The last leg of our school year was approaching. We had endured many sweltering days, even with the chain link windows opened to the cathedral ceilings with lights that dangled down like vines in a forest. The entire valley was submerged in this warm pool of moisture. Our classroom was kiln-like forcing the sweat to drip off our ardent flesh like a river overflowing from winter’s melt. The occasional teaspoon of warm breeze snuck in through those giant, oak framed windows, gently grazing across our youthful faces.
Days before, our teacher, Mr. Falbo, announced we would be getting a new student in class. Today would be that day. It was just after lunch when our principal, Mr. Sabino, stopped by our class. He made a gesture to Mr. Falbo to come out into the hall. A few minutes passed. What was going on out there, I wondered? The principal doesn't come by often, only to deliver Mr. Falbo’s paycheck. With that thought, the door hurled open and in walked Mr. Falbo followed bya girl. The room filled with silence, a brief introduction was made. All we knew now was our new classmate's name, Robin, which I cared less about at this unbelievable moment.We also learned that she would be with us the remainder of the year. Nothing else was said, leaving many questions unanswered. She had an unforgettable appearance, one that I have never unseen. I wanted to understand why she looked the way she did, and I was sure that everyone else wanted to know. More importantly, it would have taken the fear and ignorance away, if we all knew the answer.
She was smaller in stature than everyone here like she did not belong, but neither did I. Her arms were twig-like, akin to the ones the wind takes from a dead tree. Obviously, she had been quite ill. The coloring above her cheekbone was a dim purple shade, framed by her very dry, thinly spotted pale yellow skin. The most noticeable of all her features were the few patches of hair that dangled out from her head, hanging lifeless and eerie to look upon.. For a moment I thought of my mother and how when dad got home, mom would run into the bathroom and tease her hair and apply lipstick. Mom taught me that a woman’s hair was everything. When the introduction was over, we all went back to work. I couldn't believe what had just happened, as if we all had to hide what we saw. When I looked at her, I could not hide, forget or put away the thoughts I had. It looked much too painful not to share and, if that were so, I wanted to know.
Day to day, this quiet girl unsuccessfully tried to qualify in non-school activities on the playground at recess, unworthy to fit amongst the prejudice standards which were set long before her appearance here.
With a curious nature, I watched her at a safe distance, not to arouse any suspicion with my wonder. I thought, in a loving odd way, we would have a bond unlike anyone else here. Bracing up against the school's brick, cool shaded side at recess, I watched her selectively pick dandelions. I had not been witness tosuch warmth and love from any of my peers. Others would just trample over nature’s yellow bouquets. Her touch was calm and gentle, placing selective ones in a notebook kept close by her side. She treated those weeds as if they were especially grown for her, extending remarkable regard and more, as though this playground was her very own sanctuary. She didn't seem to mind being a shadow in the presence of our classmates. She looked so content; even as she walked alone on her way home each and every day. No one ever came for her.
The end of her first week had come, that's when it happened. The pack of kids that usually spend their time tormenting the weaker kids, hate was all they had to offer, twirling their malignant venom on this gentle girl. The second-hand tattered rags that draped her body became the center of their torturing. Each blow made them merry with delight, scintillating their already repugnant manner. Filing out of school, they surrounded her, like ravenous wolves, taunting her into a submission of tears. Walking briskly, she kept her head high above the verbal blows as if she were accustomed tothem. These kids, the children of God, were now saying things that only God could forgive. That's when the darkest side of these flesh-like monsters came forth. One of them shamelessly yelled, "Get a wig on that head." Laughter spawned from their cruel mouths. This quiet girl broke through the chain of hands that caged her, running as fast and as far as her fragile legs would carry her.
There I stood beyond the crowd, watching. Watching her run to safety. My mother warned me of this day, hoping I would never know what it was like to be the other children."When the hurting stops, then you have stopped feeling," she would say. The heartless truth is, while I stood watching them attack her from a safe distance, I was ashamed of myself, small and ill-equipped to do anything. All their burning words and killing laughter echoed in my head. Closing my eyes would not hide the hate those monsters put on her. I would tell you I’m so unremarkable as a person and I would give anything to have that day back to rewrite it’s ending for the girl I almost knew.
As Robin vanished in the distance, so did her attackers, marching away like heroes, as if they had done something grand. I stood and watched it all, and for nothing but tasteless whisper. There in belly of the beast, it was me who was far more contemptible than any of my classmates because of my very own, still voice, a killer of notable power.
That night in bed, I lie awake ashamed of what I had done and not done, replaying what had happened in my mind. I prayed into night for her emancipation from the world’s hatred. I wanted to save her, repeatedly rescuing her from all the harm that had ever wounded her.
When dawn unfolded into my room, I had made a thousand rescues, and I would keep dreaming until it became true. The truth was I had been a coward then and if I was merely doing this to cope with the cowardliness then I had learned nothing.
After that day, Robin was never to be seen again, though I was able to fantasize saving her, easing the ill feelings I felt in my mind, feelings my heart could not vanquish nor foster any hope for an end.
She still interrupts my dreams now and then, with tears that cloud my open eyes where my sorrows live.
Robin, I’m so sorry…
Frank G. Caruso
