Class 564 roared as they chucked their supplies across the laboratory. The substitute looked at the howling kids, and her expression displayed her desperation to exert control. She flailed her arms in vain.

Amidst the rowdy ten-year-olds was me: the fifth grader who remained opinionated throughout the six years in school. My head was in the clouds, kept up there by numerous balloons that I generated from the compliments my teachers bestowed upon me. My balloon collection became plentiful, but with a few shots, I would come plummeting down.




And there was “Jerome.” He was dangerously thin and leaned over the empty desk in front of a friend and me.


















He attempted to make small talk with her, but she responded with only an eye roll or a monosyllable answer. I, on the other hand, had commented on everything he said.
“Hey, do you like Bakugan?” He asked.

“Isn’t that only for boys who have nothing better to do than spin a few balls around?” I snickered.

Throughout the conversation, he stared at her, refusing to break eye contact even when she looked away to laugh with me. He turned to glare at me, his dark eyes shadowed by his widow’s peak.





“You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well, you’re really stupid. Whenever you talk in class, you sound like you don’t know a damn thing! I don’t know why the teachers like you; you have nothing good to say, ever. No one likes you, so shut up,” he murmured in a comically squeaky voice. But there was nothing comical about what he said.





“Shut up, you…” Was he telling the truth? Was I so hated? And where were my words? I tried to conjure up a good comeback, but my mind was hyperventilating. He kept his face level with mine for awhile, smirking as I dulled out my silence. I lowered my eyes, defeated.


“Idiot,” he spat, walking away. I was ashamed, but not because of what he said. Why couldn’t I be smarter, because if I was, he wouldn’t have anything to say to me. If I was clever, I could come up with better comebacks. Stupid!



















I looked over at my friend, expecting her to say something. But she didn’t. She was looking at her notebook.













After this, all you do is ignore me? But I waved away the thought. I plastered on a smile, nudged her and rambled on about a miscellaneous topic. She seemed happy for the subject change, but a part of me knew what was going on: he was putting on a show for her; I was in the way. She was chattering away, but I wasn’t listening. Wasn’t she going to talk about him?


























I felt myself sink to the floor. If she didn’t care, no one would, so I vowed to not speak in class unless asked to. That way, he would have nothing to say about how stupid I sounded.


By the end of the week, he grew fond of leaning close to my ear and whispering “moron” when he got the chance. It hurt, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. I was almost sure that it was going to end there. Almost.


The next week, my seat was switched so that I was across from him. I felt needles in my back whenever his mouth opened; he sat next to his best friend and the two shared jokes constantly. Jokes about me.


“Fault line,” I heard them whisper. A soft pink crept up to my cheeks as I looked up from the textbook I was reading.








“What?” They tipped their heads back in laughter.









“Your ass is always showing, and the line is like an earthquake’s fault line!” Jerome gasped. The other kids in my table shifted uncomfortably and tuned out of the conversation.





























A wave of color engulfed my face as I reached back and pulled up my pants. Since when did I care so much about my appearance? I waited for my face to cool down, but it didn’t, and he noticed.















“She’s beet red! Beet red!” he laughed. He reached out and held up his hand, so that in his perspective, he was holding my head. He closed his fingers in a fist, crushing it. However, the only thing I felt him crushing were my balloons as I fell. My shame was pulling me closer to the pit like an anchor, because I never thought that my flaws would be displayed for the world to notice.





Months passed. Each day, I grudged every step I took to class. Everyday, I was wary that he waiting for me to mess up. The insults ranged from my intelligence to appearance. I played with my pencils, willing them to give me the words I lacked. They didn’t.





When middle school results arrived, I was ecstatic to learn that I was going to a school that only a few of my classmates were attending. I would be away from him. I could be free! But Jerome didn’t lose any fire in his attacks.

“Whenever you walk, you sound like an elephant. That means you’re fat like one too!” He jeered, cackling. I felt the shame creep onto my cheeks. He was popping my balloons with sharper darts.





“Morbidly obese,” someone added.


















After lunch, he continued his speech.















“You walk into class, sit down, and your pants aren’t pulled up! Your fat gushes out when that happens; dumbass,” he laughed, watching my friend for a reaction. She had her head down, not saying anything to him or defending me. Pop.


The rest of his comments were lost in time. My balloons were seemingly unrecoverable, and spent the rest of the year in the pit of fear. My future looked bleak: how was I supposed to be anything when I was so disgusting? This mindset grew over the summer as I refused to go out of my house. As long as I didn’t see him, I was safe.
I considered speaking up, but I didn’t think I could compare to the other children with greater issues. They were homeless, starving or suffering from an incurable disease and therefore deserved to be priority. I had no right to be vocal about my insignificant problems. The first time I ever tried was when the teacher made the class write about a painful experience. I wrote about him, and hoped that she would read it and confront him.
But she didn’t.
I got over the slashes, but the scars still remained. Three years later, I look in the mirror and see what he wants me to see: an ugly teenage girl with no brains. I lost my voice in class; I never want to raise my hand even if I know I am correct, in fear that the insults will come back.
I realized that you cannot run away from your problems. One way to get rid of them is to let go of the rope you’re pulling and smack your opponent with shock: confront and blow the air out of them. Another way is to let the wounds heal; to persevere through the pain. Try to surround yourself with good company, positive thoughts, and keep your mind off your self pity. Its not easy, I know, but its better than locking yourself in a room and forcing yourself to relive every painful detail. The scars will remain for both, and the repercussions will hit you, but slowly, they too will be overcome.