I’m sitting on the desk and she’s maybe two feet away. Her coat’s still on wet, wet from the snow that’s pouring outside by the bucketful. I want to tell her to take it off and stay awhile, but I suppress the urge.
I can tell she’s uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the way she’s clutching her notebook to her chest or the way her fingers creep into her mouth, biting her nails even though she swore she’d break that habit years ago. Her long red hair is hanging in one eye and she makes no attempt to brush it back. This somehow makes her appear even more vulnerable.
Her clear wide eyes are boring into me and I stare right back, momentarily distracted, trying to determine their colour. Green maybe, with a touch of blue. There’s something else there too – maybe grey. If I had to describe the colour of her eyes, the word I’d use would be “sad”. There’s no other way to describe it. Behind those eyes is a secret and I need to find out what it is before it’s too late.
She takes a deep breath and says, “If I told you something, would you promise not to tell my mother?” The words come slowly, hesitantly, but with little emotion, as if they’ve been rehearsed. There’s something there, though, and it takes me a moment to place it – fear.
I know what she’s about to say and I don’t want to hear it. I don’t have the stomach for it, I don’t want to have to admit to myself that these kids do exist, in my own classroom no less. Yet this is something I need to hear. And I know I need to hear it.
I choose my words carefully, not wanting to make any promises I won’t be able to keep. “I can’t promise you that, but I promise that I’ll do whatever’s in your best interest.”
Her face reveals her disdain. “What does that mean?”
I try a different approach. “Why do you want to tell me this?”
She takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye. “Because I need your help.”
I need her to tell me. She’s ready to talk and I’m ready to listen. I encourage her with a gentle, “I think you should tell me now.”
She waits a beat, psyching herself up. Then it all comes out in a rush. “It’s – it’s about my mom. Sometimes – sometimes she and Jordan – my stepfather – hurt me, and – and my brother. I’m worried about him. And I don’t know what to do.”
That has to be the worst. I know how much she loves her brother – she talks about him constantly and you only have to watch them for a moment to tell how much they adore each other. She tries so hard to protect him and I can see it’s breaking her heart that she can’t this time. They’re the only brother-sister pair I know who can spend lunch together and never run out of things to say. Indeed, she’s the only eighth grader I know who isn’t embarrassed to be seen in public with her little brother.
I don’t want to ask, don’t want to put her through this, don’t want her to relive the pain. But I know I have to. “Sweetheart,” I say softly. “How do they hurt you?”
She takes a breath and hugs herself, working up her courage. She tells me in a dull monotone.
“Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me this,” I say quietly.
That’s when she starts to cry.
I go through all the motions, say all the right things. But the second she leaves, I start to cry too. I cry for the pain these children have endured and the ways they’ve found to carry on.
* * *
She keeps coming back.
She’s the only one that still does. The others did a few times for the first couple months, but mostly they’ve moved on.
I knew the transition to high school would be hard for her, but I didn’t realize it would be this hard. She’s fragile and she’s spent the last year relying on me. Now she has no one to rely on.
It’s my fault, I know. I gave her so much, more than I should have. Yet, she needed it. But now she’s had the life boat pulled out from under her and she’s floundering in the ocean without a life jacket, trying desperately to swim but getting pulled farther below with every stroke. She’s hit the ground running and she can’t keep up.
She looks so small, so desolate, leaning against the wall across from my classroom. Her face lights up when she sees me and I notice tears swimming in her eyes as she runs into my arms. Some would say we’re too close, that our relationship is unethical, that she’s come to rely on me too much and this will only hurt her in the long run. I know they’re right but I feel her relax in my arms, the tension in her shoulders abating, and I realize again that I’m all she has. This isn’t a new thought but it makes my heart catch in my throat every time. She’s such a sweet little girl, so innocent, yet there’s a hardened look in her eyes. They’re what I first noticed about her, those eyes. They’re the eyes of someone who’s seen the world in its entirety and knows it’s not a friendly place.
