Andrew Franks's Blog: Ninja Notes
July 18, 2020
Ninja Notes: Read the first chapter of Fat Whack book 3!
THE MIND OF A CHILD
A long time ago…
The playground was full of innocent children talking about things that all kids talk about.
“I’m sliding face-first down the tallest slide. Here’s the thing though: the slide is covered with rusty razor blades.”
The seven-year-old boy stood on top of an old wooden picnic table. He was taking quite a risk standing on the weathered wood. Jagged splinters threatened to jab into and pop the balloons of compressed gas in his expensive pump-up tennis shoes. If that happened, how would he live without the additional comfort and support his pump-up shoes provided? Accepting the risk he went on with his story.
“At the bottom of the slide I land hard on my belly in a pit of salt. The salt enters my open skin. The wounds burn. I bleed out. That’s how I’m gonna die.”
The story was over. His imaginary death was a good one, he was sure of it. Also, he had projected his voice, like he had learned to do in theater class. He was sure the cheers and his peers’ adoration would come any second. Instead, the playground was silent. A child towards the front of the crowd actually yawned. The boy on top of the table panicked and blurted out, “Also… I’m naked.”
“Ewww!” Cried every adolescent in the crowd.
A few of them even held their stomachs and bent over, playacting at throwing up.
Kyle jumped off of the table. The air bubbles in his expensive shoes made it seem as if the three-foot descent was only about two and a half feet. The sneakers were worth every penny.
The next kid who wanted a moment in the spotlight climbed up onto the table.
“That’s nothing!” the girl said with a wave of her petite hand. Her classmates gazed up at her, wondering if she could concoct a death scene that would top nudity and razor blades. Every pair of eyes turned to her as her story began.
“I’m lying down on my back in the middle of the road. The sun is out, and the asphalt is hot. I don’t know what happened to me, but I’m paralyzed. I was probably hit by a car. Vehicles are zooming past me on both sides. I flinch—as much as a paralyzed person can flinch—at the passing of every car. Surprisingly, none of them run me over. I hear a siren, and relief floods my mind. Someone must have called an ambulance. I look up, and instead of an ambulance I see a steamroller slowly rolling towards me. The devil himself is driving it. I cry for help, but no one comes. There are plenty of people who could help. As a matter of fact, all of you are there, standing on the side of the road, just watching.”
The crowd of children stood frozen in place, captivated by the story. The girl went on.
“Even though I’m the only one who’s paralyzed, none of you move a muscle.” She said this sentence as loud as she could and pointed at her classmates with an expression of disgust. “You all just watch as the steamroller crushes me. It rolls over my feet first. I can feel my ten toes snap backwards and break like Kit Kat bars. I scream out in agony, but I don’t move, because I can’t. The machine slowly rolls up my legs. I look down just in time to see my knees pop like water balloons filled with blood. Next, my hips are crushed. Then my belly becomes as flat as a pancake. Even after all of this, I’m still alive. There’s a tremendous pressure inside my head, probably because all my guts have been squished up from my lower body into my upper body. I notice that my boobs are swollen and enormous. Weirdly, I forget about the pain for just a moment and I smile. They look good. I come back to my tortured senses when the top of my head cracks opens from the pressure. Blood and brains explode out of the top of my skull like pus from a zit. Squishy bits of brain, tangles of my hair, and blood decorate the asphalt. I’m dead now, thankfully, but the steamroller keeps rolling. It finishes its job when it flattens my face. As the devil drives away, you all run out to look at the grease spot on the road that used to be me. Somehow, my eyeballs are still there, perfectly preserved. They look at you with a hate-filled glare.”
The playground was quieter than it had ever been. Every child looked at Kylie with their mouths hanging wide open. They were stunned.
“Good job, Kylie!” someone finally yelled out. “That was the best one ever! Kylie is queen of the death scene!”
Now the playground became louder than it had ever been, full of the cheers of impressed kids who loved nothing more than to be shocked and entertained.
The cheering made Kyle furious. Wanting to get their attention off of Kylie and back onto him, he blurted out, “And she was naked!”
A few kids laughed.
“Who’s next?” he asked, pleased with himself.
