Standing Out

“What are we going to do about Mya? Nothing ever seems to work and we just can’t get answers.”

“We must do the only thing that we can do. We must wait.” Mama’s voice was stern, but something deep inside of her impassive walls cracked. Her bold, stone-like confidence surely couldn’t mask her true concern for her daughter much longer, could it?

I couldn’t help but listen into their private conversation. Lately, they had been conversing secretively behind their bedroom doors. I just had to know what they were talking about.

“These professionals that we take her to don’t ever know how to cure her; they insistently send us away with treatments that do more harm than good. What is it that we are doing wrong?” Papa’s voice broke suddenly and he began to cry. As his sobs intensified, I could hear Mama moving to comfort him. Alarm boiled inside of me like a hot stove top. Papa never cries. To hear him do so meant that something was terribly wrong.

There was a long pause before anyone spoke again. “Maybe we just need to accept her for who she is. Changing her means altering her identity and she is already beautiful on the inside and the outside.” Mama’s words bubbled inside of me. It was astounding to know that someone actually thought that I was beautiful, despite my various shortcomings.

I decided to remove myself from their discussion, however. If I were caught eavesdropping, I would be in serious trouble. I backed away slowly from the door, wincing as the tattered green floorboards beneath me creaked. Concerned that they would suddenly open the door, I scampered away, forgetting my original plan to implement stealth.

Urgent to remain concealed, I hurried up the wooden staircase and opened the door on the left. I entered my room breathing heavily, quickly locking the door.

I was grateful that it was Saturday. I always felt tormented at school, so my home was the one place that I could escape all of the bullying. I pictured Jessabelle in my head and involuntarily shuddered. I felt my hands suddenly move rapidly to do what people call “crab hands.” This hand movement usually occurs when I try to focus. I don’t know why and I don’t enjoy doing it. That’s one thing that Jessie, as she likes to be called, enjoys teasing me about. My counselor always tells me that people bully because they feel insecure about themselves. In my opinion, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Who could possibly be insecure around me?

Relieved to be away from Jessie for two days, I sighed and pulled out my math homework. I was in Fourth Grade, but was put in the Special Needs classroom. It was boring there because they treated you as if you weren’t able to learn, fed you, read nursery tales, and talked to you like a baby. My homework was simple. There were five addition problems and a message at the bottom indicating that your parents inscribe their initials. This way, if the assignment could not be completed, it would be wholeheartedly understood that you tried. Irritated, I quickly wrote the answers and ignored the “parent signature” part of the paper. I tossed it to the side and grunted.

My favorite third grade teacher, Mr. Feifer, refused to put me in the Special Needs classroom. He told me to believe in myself and do my best. He constantly made it clear to me that he had faith in my abilities, so I vowed to never let him down.

I took in a deep breath. It wouldn’t be easy, but maybe living with the agonizing Special Needs classroom would teach me something. Although it gave Jessabelle more power over me, I knew that for Mr. Feifer I needed to rise to the challenge. I must prove to everyone that Mya Anderson should never have been underestimated. My potential must shine through, and to reach my goal, I must not complain. I will embrace the Special Needs classroom until I am moved back into the regular classroom.

With my mind undeniably set, I finished my homework avidly, eager to impress by doing extra work than originally expected. Proud of what I had done, I reached for the math paper I refused to have signed. It won’t do me any good to leave that area blank. Mulling it over, I decided that spite wouldn’t solve anything. I’ll have them sign it when they are done talking.

Feeling a bit more optimistic, I trotted over to my sister’s room. On the way, I couldn’t help but observe the dusty ceiling and the broken floorboards. Ever since my parents started pouring money into helping me, they haven’t had much left to pay for anything else. Their eyes sunken with the lack of sleep and positivity, they would prepare for work each day; Mama cleaned houses and Papa was a cook.

As I shook my head sadly at the thought, my contemplations were suddenly interrupted. I encountered a coldhearted closed door. Behind it, Jeanne was blaring Rap music and probably texting her friends. She was horribly popular and she reminded me of Jessabelle sometimes. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her; it was just that she was always mean to me and had something rude to say. Regardless, I wanted to talk to someone. I knocked hesitantly on her door.

“Go away.” Jeanne’s low growl was threatening.

“Please, let me in!” I begged, almost certain that my efforts were futile. Fear coursed through me as I saw the door slowly open.

Jeanne glared at me silently, despising the grotesque creature that lay before her insensitive eyes. I returned her gaze desperately, searching for any sign of affection to no avail. She opened her mouth slowly as though surprised that her coldness had not turned me away yet. “I told you to go away.” She muttered.

“And I won’t.” I stared at her defiantly.

Jeanne’s voice softened. “Look, Mya. You have to learn sooner or later that some doors are not meant to be opened. You need to learn that some people want to remain behind closed doors.” I opened my mouth, but she continued. “There are people out there waiting for you. You just have to find them. Even the toughest locks are sometimes easier to crack than you think.” I stared at her blankly. When did she get so wise? I knew that she was right, though. Somehow, as much as Jeanne pretended to dislike me, I knew that she was one of those doors that I had to open.