open without any indication that she had heard my loud knocking.
“Becca, dear,” she fluttered her eyelids confidentially. “I have some new news for you.” She paused to giggle nervously. I raised my eyebrows disbelievingly. “Just yesterday, the aide in the fourth grade remedial class was fired.”
“And?” I asked, jutting my chin out.
“Soooo…” she faltered, “I think you should fill the spot.”
I just stared at her, little sparks of hatred kindling in my eyes, spitting at her like sparks.
“Listen, Becca,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice, “I know you don’t want to do it, but there’s little time left and few choices to choose from. So, I suggest you take this and be done with it.”
I continued glaring, my lips pressed together as if stuck with glue. Your little baby soft words will not help, Miss Courtley, I thought at her.
After a moment of peering at me, trying to discern my thoughts, she opened her mouth. “Becca, the spot needs to be filled ASAP and there is no one else to do it. All the other twelfth graders – and even most of the eleventh-graders – have completed their hours.” I mentally winced. “And this is not a job for a tenth-grader. So,” her bug eyes widened. “It’s really up to you.”
“And what about getting an actual teacher for that spot? Has that occurred to anyone?” I challenged.
“Dear,” she sighed, as if she was about to say something infinitely obvious. “That is not an option now. It’s almost the end of the year and the school cannot afford to wait to find another teacher to fill the spot. We’re a little understaffed,” she tittered, “so there’s no one to take care of that now. And,” she added on another note, “the class badly needs an aide. I hear Mrs. Springer is clean worn from those, shall we say, fractious children.” Here, she let out a high-pitched, “Ha ha!”
I raised my eyebrows at her. Weirdo. She caught my look and abruptly stopped, her withered cheeks slightly red.
To fill the awkward silence, she said, “Well, Becca, I’m expecting you to take the spot. In fact,” she put her finger in the air triumphantly, “I’m going to write your name down for it. I will tell the principal you’re starting tomorrow afternoon. And,” she paused dramatically, “if you really wish to change it, you must go to the principal yourself. I’ve had enough of this dilly-dallying.” She waved her hands around, her red-tipped nose in the air. She looked absurdly like a hyena, and I could barely suppress a grin.
I didn’t believe Ms. Twitchy-Witchy would actually do as she said. She never did. She had threatened me as such a few months earlier about another volunteer job, but nothing had happened.

The next day after school, a little after I arrived home, my phone rang. Probably Mom, I thought. My eyes registered surprise when “Dolora Finchley” flashed across the screen.
“Hello?” I stiffly answered.
“Ms. Becca Johnson!” I was boomingly addressed, “I have written down here that you are currently committed to be at Halsey Hall right now in Mrs. Springer’s fourth grade classroom. What is your excuse??” she blasted.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself back at the building I had left an hour previously. Darn, I hate this building, I seethed. How dare I be forced to do this? I walked about thirty yards or so until I reached Halsey Hall. I stalked up the concrete stairs, almost in an effort to crack them, but the noise of my feet was nullified by their stoniness. I wrenched open the heavy oak door and followed the signs to Mrs. Springer’s class, my shoes clattering against the tile floor.
I found the correct door marked by childish signs that read “The fourth grade,” so I pushed open the door and swept in, my noise slightly in the air. Mrs. Springer abruptly stopped the lesson and came up to me, all businesslike. “I’m Mrs. Springer – what is your name?”
I curled my lip at her and smirked. This lady thinks she can get all businesslike on me? “Becca,” I replied through tight lips.
Without emotion, she responded, “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m sure you will be an asset to our class. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, please sit back there next to Penelope.” She indicated a slight, sleek-haired girl with big blue eyes.
“My name is not Penelope,” Penelope stated emphatically. “It’s Nelly.” And she stuck her snub nose in the air. But Mrs. Springer ignored her.
“And,” Mrs. Springer continued, “make sure she’s following the lesson.”
Gosh. I raised my eyebrows. This lady sounds like a robot. What a weirdo.
But left without a choice, I followed her directions. I duly stalked to the back of the room, and with malevolence in my eyes, I scooted over a chair and stiffly sat myself a safe distance from Nelly. But not safe enough, I wryly grinned. She pointedly turned toward me and scanned me from head to toe. I glared back at her. What a disgusting child, I reckoned, glowering.
I left the class three-quarters of an hour later and breathed a sigh of relief. Gosh, I thought, that Mrs. Springer thinks she can use me like some kind of slave. And as for Nelly, she was real cute looking, but what a brat.

I continued my twice a week visits to Mrs. Springer’s remedial fourth grade class, and I did it, but I hated it. I sometimes worked with Little Lukey, a video game freak of a kid. Oftentimes, I was put with little snooty-cutie-ninny-Nelly. And all the other times in between, I worked with some of the other kids, all who had major problems. Real messed up kids. I could see why they all earned the punishment of being landed in that awful, remedial class.