A chubby boy with dark black hair and milky-white skin was trying to hide in the shadows beside the swing set. The shaded area was created by a large tree that was so close to the swing-set that all the kids tried to swing high and kick its branches. That’s something this fat boy had never attempted. He never wanted to be the center of attention. He never wanted to be noticed at all. The very thought of standing on a table in front of his classmates made him sick. The collar of his plaid flannel shirt was already soaked with sweat, and the top button was straining to pop free.
“Hey, what about sweaty shirt?” Kyle yelled.
“N-n-no thanks,” the boy said. “And my name is John-John.”
“Hear that?” Kyle said as he walked over and stood in John-John’s personal space. He looked him in the eyes. “Old John-John here is so fat-fat that he needs two names.”
Kids laughed. The boy grabbed a fistful of John-John’s shirt.
“Get up on that table,” he commanded as he dragged the obese boy towards it.
John-John tried to pull himself away, but Kyle’s grip was too strong.
“Sweaty shirt! Sweaty shirt!” the kids chanted as John-John clumsily climbed up onto the picnic table.
“Gross!” someone proclaimed. “I just saw sweaty shirt’s butt crack!”
John-John’s chubby white cheeks became as red as two candied apples. Quickly, he grabbed the back of his pants and pulled them up. Then he just stood there, looking out at a sea of unfriendly faces, still holding onto the back of his pants.
“Well? What are you waiting for, sweaty shirt?” Kyle yelled. “How are you gonna die?”
John-John looked down and shoved his hands into his pants pockets as far as they would go. To say that he was embarrassed would be an understatement. He was sure the whole class had seen his butt crack. Also, he was pretty certain his shirt had become unbuttoned. He felt a light breeze brush against one of his nipples. He was worried that it was showing, but he didn’t want to check and bring attention to it.
“Look! His nipple looks like a fat pepperoni!” someone yelled.
Now John-John was positive his nipple was showing. Everyone giggled—everyone except the girl standing beside him on the table, having never left. He tried to climb down, but the mean kids blocked his path.
“No way. You ain’t coming down until you tell us how you're gonna die, fat boy.”
I’m gonna die of embarrassment, John-John thought. He looked around at the faces of all the kids who were supposed to be his friends. He hated them. They could all go to Hell as far as he was concerned—and according to his mom, they all would. His dad had died last year, when John-John was six. His dad had been awesome. The only thing that made his father’s passing bearable was the fact that his mom had promised that he would see him again one day—in Heaven. If Heaven was real, that meant Hell was real—didn’t it? If Hell was real, then these kids definitely deserved to go there when they died. The problem was they weren’t dead yet, and they weren’t going to let him get off of this pedestal of embarrassment until he made up a story.
John-John became startled when Kylie began whispering into his ear. Her breath was hot, and her lip grazed his earlobe.
“It’s not that big a deal,” she said. “Just make something up.”
John-John turned to look at her. She was pretty. Her hair was blonde, and she always let it hang loose. He couldn’t remember her ever putting it up in a ponytail or anything. She smiled at him. Wow. He had been mistaken: she wasn’t pretty—she was beautiful. He had never been this close to her before. She had a small black bruise around her eye. Has she been in a fight? he wondered.
“It’s okay,” Kylie said as she patted him on the back. “They’re all idiots. They like poop jokes and they like to be shocked. Say something disgusting and they’ll just cheer. You’ll be back hiding in the shadows before you know it.”
“O-okay,” he told her. Then he looked out at his audience. He cleared his throat. “I’m gonna die of… I’ll die of… umm… rectal cancer.”
The children erupted with laughter. Kylie’s plan had worked.
“Hell, yeah! John-John!” Kyle exclaimed over the continuous laughter. He climbed up onto the picnic table and all but pushed Kylie off of it. John-John glanced to see if she was okay, but she had already disappeared. Kyle patted the obese boy on the back, hard. He lifted one of John-John’s hands high into the air as if he was the champion of a boxing match.
“The new imaginary death scene champion is… John-John!”
Everyone cheered and clapped. From the shade of the big tree, Kylie clapped as well. There was a smile on her face.
“John-John! John-John! John-John!”
