Comeuppance

Comeuppance
From The Realm of Possibility by David Levithan

She broke my nose. The doctors said she didn’t, that the bruise would go away. But I could tell. It was different than it was before. If I held a photo next to the mirror I didn’t match. Not perfectly.

It hurt. The moment of impact, sure. That tray coming out of nowhere, smashing me in the fact. But that didn’t hurt as much as the moment after. Looking around and seeing how pleased everyone was. How much they enjoyed it, as I bled.

Nobody deserves that. Think I’m a total bitch, whatever. I don’t care. I tell it like it is, and some people can’t deal with that. That’s no reason to make me bleed, and enjoy it. I could see the satisfaction on her face, and on everyone else’s.

It hadn’t been like that before. When Jill stole Roger from right under my nose, at my birthday party—well, I had everybody’s sympathy then. Or when Mr. Cooper tried to attack me in front of the whole class for refusing to read out loud the note he’d caught me writing to Amber—I was cheered for finally putting him in his place.

So this came out of nowhere.

Of course, my friends offered their condolences. Worked themselves into a lather of retribution, then moved on to other things, like facials. (Ooh, sorry, Cara, we know you won’t be able to get one with us, not with that bandage and all.)

I believe in having a code of ethics, and mine was basically: If you jerk me around, the I will jerk you right back, harder. But I found that because that girl had attacked me so openly, my credibility was gone. Nobody would believe a word I said about her, not even an innuendo.

Every day, I called the doctor and begged for him to take the tape off my face. Do you want it misaligned? He asked, and I knew instantly that he’d been unpopular in high school, which was why he’d branded me with this scarlet Loser to walk the halls with. It wasn’t even the kind of bruise guys find brave.

I complained to Amber, told her I didn’t deserve this. After all, I’d only been trying to warn that boy Andy. I remember what her sister had done o his brother. I remember Mike being so sad that he couldn’t understand when I tried to comfort him. I wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t a fact. I had his best interest at heart.

Amber just nodded, told me I was right. I don’t even think she was listening. And while I know I should have been grateful for her unquestioning loyalty—she was simply assuming I was right, after all—it still got to me. I reminded her that I was the one who warned her about Jakob. Sure enough, he cheated on Brenda two weeks later. That would have been you, I reminded her. She sighed, said whatever.

I tried to be a vigilant person. Keeping watch, confronting people with the truth, even if it hurt them. In the long run, it was always better to know. That’s what I believed. The poison cure. Then one day, right after my bandage had come off, I got to English class and found something written on my desk. YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMMISERATE. Other words had been written there, too. But I hadn’t noticed them until this sentence appeared.

I looked around. Who had done this to me? Why would they say that? I wanted to stand up right there and say I am a very commiserating person, thank you very much. But luckily I stopped myself. I realized that the words weren’t meant for me. Just something written on a desk, some jerk venting.

That should have been that. But words stayed with me. When I sat down the next day there was something else: YOU ARE HAPPY EVEN IF YOU ARE AFRAID TO ADMIT IT. And the opposite happened. I realized the words weren’t meant for me, and that struck me just as hard. I took the bottled water out of my bad and tried to wipe the words away. It was no use. No matter how hard I tried, they wouldn’t leave me alone. I saw people looking, wondering why I was attacking my desk with a wet tissue. I stopped.

I knew Amber had English the period before me, so I asked her if she’d seen anything. She said yes, this obnoxious goth girl like to write things all over her desk. Does she know me? I asked, and Amber looked at me like I was out of my mind. I got to English early the next day, and saw who she means. This depressing girl, so far beyond a makeover. I stood there by the door as she left, waiting for some kind of recognition. When she passed by, I was relieved, and a little disappointed.

But there it was on the desk again—YOU ARE FOOLISH IN YOUR UNHAPPINESS. This time I just snapped. Why is she doing this? As I felt my unhappiness collecting in my throat. Why am I doing this? It still hurt to breath sometimes, with a broken nose an all Now it was a different kind of hurt. I felt foolish, yes. Foolish because I felt alone in this. How many times had I told something The truth hurts. Without ever really knowing what it felt like, until that stupid desk.

I switched seats. I tried to block it out. I looked at the boy who took my place, and he didn’t seem fazed. Then the words started to appear other places. Sitting in a stall, doing my business, when suddenly I look up and see YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE. The same handwriting. Waiting for me. I thought of that question—Who do you think you are?—and realized it’s not one you ever get a chance to answer. I tried to answer it, right there in the stall. I am a good friend. I am a truth seeker. I am a bitch. A gossip. Someone who gets hit with a tray in the middle of the cafeteria and gets no sympathy. And I thought If I’m not any of these things, what am I?

I tried to talk to Amber about it, but she said flat out that I shouldn’t let any loser’s graffiti get into my head. They’re all out to get us, she said. And when I asked why, she just sighed and said, Because we’re better, I guess. We have what they want. Two weeks ago, the same words would have come from my mouth. Now they seemed empty. I didn’t feel any better. YOU WEAR TOO MANY MASKS was written over my locker the following day. This time, I had an answer. I though, No, I only wear one. People were starting to talk about the writing. Everyone seemed to think it was about them. A personal attack. The old me had to admire the way this girl had managed to get under everyone’s skin all at once.