About a month and a half later, I dragged my feet, again, through the heavy oak door of Halsey Hall and up the stairs to Mrs. Springer’s classroom. What a dreadful place.
I entered, and at Mrs. Springer’s cue, promptly advanced to my nauseatingly yellow chair, stationed at Nelly’s desk. Ughhh…
Mrs. Springer stated aloud, as if she was a machine, “Becca, Nelly is having a terrible day. Her spelling and math have been particularly horrid.”
Nelly’s face turned pallid and her blue eyes flashed, but she remained silent. That’s unusual, I noted. Usually the kid gives nonstop attitude.
Later on that class, as I was doing a one-on-one math worksheet with little Ms. Nelly, I saw a large tear roll down her cheek. Grossly disturbing. A-a-awkward. I turned away and raised my eyebrows. I ignored it.
But during my next session in Mrs. Springer’s class, Nelly’s weird behavior repeated itself. What the flip is going on with this funny kid? I narrowed my eyes and scowled. Why did I even have to get myself into this situation?

The next week in Mrs. Springer’s class was my worst yet. Mrs. Springer was more monotonous than ever. Most of the kids seemed like they must have been on caffeine and Nelly was continuing to act oddly.

One Tuesday afternoon, after one of my interminably long sessions in Mrs. Springer’s class, Nelly approached me. The class had emptied out moments before, and being that I was in a sullen, dismal mood, I moved about lifelessly, and I was in no mood for this.
“Becca,” she began in a small voice, “can I please talk to you?”
“Me?” I raised my eyebrows until they were nearly in my hair. I jutted my chin out in exaggerated disbelief.
“Yes, you,” she whispered.
I gave her a long, hard stare. What did she think I was? A guidance counselor? I almost laughed at the thought. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that we’re standing here, you trying to talk to me?”
She sounded strangely mature as she replied, “No, Becca, I don’t. I just have this feeling that you would be the person to talk to, and I just couldn’t wait any longer.”
I stood and remained silent, still frowning.
“Listen,” she continued earnestly, “I need someone. I need someone to help me. You don’t understand what it’s been like in my house. My parents are always fighting and yelling and I sit in the corner, forgotten. Then, when one of them decides to notice me, they yell at me. ‘Why are you sitting here, Nelly?! Go to your room!’” By now the tears were falling. She continued through her sobs, “And then I just hear more arguments from my room and loud crashes when Mom gets really mad and throws something. It don’t matter anymore that I have pretty clothes and dolls to play with,” she sobbed. “I just want my parents to love each other.” These words seemed to have uncorked a well of tears from somewhere deep inside her because her sobs rose to wails as she let out all the hurt she had been bottling up inside for months.
I had never in my life seen someone cry so hard. Gosh Lord. I had heard that baby’s cries were annoying, but this? And I had never had anyone confide in me like this either. How did she know that my parents were divorced and I that I had endured a situation similar to hers? My shock wiped the glare right off my face. I stood a moment, mute. What could I even begin to tell the kid?
“Nelly,” I began, probably in the softest voice I had used since…years ago, probably even softer than Miss Courtley’s baby voice, “I understand. I…I…I do. My own parents were divorced years ago, when I was only eight. But I still remember…” I paused. “I remember everything.”
As her sobs began to subside, I fell silent again. It took courage to continue, but I did. From somewhere deep inside myself, in undiscovered territory, I drew power to pull through this. “My parents were the same as…” I trailed off. “The same as you say. They fought every night over silly, petty things. I used to think to myself, ‘Gosh, are these the people I call my parents? Is this how Moms and Dads act?’” My voice cracked on that last sentence. “And the daughter who they raised so lovingly,” I smiled bitterly, “was forgotten.
Now it was Nelly’s turn to look on shocked, her eyes wide. We both sat silently, feeling each other’s pain, probably for the first time. I pressed my lips together tightly, and then abruptly said, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t ever told anyone this.”
“No, please continue Becca,” she plead, her hands clasped, her eyes like china orbs. “This is lifting an enormpous weight off me” – I couldn’t help sniggering at her great vocabulary- “and,” Nelly said astutely, “I bet you it’s also lifting some weight off you too.”
I felt transparent as a ghost. How did this kid know everything about me?
“Right?” she added, lifting her tear-stained face up to me.
I had to admit the truth to this little girl who had the soul of a woman. I looked down as I replied in a low voice, “Yes.”
“Well,” she began to cheer up, “now that that’s all cleared up, we can have each other like sisters, right?”
Deep down I felt the truth of her words, but still- it sounded strange and unfamiliar. It was like trying to put on a starched, new dress that felt quite stiff. But as I looked up, a smile began to blossom on Nelly’s small face, and I felt its pull as the corners of my mouth magnetically followed suit. It felt foreign and unaccustomed. But, I resolved, I will really try to put on that new dress. Maybe even keep it on for a while…