The chanting made the big boy smile. For the first time ever, it felt good being the center of attention. He stood on his picnic-table stage and waved at the crowd. He felt alive.
“You’re the man, John-John,” Kyle told him.
John-John knew that Kyle didn’t really mean it. He turned towards the bully and said, “It’s just John from now on.”
The bully looked shocked.
Then John added, “By the way, Kyle… you suck.
John hoped off the table with a little more confidence than he was used to having. It felt good. He decided he would like to keep it.
Fat Whack: Fatten Your Seatbelts -- Coming soon!
A long time ago…
The playground was full of innocent children talking about things that all kids talk about.
“I’m sliding face-first down the tallest slide. Here’s the thing though: the slide is covered with rusty razor blades.”
The seven-year-old boy stood on top of an old wooden picnic table. He was taking quite a risk standing on the weathered wood. Jagged splinters threatened to jab into and pop the balloons of compressed gas in his expensive pump-up tennis shoes. If that happened, how would he live without the additional comfort and support his pump-up shoes provided? Accepting the risk he went on with his story.
“At the bottom of the slide I land hard on my belly in a pit of salt. The salt enters my open skin. The wounds burn. I bleed out. That’s how I’m gonna die.”
The story was over. His imaginary death was a good one, he was sure of it. Also, he had projected his voice, like he had learned to do in theater class. He was sure the cheers and his peers’ adoration would come any second. Instead, the playground was silent. A child towards the front of the crowd actually yawned. The boy on top of the table panicked and blurted out, “Also… I’m naked.”
“Ewww!” Cried every adolescent in the crowd.
A few of them even held their stomachs and bent over, playacting at throwing up.
Kyle jumped off of the table. The air bubbles in his expensive shoes made it seem as if the three-foot descent was only about two and a half feet. The sneakers were worth every penny.
The next kid who wanted a moment in the spotlight climbed up onto the table.
“That’s nothing!” the girl said with a wave of her petite hand. Her classmates gazed up at her, wondering if she could concoct a death scene that would top nudity and razor blades. Every pair of eyes turned to her as her story began.
“I’m lying down on my back in the middle of the road. The sun is out, and the asphalt is hot. I don’t know what happened to me, but I’m paralyzed. I was probably hit by a car. Vehicles are zooming past me on both sides. I flinch—as much as a paralyzed person can flinch—at the passing of every car. Surprisingly, none of them run me over. I hear a siren, and relief floods my mind. Someone must have called an ambulance. I look up, and instead of an ambulance I see a steamroller slowly rolling towards me. The devil himself is driving it. I cry for help, but no one comes. There are plenty of people who could help. As a matter of fact, all of you are there, standing on the side of the road, just watching.”
The crowd of children stood frozen in place, captivated by the story. The girl went on.
“Even though I’m the only one who’s paralyzed, none of you move a muscle.” She said this sentence as loud as she could and pointed at her classmates with an expression of disgust. “You all just watch as the steamroller crushes me. It rolls over my feet first. I can feel my ten toes snap backwards and break like Kit Kat bars. I scream out in agony, but I don’t move, because I can’t. The machine slowly rolls up my legs. I look down just in time to see my knees pop like water balloons filled with blood. Next, my hips are crushed. Then my belly becomes as flat as a pancake. Even after all of this, I’m still alive. There’s a tremendous pressure inside my head, probably because all my guts have been squished up from my lower body into my upper body. I notice that my boobs are swollen and enormous. Weirdly, I forget about the pain for just a moment and I smile. They look good. I come back to my tortured senses when the top of my head cracks opens from the pressure. Blood and brains explode out of the top of my skull like pus from a zit. Squishy bits of brain, tangles of my hair, and blood decorate the asphalt. I’m dead now, thankfully, but the steamroller keeps rolling. It finishes its job when it flattens my face. As the devil drives away, you all run out to look at the grease spot on the road that used to be me. Somehow, my eyeballs are still there, perfectly preserved. They look at you with a hate-filled glare.”
The playground was quieter than it had ever been. Every child looked at Kylie with their mouths hanging wide open. They were stunned.