She finally lets go and perches on a desk. She’s comfortable here and I’m glad. “Where were you yesterday?” she asks me.
“I wasn’t feeling too well,” I reply. “Were you here?”
S
She nods.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She shrugs. “It’s okay.” Pausing, she adds, “I missed you.”
I give her a sad smile. “Everyone misses you here.”
She gives me a half-smile back, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. “You do.”
All of a sudden, she looks so young and vulnerable that I reach out and take her hand. “That’s right. I do.”
This time, her smile is real, but a look of longing washes over her face as her eyes water. “I miss it so much!”
I squeeze her hand. “You’ll get used to it. High school is just as good as elementary school – better even. It was the best time of my life.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not the same. They don’t – they don’t know me there. And they don’t want to. And Gavin isn’t there. And you’re not there.”
I know it must be hard for her to be separated from her brother. She spent every recess and lunch hour with him for the last six years. I see him at recess sometimes, sitting against the brick wall with his Nintendo DS. He watches the other kids sometimes, but he never plays with them. I went to talk to him one day last week and he showed me his game, said his sister had got it for him. I asked him how she was doing and he started to cry. “I miss her!” he wailed. “I don’t see her so much – only twice a week. But she’s my sister.”
They’re in different foster homes and only visit on Thursdays and Sundays. I’d known the separation had taken its toll, but I didn’t know exactly how much it was hurting those kids.
“You know, I see Gavin every day,” I tell her, attempting to make her feel better. “He’s doing just fine.”
She gives me a wan smile. “Would you tell me if he wasn’t?”
Good point. “He misses you,” I add. “He says he loves you.”
“I miss him and I love him too.” She pauses. “Tell him for me, okay?”
She gives me one more hug and then she leaves. I watch her go, her footsteps fading as she makes her way down the hallway. I can’t shake the image. She looks so sad, so defeated as she walks away, her red hair swishing from side to side.
Yes, Rhea. I’ll tell him.
I'm a 14 y/o aspiring writer. Is this short story good and how can I improve it?
I can tell she’s uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the way she’s clutching her notebook to her chest or the way her fingers creep into her mouth, biting her nails even though she swore she’d break that habit years ago. Her long red hair is hanging in one eye and she makes no attempt to brush it back. This somehow makes her appear even more vulnerable.
Her clear wide eyes are boring into me and I stare right back, momentarily distracted, trying to determine their colour. Green maybe, with a touch of blue. There’s something else there too – maybe grey. If I had to describe the colour of her eyes, the word I’d use would be “sad”. There’s no other way to describe it. Behind those eyes is a secret and I need to find out what it is before it’s too late.
She takes a deep breath and says, “If I told you something, would you promise not to tell my mother?” The words come slowly, hesitantly, but with little emotion, as if they’ve been rehearsed. There’s something there, though, and it takes me a moment to place it – fear.
I know what she’s about to say and I don’t want to hear it. I don’t have the stomach for it, I don’t want to have to admit to myself that these kids do exist, in my own classroom no less. Yet this is something I need to hear. And I know I need to hear it.
I choose my words carefully, not wanting to make any promises I won’t be able to keep. “I can’t promise you that, but I promise that I’ll do whatever’s in your best interest.”
Her face reveals her disdain. “What does that mean?”
I try a different approach. “Why do you want to tell me this?”
She takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye. “Because I need your help.”
I need her to tell me. She’s ready to talk and I’m ready to listen. I encourage her with a gentle, “I think you should tell me now.”
She waits a beat, psyching herself up. Then it all comes out in a rush. “It’s – it’s about my mom. Sometimes – sometimes she and Jordan – my stepfather – hurt me, and – and my brother. I’m worried about him. And I don’t know what to do.”