Some days it was just one word. PLEASE or ANYTHING. One day it was PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT. What I wanted was everything to go back to when my nose was straight and my behavior unquestioned (at least by me). I saw Andy and that girl who hit me walking the halls together, happy. I saw her balance his books on her head while he looked for something in his locker. I could have knocked them off as I passed. One simple mean reach. But instead I stayed in the background, alone.

I went the long way through school, trying to collect all the phrases. I wondered if the goth girl kept a list. YOU SHOULD NOT WALK AWAY QUITE YET. When I found that one, in a corner outside the auditorium, I sat down and stared. Because what I wanted to walk away from was myself. In fact, I felt I’d already started. I took a bottle of nail polish out of my purse and traced the letters. This sophomore passed by and gave me a strange look. I told him to get lost. Then I dipped the brush again, turned a W red. The smell of the nail polish made me think of Amber and the rest of my friends. I missed them, but in theory. It wasn’t them I missed, but friendship. QUITE YET.

I learned the goth girl’s name when the principal called her down to the office. Charlotte Marshall. The words stopped coming. I didn’t know what to do. I sat at the same lunch table, I went to the same classes. I stopped talking and nobody noticed, not unless there was something spiteful to be said. Amber asked me if I had gone on medication. Liza offered me some of her own. My mother took me shopping. I didn’t know what to do with the four shirts I bough. Well, I knew to wear them. But it all seems park of the mask. Was there anything underneath?

A few days later, I saw Charlotte walking down the hallway. I saw writing on her arm, and before I knew what I was doing, I reached out for her wrist. YOU ARE IMPLICATED, it said. And suddenly I was asking her What do you mean? She looked at me, not knowing. Why are you doing this? She shrugged and I let go of her wrist. I was shocked: she didn’t have any more answers than I did. She just knew how to raise the questions.

That night, I locked myself in the bathroom. I let the water run, stood in front of the mirror. Then I took out the box of Crayola markers I’d had in my desk since I was a little kid. Most of them had dried out, but the green still wrote. I started on the inside of my arms. YOU ARE IMPLICATED. YOU ARE FOOLISH IN YOUR UNHAPPINESS. YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE. YOU WEAR TOO MANY MASKS. I tried her handwriting, but ended up with my own. PROTECT ME and I ran out of room. I turned over m arm FROM WHAT I WANT.

My legs were next. In big letters. YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMMISERATE. YOU ARE UNABLE TO WALK AWAY. YOU HAVE NO ONE. YOU ARE NO ONE. I had forgotten what else she’d written. I was on my own now. YOU ARE FULL OF SPITE. YOU FRIENDS ARE NOT REAL. YOU HAVE PUT YOURSELF IN A CORNER. THERE IS NO ESCAPE.

The steam rising now. I took off my shirt and skirt, stood there in my underwear. BITCH. LIAR. LOSER. UGLY. SAD. I wish I could say it felt good, but it felt horrible. STOP CRYING. STOP IT NOW. YOU WILL GO TO COLLEGE AND EVERYBODY WILL HATE YOU. THIS IS THE TRUTH. DEAL WITH IT.

All of these things had been inside me. Now they were spelled out, upside down so I could read them. Backwards in the mirror. I was ready to put down the pen, give up. But there was something else inside me, too. YOU ARE NOT BEING FAIR, it wrote. YOU CAN BE LOYAL. YOU CAN BE STRONG. YOU ARE SMARK. YOU KNOW HOW THINGS WORK. The words were beginning to overlap. The marker was fading with every new letter. YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO on the bottom of my foot. Then I did something one of the metalheads at school always does. HATE on the knuckles of one hang. LOVE across the other.

I laughed when I saw myself in the mirror. I stared long and hard, so I would remember. Then I slipped into the tub. The water turned green instantly. I drained it out, let new water in. It was so hot I could barely tell the difference between my sweat and the steam. But I got used to it. I looked down at myself and most of the words were still there. I closed my eyes and I remembered what it was like when I was younger. The night before the first day of school, I would stand under the shower and make all kinds of resolutions. I will be more popular. I will get good grades. And I swear I can remember, I will be a better person. At some point I stopped doing this. Maybe I forgot. Or maybe I knew the resolutions never carried over when I got to school.

I WILL BE A BETTER PERSON. I know it’s hard to believe. From me. From the bitch who got pummeled with an orange tray. But I knew—I hadn’t become the worst kind of person yet. I had to believe that. I took down the washcloth and started scouring my skin. Floods of soap. My skin raw under the rub. The words vanishing, the letters erased. Only a green-tinted reminder. A ring around the tub once it emptied. A spot or two on my body that I’d missed. On purpose, for now.

I did not apologize to Elizabeth, but I stopped saying she owed me an apology. I did not ditch my friends. I simply tried to shift the tone a little. It was hard sometimes, not to attack. But I felt some strength in the holding back. YOU WILL BE A BETTER PERSON. I wrote it wherever I could. What’s gotten into you? Amber asked, looking at me seriously for the first time in ages. And I said, It’s actually something that’s gotten out of me. She didn’t understand, and I honestly didn’t expect her to. I have no more idea now of who I am than I did before. But at least I know that. And I’m starting to figure out who I want to be. Whether it was the tray, Charlotte’s words, or something else that caused it to happen, all I can say is this: Being a bitch is easy. It’s finding the alternative that’s hard.