“Good job, Kylie!” someone finally yelled out. “That was the best one ever! Kylie is queen of the death scene!”
Now the playground became louder than it had ever been, full of the cheers of impressed kids who loved nothing more than to be shocked and entertained.
The cheering made Kyle furious. Wanting to get their attention off of Kylie and back onto him, he blurted out, “And she was naked!”
A few kids laughed.
“Who’s next?” he asked, pleased with himself.
A chubby boy with dark black hair and milky-white skin was trying to hide in the shadows beside the swing set. The shaded area was created by a large tree that was so close to the swing-set that all the kids tried to swing high and kick its branches. That’s something this fat boy had never attempted. He never wanted to be the center of attention. He never wanted to be noticed at all. The very thought of standing on a table in front of his classmates made him sick. The collar of his plaid flannel shirt was already soaked with sweat, and the top button was straining to pop free.
“Hey, what about sweaty shirt?” Kyle yelled.
“N-n-no thanks,” the boy said. “And my name is John-John.”
“Hear that?” Kyle said as he walked over and stood in John-John’s personal space. He looked him in the eyes. “Old John-John here is so fat-fat that he needs two names.”
Kids laughed. The boy grabbed a fistful of John-John’s shirt.
“Get up on that table,” he commanded as he dragged the obese boy towards it.
John-John tried to pull himself away, but Kyle’s grip was too strong.
“Sweaty shirt! Sweaty shirt!” the kids chanted as John-John clumsily climbed up onto the picnic table.
“Gross!” someone proclaimed. “I just saw sweaty shirt’s butt crack!”
John-John’s chubby white cheeks became as red as two candied apples. Quickly, he grabbed the back of his pants and pulled them up. Then he just stood there, looking out at a sea of unfriendly faces, still holding onto the back of his pants.
“Well? What are you waiting for, sweaty shirt?” Kyle yelled. “How are you gonna die?”
John-John looked down and shoved his hands into his pants pockets as far as they would go. To say that he was embarrassed would be an understatement. He was sure the whole class had seen his butt crack. Also, he was pretty certain his shirt had become unbuttoned. He felt a light breeze brush against one of his nipples. He was worried that it was showing, but he didn’t want to check and bring attention to it.
“Look! His nipple looks like a fat pepperoni!” someone yelled.
Now John-John was positive his nipple was showing. Everyone giggled—everyone except the girl standing beside him on the table, having never left. He tried to climb down, but the mean kids blocked his path.
“No way. You ain’t coming down until you tell us how you're gonna die, fat boy.”
I’m gonna die of embarrassment, John-John thought. He looked around at the faces of all the kids who were supposed to be his friends. He hated them. They could all go to Hell as far as he was concerned—and according to his mom, they all would. His dad had died last year, when John-John was six. His dad had been awesome. The only thing that made his father’s passing bearable was the fact that his mom had promised that he would see him again one day—in Heaven. If Heaven was real, that meant Hell was real—didn’t it? If Hell was real, then these kids definitely deserved to go there when they died. The problem was they weren’t dead yet, and they weren’t going to let him get off of this pedestal of embarrassment until he made up a story.
John-John became startled when Kylie began whispering into his ear. Her breath was hot, and her lip grazed his earlobe.
“It’s not that big a deal,” she said. “Just make something up.”
John-John turned to look at her. She was pretty. Her hair was blonde, and she always let it hang loose. He couldn’t remember her ever putting it up in a ponytail or anything. She smiled at him. Wow. He had been mistaken: she wasn’t pretty—she was beautiful. He had never been this close to her before. She had a small black bruise around her eye. Has she been in a fight? he wondered.
“It’s okay,” Kylie said as she patted him on the back. “They’re all idiots. They like poop jokes and they like to be shocked. Say something disgusting and they’ll just cheer. You’ll be back hiding in the shadows before you know it.”
“O-okay,” he told her. Then he looked out at his audience. He cleared his throat. “I’m gonna die of… I’ll die of… umm… rectal cancer.”
The children erupted with laughter. Kylie’s plan had worked.
