It all started with her name. We were sitting in sixth grade homeroom, all nervously scoping each other out, seeing who was pretty, who had a uni-brow, how many pimples the few people you knew from your elementary school had accumulated over the summer. Waiting for someone to comment on the skirt we all knew was too short, and didn’t have the legs to wear it, someone to drop the back of an earring so the pressure would be off us while she scrambled under the desks, finally found her tiny silver clasp and stuck it in the back of her ear, behind her veil of hair, newly straightened for the first time. They put us in rows by the alphabet; I was nervously looking around me, doubting that some of the kids in the class could recite the entire thing, and I knew where my seat would be. Even though I hardly knew anyone, I knew that I would be in front of this girl named Chelsea; we’d gone to elementary school together, she’d been the most popular girl in the fifth grade. We’d never been close friends, but once, at recess, she asked me if I would play hide and seek with them. I’d been so happy I didn’t check for risks; I was the shyest girl in our grade, hiding behind the bangs that I only decided to grow out freshman year in high school. They’d left me hiding under the little alcove that the tire and wood playground had. Everyone knew where it was; it was only afterwards that I figured this out and realized that Chelsea’s excuse was that I was a really good hider and should be proud. I also realized later what it meant when girls walked away, tittering and speaking behind cupped palms.
That day in homeroom, which is, a ridiculously pointless waste of ten minutes in the morning, and until you get to high school, another ten in the afternoon, we were getting put into alphabetical order. I got stuck in between Chelsea and this boy, I think his name was Tommy, who wore these coke bottle glasses; really, they looked like his parents couldn’t afford real glasses, and just cut off the bottom of glass bottles and stuck a piece of wire around them. But, I have a feeling that he had a lot of money; if I ever get the chance, I’ll find my sixth grade yearbook from the box of all the things I have to remember, find out what his last name was, and look him up. Chances are that now, he’s a stud, has an earring, and is married to some Belgian model. But Tommy has no point in this, other than one incidence at lunch, and even at that, it’s stretching his noble purpose in our lives. Oh, and for the hell of it, to my left was this kid named Tristan. He was in the popular group, but he always farted in class, and even if it wasn’t him, he did it enough so that you could blame it on him if you ever needed to. Tristan…well, he’s not important in this, other than the fact that I’m sure that I blamed something on him at one point in sixth grade. After we were settled, the front of the alphabet, we settled for staring at the kids who hadn’t gotten put into desks yet, and deciding who would be our sixth grade popular group. A girl with pretty blonde hair, curling in subtle waves over and over itself was called next, Hilary, with only one “L”. After a week of hearing this, we got sick of her, even if her hair was excellent.
The last person to be called was a shy looking girl, her face partially obscured by her massive side bang, the rest of her almost thigh length hair secured in a long braid, tied with a thin leather cord with a little silver star attached to the end of it. She looked afraid to be standing up there by herself, but she had to have known it was coming. After a kid with the last name Yoraz had just been called, there’s not much room for another kid to squeak in after her. But the teacher looked down at her paper once, opened her mouth, then, surprised, took a second glance down at the roster. Her eyes flitted to the girl, still standing at the front of the room, in her khaki capris and crimson cotton shirt, embroidered with blue hyacinths, some kind of flower, but that sounds right. So the teacher looked up at her, and, with the most American accent that I’ve ever heard, “Sackery Zeenay”. By this time, we were all staring at her, I could hear Chelsea’s snickers from in front of me, and with dignity that I hadn’t though a sixth grader could possess, she stared our teacher in the eye- it was at this point that I realized that her eyes were denim blue, something that wouldn’t have been as surprising if her skin wasn’t it’s shade of golden brown. She said, speaking slowly and with a slight accent that I wouldn’t be able to place for three years, “It’s Suh-kah-ree Zeh-nah.” She repeated it again, faster. With a withering look from the teacher and a slightly audible gasp from the class, she sat down in the last seat, her last interruption for the day. Many days, actually. But almost three years later, I would approach her, and tell her that I remembered that day. The reason that I wanted to talk to her- that night, when I was supposed to be working on my math homework, I said her name. The syllables rolled off my tongue, it’s cinnamon taste lingered on my tongue, turning our dinner of chicken, string beans, and mashed potatoes red and sweet.
2007-06-10
04:56:01
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