No Erasers - written in 2000 (which was 8th grade for me, so it's not the greatest story)
It has been a year since she ran away. We pushed her to the edge. She couldn’t take it anymore. Now, we wish we could take back what we’ve done; but life doesn’t come with erasers.
Anne Phillips first came to our school during the second marking period of eighth grade. Ever since the first time I saw her, I knew she would be our victim. Anne had thick glasses and bold freckles. I could barely get a glimpse of this because her face was surrounded by her long, straight, jet black hair. It was as if she didn’t want to reveal her true identity. Anne’s eyes were always glued to her shoes; she didn’t want to make any eye contact.
Every Friday, in English, we had essay contests. My best friend, Margie Evans, always won with the most superb compositions. They were always about horses, strolls in the meadow, flowers, or other peaceful subjects. This Friday, however, things were different. Our teacher, Mr. Peters, went to the front of the class to proudly read aloud the winning essay. Just as quickly as the smile on Margie’s face came, it faded, for the story Mr. Peters read was not that of Margie’s; it was Anne’s story. It was about Martin Luther King, Jr. This was pretty unusual, seeing that St. John Middle School was an all white school. We never honored blacks and their accomplishments. Anne’s essay seemed to touch our hearts as it told of Martin Luther Kind’s desire to spread equality and equal rights among all people. It told of his “I Have A Dream” speech and him winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Margie looked over at me as I imitated King accepting the award. The class burst into laughter.
“I sho’nuff liked your story,” said Margie, tauntingly. She turned and glanced at her boyfriend Ben, searching for approval. Ben gave her a look and turned the other way. If looks could kill, Margie would have been dead within that second.
Feeling the need, I joined Margie and said, “No doubt! Y’all can’t write no story as good as ‘dat one!”
“Elena Marco, may I see you in the hall please?” Mr. Peters sounded discontented. Suddenly, the class was silent as I followed my teacher out in the hall.
“What right do you have to make fun of Anne, young lady?” he asked.
“Umm... I, I don’t know,” I stuttered.
“Well, you better treat her with respect. Just because she’s the new girl, doesn’t mean she has to be the class’s prey,” Mr. Peters explained. “Why do you and your classmates—?”
The bell rang and he finally let me go to catch my bus. As I was walking, I saw a girl slide across the floor. It was Anne. Margie had tripped her in front of the whole eighth grade hall.
Inside, I knew it was wrong how we treated Anne, and I wished that somehow I could keep my classmates from making fun of her. But, it would never happen. People are too insecure about themselves and overprotective of their reputations. Being “cool” is top priority. Nobody cares about other people’s feelings. I was once one of those people.
That night I got a call from Margie. She was crying.
“Ben broke up with me,” she mumbled. “He told me that I was disrespectful and self-centered. Can you believe that Elena?”
“Well,” I started, “I really don’t think that it’s right to pick on Anne because of her appearance. I- I agree with him.” Only sniffles remained on the other end of the phone. Then I got the dial tone.
***
Margie walked into homeroom with a new haircut, new clothes, new shoes, and a new attitude. Everyone stared as confidence poured out of Margie’s blonde, thick head. Taking a break from laughing and giggling about Anne, the guys stared at Margie like she was a clothes-lacking celebrity, as the girls stared in envy. I think Margie was trying to get back at Ben, and also myself. She wanted us to realize what we were missing.
“I’m better off without you.” Those were the only words Margie spoke to me that day. She enjoyed all the attention she was getting. She had a new clique of snotty troublemakers. I think Ben knew he made the right choice, and so did I. When I saw Margie walk past him, she was trying to show off, ripping Anne’s glasses off her face and leaving her almost blinded.
Anne never cried, or at least not in front of us. She hid her emotions. Maybe because she felt that if she let them out and cried, Margie and “crew” would be on her back for yet, another thing.
“Now it’s time to receive our partners for the Civil War project,” my social studies teacher exclaimed. Everyone groaned. “I tried to match up people so that they will compliment each other’s abilities. Ben Troy and Margie Evans.”
“Ewww!” My teacher continued on with the list, ignoring Margie’s comment. It seemed to go on forever, leaving me in mystery about whom I was to be paired up with.
And finally, my name came.
“Elena Marco and-“ It seemed like she was stuttering, like even she was concerned with who I was paired up with. She continued, repeating my name again. “Elena Marco and Anne Phillips.” There it was. The embarrassment of the century. As much as I didn’t want people to make fun of Anne, even I didn’t want to have to spend time with her.
“So Anne,” I started. “I guess we’re partners.”
“Yeah, how about you come to my house after school?” she suggested.
“That would be great.” I lied. I felt uneasy. At that moment, I wanted to go join Margie on her rampage out to get Anne, but I knew I couldn’t.
Anne sensed my uneasiness as she politely backed away and said, “Well, I’ll see you later.”
***
The Phillips’ house was a petite gray ranch with a walkway lined in flowers. I hadn’t even rung the doorbell yet, and someone approached the tiny windows and peeked out. The door quickly flung open and a young boy screamed, “Anne! Your friend’s here!” I thought, ‘Friend? No, that’s just too far!’
Anne politely escorted me up to her frilly, flowery, and pink bedroom. There were no dirty clothes on the floor, open drawers, or disorganizations of any kind. She had a big canopy bed with tons of pillows. One particular pillow was covered in signatures. I picked it up and asked what it was from.
“All of my friends in my old school signed it for me before I left,” she said. It said things like We’ll Miss You Anne, We Love You, and Don’t Forget Us! Maybe St. John Middle School just didn’t give Anne a chance to be herself. We didn’t let her show us who she really was on the inside.
When Anne and I walked downstairs to get a snack, her mother was standing nearby. While Anne walked out of the room, her mother asked me a question.
“Why don’t you girls like Anne? She likes you…” That’s when it really hit me. No other question had ever made me feel so stupid. I didn’t know what to respond to her.
Anne and I finished our project with our best efforts. We barely spoke, and the silence scared me. It felt like Anne knew everything I was thinking at that time, about all the times I was wrong to judge by appearance. After all, I was the one who brought her to everyone’s attention and made her our prey. I had made her the class joke. After that, what she wore or what she said always gave someone an idea to crack a joke. I had started this and now I was trying to undo it. It was then that I realized that it was easier to start something than to take it back.
***
Anne and I eventually became friends. I became her only friend, her best friend. It didn’t scare or embarrass me anymore. I didn’t care what people thought.
At school, I tried my hardest to get people to stop bullying Anne, but it was too late. They became so accustomed to doing it, that they wouldn’t stop for anything. Teasing Anne was fun for them. Even though I was Anne’s friend, I could tell that nobody else would be. Even if my classmates had finally agreed to become friends with Anne, it was too late. We had heard that Anne ran away. She couldn’t deal with all everyone put her through any longer. As for Margie, I lived without her. No one needs a judgmental friend. The last words she spoke to me were still ringing in my ears. “I’m better off without you.” I hope by now, she has changed.
We all make mistakes. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, an eraser will do the trick. After we rub it across the page and wipe away the dust, all that’s left, is a hardly noticeable smudge. I wish it had been that easy; just erase what we’ve done wrong. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that in life there are no erasers.