“Hell, yeah! John-John!” Kyle exclaimed over the continuous laughter. He climbed up onto the picnic table and all but pushed Kylie off of it. John-John glanced to see if she was okay, but she had already disappeared. Kyle patted the obese boy on the back, hard. He lifted one of John-John’s hands high into the air as if he was the champion of a boxing match.
“The new imaginary death scene champion is… John-John!”
Everyone cheered and clapped. From the shade of the big tree, Kylie clapped as well. There was a smile on her face.
“John-John! John-John! John-John!”
The chanting made the big boy smile. For the first time ever, it felt good being the center of attention. He stood on his picnic-table stage and waved at the crowd. He felt alive.
“You’re the man, John-John,” Kyle told him.
John-John knew that Kyle didn’t really mean it. He turned towards the bully and said, “It’s just John from now on.”
The bully looked shocked.
Then John added, “By the way, Kyle… you suck.
John hoped off the table with a little more confidence than he was used to having. It felt good. He decided he would like to keep it.
Fat Whack: Fatten Your Seatbelts -- Coming soon!
July 8, 2020
Ninja Notes: Don't be a bully
Welcome to Ninja Notes.
If you've read my first book then the name of this blog makes sense...somewhat. By the way, this is the first blog I've ever done so I really am flying by the seat of my pants here--please bear with me. Because this is my Goodreads author account I would love to talk about my writing obviously, but I will also talk about fun nerdy stuff because I'm a tattooed nerd and damn proud of it. However, I felt like starting off on a serious note. There is an abundance of problems in the world. A good person doesn't need to look far to find a cause worth standing up for. I have many causes that weigh heavily upon my heart and I do my best to make a positive difference. Today I wanna write about bullying.
I was never a bully, nor was I ever bullied. For the most part I was kind to everyone. That doesn't mean I never witnessed it. Also, even though I wasn't a bully, there was once in my life that I bullied (and or didn't stand up to my friends that were bullying) someone for a short period of time. I am ashamed to admit it. Thankfully, I realized the error of my ways just in time.
The following short story is a paper I wrote when I was in school. In it, I talk very candidly about the error of my ways. I've been out of school for a long time so this paper is old. I haven't doctored or changed it in any way since it was originally written. I did change the name of the person I bullied. By the way, I attended a christian high school in Alabama. Because of this the story has a good bit of religious references. Even if you are not a religious person, I do believe this story will move you.
A LETTER FROM THE GRAVE
A funeral is not the ideal way to kick off a new year. Yet, here I sit helplessly fighting back the water that pools under my eyelids. An ocean wave of anger envelopes me as I hear my classmate’s sobs grow louder than the preachers condolences. They hated her. They never missed an opportunity to make fun of her and bully her. Now they are here wailing as if it was their own mother that had passed. Suddenly the hypocrisy of my anger slaps me in my tear stained cheek. Only a month ago, I was the leader of the pack and its worst offender. But things had changed, hadn't they?
After she was in the ground my friends and I drove home in a silence that was not unlike the high pitched nothing you hear after a bomb goes off. I drove without awareness until I parked in my driveway. I couldn't bring myself to go inside. For some reason the mailbox called to me. Its very structure reminded me of a casket or the mouth of a tomb. As I rolled the stone of the tomb away I observed only one letter resting inside. The envelope read, “To Andrew, From Darcy.” I had just received a letter from a dead girl.
Have you ever seen one of those American Girl Dolls? Built to look like a bona fide southern belle from a different time in history they are equal parts cute and creepy. Darcy looked like one of those dolls with extra stuffing. More predominant than her looks was her personality, she always had to be the center of attention. She was like an American Idol contestant that's so bad you can’t help but laugh. Her attempts to gain our attention were only a catalyst for mockery…and we at Kingrock Christian school were masters of mockery, in-spite of our namesake.
It was the first week of December and the Christmas season was upon us. Darcy had already endured roughly four months of name calling and sitting at the younger classes table for lunch. As anyone knows it is customary to give gifts during the holidays and Darcy is about to give us a gift. The gift is her self-respect on a silver platter. She accomplishes this by coming to school on crutches along with the claim that she broke her leg in a car accident. She bolsters her lie by wrapping her knee with flesh colored bandages. Then with a flair that was truly her own style, she glued two Frankenstein type bolts to either side of her knee and poured copious amounts of fake blood on them. This rare opportunity was too good to pass up. So, like a pack of hungry wolves we swarmed. My best friend pushed her down into a tuft of snow and I stole her crutches. We left her on the ground in front of the building, forcing her to get up and walk into school without her crutches and therefore revealing herself as a liar. With tears in her eyes she did just that.
