WHAT YOU SAY, WHAT IS DONE TO YOU

My best friend Joshua Fein earned a reputation in the 8th grade. He had a sense of humor that was way ahead of its time. On the day the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded, we were all in science class. Suddenly the principal knocked on the door, whispered something to Mr. Jones who then stood in front of the classroom, his hands shaking, and told us that the astronauts and teacher aboard were dead. Joshua raised his hand and when Mr. Jones called on him, he said, “I guess there’s a lot of dead fish now.” Mr. Jones was furious and sent Joshua to the principal’s office. Kids told their parents and kids told other kids, and soon no one had much of anything nice to say about poor Joshua Fein. We stopped being friends after that even though I know he meant no harm.

I earned a reputation the following year. The beautiful blond boy across the street, two grades ahead, told me he was my boyfriend. He took me on a bike ride deep into the woods behind our neighborhood to an abandoned cabin where four of his friends were waiting. They stood around smirking and saying things I could only half-understand. Then there was very little talking. I had to walk my bike home, pushing it along the narrow trail gnarled with dying tree roots, walking with a slow step stutter step. The next day at school, those five boys told a different story about what happened on the dirt floor of that cabin with the jagged hole in the roof that I stared through looking up at the clear bright sky.

As I stood in front of my newly defaced locker, everyone snickering and hissing in my direction, I caught Joshua Fein staring at me. I think I saw him smile.

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