That has to be the worst. I know how much she loves her brother – she talks about him constantly and you only have to watch them for a moment to tell how much they adore each other. She tries so hard to protect him and I can see it’s breaking her heart that she can’t this time. They’re the only brother-sister pair I know who can spend lunch together and never run out of things to say. Indeed, she’s the only eighth grader I know who isn’t embarrassed to be seen in public with her little brother.
I don’t want to ask, don’t want to put her through this, don’t want her to relive the pain. But I know I have to. “Sweetheart,” I say softly. “How do they hurt you?”
She takes a breath and hugs herself, working up her courage. She tells me in a dull monotone.
“Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me this,” I say quietly.
That’s when she starts to cry.
I go through all the motions, say all the right things. But the second she leaves, I start to cry too. I cry for the pain these children have endured and the ways they’ve found to carry on.
* * *
She keeps coming back.
She’s the only one that still does. The others did a few times for the first couple months, but mostly they’ve moved on.
I knew the transition to high school would be hard for her, but I didn’t realize it would be this hard. She’s fragile and she’s spent the last year relying on me. Now she has no one to rely on.
It’s my fault, I know. I gave her so much, more than I should have. Yet, she needed it. But now she’s had the life boat pulled out from under her and she’s floundering in the ocean without a life jacket, trying desperately to swim but getting pulled farther below with every stroke. She’s hit the ground running and she can’t keep up.
She looks so small, so desolate, leaning against the wall across from my classroom. Her face lights up when she sees me and I notice tears swimming in her eyes as she runs into my arms. Some would say we’re too close, that our relationship is unethical, that she’s come to rely on me too much and this will only hurt her in the long run. I know they’re right but I feel her relax in my arms, the tension in her shoulders abating, and I realize again that I’m all she has. This isn’t a new thought but it makes my heart catch in my throat every time. She’s such a sweet little girl, so innocent, yet there’s a hardened look in her eyes. They’re what I first noticed about her, those eyes. They’re the eyes of someone who’s seen the world in its entirety and knows it’s not a friendly place.
She finally lets go and perches on a desk. She’s comfortable here and I’m glad. “Where were you yesterday?” she asks me.
“I wasn’t feeling too well,” I reply. “Were you here?”
S
She nods.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She shrugs. “It’s okay.” Pausing, she adds, “I missed you.”
I give her a sad smile. “Everyone misses you here.”
She gives me a half-smile back, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. “You do.”
All of a sudden, she looks so young and vulnerable that I reach out and take her hand. “That’s right. I do.”
This time, her smile is real, but a look of longing washes over her face as her eyes water. “I miss it so much!”
I squeeze her hand. “You’ll get used to it. High school is just as good as elementary school – better even. It was the best time of my life.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not the same. They don’t – they don’t know me there. And they don’t want to. And Gavin isn’t there. And you’re not there.”
I know it must be hard for her to be separated from her brother. She spent every recess and lunch hour with him for the last six years. I see him at recess sometimes, sitting against the brick wall with his Nintendo DS. He watches the other kids sometimes, but he never plays with them. I went to talk to him one day last week and he showed me his game, said his sister had got it for him. I asked him how she was doing and he started to cry. “I miss her!” he wailed. “I don’t see her so much – only twice a week. But she’s my sister.”
They’re in different foster homes and only visit on Thursdays and Sundays. I’d known the separation had taken its toll, but I didn’t know exactly how much it was hurting those kids.
“You know, I see Gavin every day,” I tell her, attempting to make her feel better. “He’s doing just fine.”
She gives me a wan smile. “Would you tell me if he wasn’t?”
Good point. “He misses you,” I add. “He says he loves you.”
“I miss him and I love him too.” She pauses. “Tell him for me, okay?”
She gives me one more hug and then she leaves. I watch her go, her footsteps fading as she makes her way down the hallway. I can’t shake the image. She looks so sad, so defeated as she walks away, her red hair swishing from side to side.
Yes, Rhea. I’ll tell him.
I'm a 14 y/o aspiring writer. Is this short story good and how can I improve it?