Being a Christian school we were forced to attend chapel once a month after homeroom. Walking past the scene of the crime, I could still see her imprint in the snow like a fallen snow angel. Inside the sanctuary the preacher droned on as usual. I ignored him as usual. He shouted, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you!” I had heard this before but this time the words cut me as if they were a double-edged sword. A veil was lifted and revelation set in. If the word Christian meant “Christ- like”, and we were a Christian school, then we sure didn’t act like it. So, much like the Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge, I had an instant change of heart. I asked Darcy for her forgiveness as soon as chapel was over. I told her that I was determined to make this last week before winter break her best week of school ever. She sat at the cool kids lunch table everyday and I even broke her off a piece of my Kit-Kat Bar. There was no more name calling and if there was such a thing as “reindeer games” this Christmas she would have been invited to play, and even picked first if I had anything to do with it. I hugged her, wished her a Merry Christmas, and we parted ways for the break with feelings of jocularity.
In the nick of time is a phrase that would soon be stuck in my head. Sitting in homeroom on the first day back after break, Darcy’s desk was empty. I was probably the only one that had noticed or wondered why. An ominous feeling weighed heavy on me as our teacher walked in with a somber expression.
“Your classmate Darcy has died” she stated as a matter of fact, “she died of a brain aneurysm and the funeral is tomorrow.” That was all I heard.
This is not how I wanted to start off my year, yet here I stand, in shock and awe holding a letter from a girl I just saw put six feet under the ground. Should I read it? All I could remember were the sins I had committed and the tears she had cried because of them. With hands shaking and a voice that matched, I read aloud: “Thank-you for being nice to me. I told God you’re my friend. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”
- Darcy
A most potent mixture of happiness and sadness worked its way through me. That letter was such a blessing, but it could have just as easily been a curse if I hadn't changed my ways. So my question to you is, If you received a letter from a dead person, what would it say?
This was one of those moments in my life that forced me to grow up. I actually read this in class and many students and a teacher were moved to tears. I knew then that writing could be powerful and cause positive change, even when written by a high school novice.
I will always stand up for those that are smaller or different. If you are in school, please be kind. If you have kids in school, please teach them to be kind. Thanks for reading!
If you've read my first book then the name of this blog makes sense...somewhat. By the way, this is the first blog I've ever done so I really am flying by the seat of my pants here--please bear with me. Because this is my Goodreads author account I would love to talk about my writing obviously, but I will also talk about fun nerdy stuff because I'm a tattooed nerd and damn proud of it. However, I felt like starting off on a serious note. There is an abundance of problems in the world. A good person doesn't need to look far to find a cause worth standing up for. I have many causes that weigh heavily upon my heart and I do my best to make a positive difference. Today I wanna write about bullying.
I was never a bully, nor was I ever bullied. For the most part I was kind to everyone. That doesn't mean I never witnessed it. Also, even though I wasn't a bully, there was once in my life that I bullied (and or didn't stand up to my friends that were bullying) someone for a short period of time. I am ashamed to admit it. Thankfully, I realized the error of my ways just in time.
The following short story is a paper I wrote when I was in school. In it, I talk very candidly about the error of my ways. I've been out of school for a long time so this paper is old. I haven't doctored or changed it in any way since it was originally written. I did change the name of the person I bullied. By the way, I attended a christian high school in Alabama. Because of this the story has a good bit of religious references. Even if you are not a religious person, I do believe this story will move you.
A LETTER FROM THE GRAVE
A funeral is not the ideal way to kick off a new year. Yet, here I sit helplessly fighting back the water that pools under my eyelids. An ocean wave of anger envelopes me as I hear my classmate’s sobs grow louder than the preachers condolences. They hated her. They never missed an opportunity to make fun of her and bully her. Now they are here wailing as if it was their own mother that had passed. Suddenly the hypocrisy of my anger slaps me in my tear stained cheek. Only a month ago, I was the leader of the pack and its worst offender. But things had changed, hadn't they?
