The New Husband(43)
His lecture, inspired by his personal experience as a victim of bullying, highlighted choices he made that didn’t stop the harassment, but rather helped immunize him to it, like a vaccine, so he could better cope with the meanness. His story wasn’t exactly groundbreaking—he wore glasses from a young age, some kid thought that was funny, then nobody wanted to be friends with him. The teasing escalated and everything spiraled from there, until by high school he was friendless, depressed, and contemplating suicide. Yeah, no joke.
He gave us a bunch of statistics (these I listened to: one out of seven K–12 students are bullied; 35 percent of students had been bullied online; etc.) and throughout it all I was feeling more and more uncomfortable. I was one of those stats, and everyone in the school knew it, so it felt like I had a spotlight shining on me the entire time George was talking.
At the end of his lecture, which included a few interactive skits about trusting your parents and teachers, George asked if anybody wanted to share a story about bullying with the assembly. He called it an empowerment moment, but nobody came forward. I wished I could have turtled inside my clothes to avoid any of the looks people sent my way, but instead, had to settle for the next best thing, which was looking at my feet.
I waited anxiously, my stomach in knots, for this assembly to be over so we could all get on with our lives. One second of silence became two, and I was sure nobody was going to volunteer to speak. I started gathering my stuff, thinking we were at the point when George was going to call it a day, thank everyone for our time, remind us to be kind to each other, something blah-blah like that, when someone came to the microphone. It was the worst person imaginable. No, not Laura, or even Justin.
It was Simon.
He appeared calm and composed, like he was about to do one of his Revolutionary War performances. As he leaned down to speak into the microphone, he looked right at me.
“I’d like to say something,” he began.
His booming voice, much deeper than George’s, bounced off the concrete walls, which were decorated with felt banners of our division and state wins in different sports.
“That was an incredible lecture and I found it very moving. Thank you, George.”
There was a round of applause led by Simon, who glanced at George with a smile of appreciation, before turning his head to look at me again. I sank lower in my seat, trying to make myself disappear. I tried to guess why Simon was up there, what he might say next, and the possibilities terrified me.
“I have been teaching for many years and I have seen how damaging bullying can be,” he continued.
No … no … no … I was thinking. Please stop! Please stop right now!
“Each year students have come to me with their hurt and their pain. I have seen firsthand the heartache that comes from bullying.”
A murmur rose up from the bleachers, because everyone knew that “firsthand” referred to me.
The noise didn’t die down, and next I heard a little laugh that was loud enough to get Principal Fowler to shush the offender angrily.
“Please take to heart what George said today,” Simon continued, “because your words and actions can cause people a lot of real pain, and can lead to lots of tears and heartbreak. It makes people contemplate things much worse than dropping out of school.”
Oh. My. God. Did he just tell everyone that I’ve been crying all the time? Did he imply to the entire class that I’m suicidal? I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I kept my head down.
“Your words and actions matter,” Simon went on. “Instead of ridiculing others, try being kind. Instead of excluding someone from your lunch table, invite him or her to eat with you. You can make a big difference in a person’s life, but it all starts with a simple act of kindness.”
He didn’t have to say “Maggie Garrity,” because everyone knew I’d been booted (or self-selected out of) my usual lunch table. When I looked up, Simon’s eyes were still locked on me. And that’s when I knew—I knew for a fact this was payback for his precious musket. This was why he had winked at me. This was why he hadn’t supported punishing me when Mom wanted to take my phone. He knew we were having this lecture, and knew he’d have the chance to humiliate me in front of the entire class.
Now everyone was looking at me. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but for sure the whispered talk I heard was about me, and without a doubt the hard poke someone gave me from behind was no accident. I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought I was going to pass out if I stayed a minute longer. My watery eyes made it look like everyone was swimming, but I was the only one drowning.
I got up while Simon was in mid-sentence. I couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore. I couldn’t hear anything over the ocean-like roar in my head. Maneuvering as gracefully as one could in a stupid protective boot, I worked my way down rows of bleachers, not bothering with apologies to the people I pushed and shoved on my way to the gym floor. Everyone, Principal Fowler included, watched my escape.
I didn’t ask permission to leave the assembly, I simply left, dashing through the metal exit doors as fast as my hobbled leg could carry me.
I took refuge in the girls’ bathroom, locked inside a stall, blubbering like I was eight again. Eventually I ran out of tears, but I was still shaking. What were people saying about me? How would I face them again? Okay, don’t panic, I told myself. But I was panicking, my mind going a million miles an hour. Should I run away? Could I make it to Nebraska with what I have in my savings account? I don’t know how long I was in that stall, but it was long enough for the assembly to end. The quiet erupted into chaos as kids filled the halls and more than a few ended up in the bathroom with me.