West of Lake Michigan—Part III

I had my story for show-and–tell. It was a blockbuster, too, so I rose early to make sure my appearance was good, since all eyes would be upon me. Hair combed, teeth brushed, but not much I could do about my itchy, navy wool skirt and button down white blouse. The uniform was hard to work with when I wanted to wear pink chiffon every day, but no, it wasn’t allowed.

At school, in the my third grade class room, sitting in my back of the room, last-person- in- the-aisle desk, I waited patiently, listening to all the pathetic stories about teddy bears and how a cop ticketed someone’s dad for running a red light. All the normal, run of the mill type yawners I heard last week. Finally, it was my turn. I rose from my desk, squared my skinny shoulders and walked to the front of the room where I looked face-to-face. Eye contact is most important for holding and maintaining attention. I took a breath of stale classroom air and quickly spilled the story.

Looks of horror crossed the faces of not only the very popular but the quite smart and my stoic-faced teacher, too. It was so hard not to smile. I wanted to smile, but thought my dad being hurt and going to the hospital wasn’t an appropriate time to show happiness. I wasn’t happy about my dad, I was sad. Very, very sad. What did make me happy was that I had delivered an amazing story, making me the buzz word in the cafeteria at lunch. Maybe Jessica* (not her real name) would even allow me sit across the table from her when I eat my usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich, without potato chips (Mother thinks potato chips aren’t healthy—she keeps forgetting that taste matters).

I think my social standing at the private school raised me up one notch to the third most unpopular girl in my class. I had expectations for so much more, but Jessica sitting at the table behind me, instead of with me, might have had something to do with it. Just like real-estate, location is essential.

When I got home, a friend from down the street Janice* (it is her real name), came over to play Barbies. I was actually holding out for Monica to get home so we could play Barbie's, but I let Janice talk to me on the front porch until then. I couldn’t help but say the words, “I was so worried about my mother and my dad all day.”

“Why?”
“Don’t get me started.”
“Tell me.”
“Okay.”

And the same show-and-tell story fell from my lips. Janice couldn’t help if she went to public instead of private and I do believe in equal opportunity for all. And total disclosure. But there is where I went totally wrong. Janice’s dad was a Chicago policeman.

By the time I went to bed that night, I had this uneasy feeling I might have told the story one time too many.