After she was in the ground my friends and I drove home in a silence that was not unlike the high pitched nothing you hear after a bomb goes off. I drove without awareness until I parked in my driveway. I couldn't bring myself to go inside. For some reason the mailbox called to me. Its very structure reminded me of a casket or the mouth of a tomb. As I rolled the stone of the tomb away I observed only one letter resting inside. The envelope read, “To Andrew, From Darcy.” I had just received a letter from a dead girl.
Have you ever seen one of those American Girl Dolls? Built to look like a bona fide southern belle from a different time in history they are equal parts cute and creepy. Darcy looked like one of those dolls with extra stuffing. More predominant than her looks was her personality, she always had to be the center of attention. She was like an American Idol contestant that's so bad you can’t help but laugh. Her attempts to gain our attention were only a catalyst for mockery…and we at Kingrock Christian school were masters of mockery, in-spite of our namesake.
It was the first week of December and the Christmas season was upon us. Darcy had already endured roughly four months of name calling and sitting at the younger classes table for lunch. As anyone knows it is customary to give gifts during the holidays and Darcy is about to give us a gift. The gift is her self-respect on a silver platter. She accomplishes this by coming to school on crutches along with the claim that she broke her leg in a car accident. She bolsters her lie by wrapping her knee with flesh colored bandages. Then with a flair that was truly her own style, she glued two Frankenstein type bolts to either side of her knee and poured copious amounts of fake blood on them. This rare opportunity was too good to pass up. So, like a pack of hungry wolves we swarmed. My best friend pushed her down into a tuft of snow and I stole her crutches. We left her on the ground in front of the building, forcing her to get up and walk into school without her crutches and therefore revealing herself as a liar. With tears in her eyes she did just that.
Being a Christian school we were forced to attend chapel once a month after homeroom. Walking past the scene of the crime, I could still see her imprint in the snow like a fallen snow angel. Inside the sanctuary the preacher droned on as usual. I ignored him as usual. He shouted, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you!” I had heard this before but this time the words cut me as if they were a double-edged sword. A veil was lifted and revelation set in. If the word Christian meant “Christ- like”, and we were a Christian school, then we sure didn’t act like it. So, much like the Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge, I had an instant change of heart. I asked Darcy for her forgiveness as soon as chapel was over. I told her that I was determined to make this last week before winter break her best week of school ever. She sat at the cool kids lunch table everyday and I even broke her off a piece of my Kit-Kat Bar. There was no more name calling and if there was such a thing as “reindeer games” this Christmas she would have been invited to play, and even picked first if I had anything to do with it. I hugged her, wished her a Merry Christmas, and we parted ways for the break with feelings of jocularity.
In the nick of time is a phrase that would soon be stuck in my head. Sitting in homeroom on the first day back after break, Darcy’s desk was empty. I was probably the only one that had noticed or wondered why. An ominous feeling weighed heavy on me as our teacher walked in with a somber expression.
“Your classmate Darcy has died” she stated as a matter of fact, “she died of a brain aneurysm and the funeral is tomorrow.” That was all I heard.
This is not how I wanted to start off my year, yet here I stand, in shock and awe holding a letter from a girl I just saw put six feet under the ground. Should I read it? All I could remember were the sins I had committed and the tears she had cried because of them. With hands shaking and a voice that matched, I read aloud: “Thank-you for being nice to me. I told God you’re my friend. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”
- Darcy
A most potent mixture of happiness and sadness worked its way through me. That letter was such a blessing, but it could have just as easily been a curse if I hadn't changed my ways. So my question to you is, If you received a letter from a dead person, what would it say?
This was one of those moments in my life that forced me to grow up. I actually read this in class and many students and a teacher were moved to tears. I knew then that writing could be powerful and cause positive change, even when written by a high school novice.
I will always stand up for those that are smaller or different. If you are in school, please be kind. If you have kids in school, please teach them to be kind. Thanks for reading!
