Yellow Chalk

Yellow Chalk

She dropped her chalk on the classroom floor. It ricocheted off the linoleum. The white flecks sprayed into the air in slow motion. Her heart pounded through her chest and splattered onto the board. Her heart smatterings displayed for all her classmates to see. 

She wanted to dance. She imagined the light fixture, that Bobby always said looked like a “titty” becoming a disco ball. She pictured all her classmates in 70’s outfits dancing a choreographed piece, her afro reflecting specks of lights.

But this was not the disco era. It was the 90’s. And her overalls were covered in urine. And her hands were covered in chalk, the remnants of her embarrassment. She didn’t remember the words, she didn’t remember where she was. And all she could see were the faces. All the faces. And the mouths. Endless, gaping holes – dark, black holes laughing maniacally. Opening and closing.

Miranda remembered what her mother used to tell her. “If you fake it you can make it.” “Fake the confidence.” she thought. Pretend you meant to pee your pants. Pretend yellow-stained jean is chic. Walk to the nurse’s office like it’s a runway in New York. Act cool. Pretend you are fine, and you will be fine.

She got dizzy. And then she did something she didn’t expect. She started laughing. She started laughing so hard, that her mouth mimicked the rest of the classes. It was ridiculous. A 10-year-old girl, peeing in her pants, because she forgot how to spell omniscient. That was a hard word. She had to be kind to herself. And so she laughed.

She laughed at giving herself bruises after her father left. She laughed at being jealous of Sandra for her long, blonde hair and her beautiful smile that all the boys drooled over. And she laughed that she cared so much about winning the class spelling bee that she peed herself.

She looked at the floor beneath her sandaled feet. They stuck to the yellowed ground, wiped the tears from her eyes, looked at the still faces, took a deep breath and walked out the door. Then she started running. She ran so fast. Faster than she’d ever run before. Before she knew it she was in the playground, she sprinted past the swings where she almost had her first kiss with Jimmy, the class “geek” but she turned her head, past the foursquare where she skinned her knee and got her first scar, past the handball court where she learned what sex was, and past all the trees leading to the forest, where she realized she was different.

Miranda stopped at the bench. She heaved in and out. Her breath couldn’t catch up with her chest. She grabbed onto the splintered wood that made up the seat. She didn’t know why her feet brought her here. This was where it all happened. Where she ran after him on that steaming day in July. She saw his suitcases, leathered and worn, and his hand. It was deafening. Like a long tone. She couldn’t hear any other sounds, she couldn’t even hear the silence. She watched his hand and the bags disappear as the bus doors closed. And she never saw him again.

She blamed herself. And her mother did too, and her sister. She was the closest to him. Her father. And if he left, it had to be because of her. Because she wasn’t good enough. Because she didn’t beg enough. Because she did something wrong.

She sat on the bench, clenching her fists, closing her eyes. She wanted so badly to understand the world around her, why she was here, why people did what they did, what things happened. But she knew the answers would never come. She wanted rain to come and wash away her pain, and then the next day could be new and clean, and the air wouldn’t be covered in smog the way her head always was. Everything would be clear. Everything would make sense.

Miranda reached into her pocket, and pulled out the piece of chalk, and winced.