I am ten years old. I make a club with four other girls. I am small and skinny with a short, bowl haircut, buck teeth, a flat chest, and bony knees. They are tall, long-haired beauties. There are rules: we must play together and only together at recess. We must wear a brand of sweatpants called Cotton Ginny but they must not be the same color as anyone else’s in the group. This morning, Natasha breaks the rules.
“She came to school in the same color sweatpants as Sarah. Twice,” Ria says accusingly.
“I’m sure she did it on purpose, just so Sarah couldn’t wear hers,” Carrie adds.
I look down at the painted hopscotch lines on the pavement and throw my rock, then hop quickly from square to square, being careful not to step on the lines. I don’t say anything. Fear’s voice is loud in my head, “If you speak up, you’ll be kicked out too.” Natasha is my best friend. We have known each other since kindergarten. Most days after school we sit together on her porch swing, eating Ritz crackers with peanut butter and laughing. Being with Natasha feels like being home.
“Let’s vote,” suggests Sarah. “Raise your hand if you think Natasha should be kicked out of the club,” she says, staring right at me. Then she raises her hand. I look at Carrie and Ria. Their hands are high in the air. I don’t remember lifting my arm. I don’t remember agreeing. I just want them to stop looking at me. I must have raised my hand because Sarah smiles.
“There. It’s unanimous,” Sarah says with triumph in her voice.
Natasha is no longer a part of our club. But I am safe. I am still in. She’ll be fine, I tell myself. I walk home from school just a few sidewalks squares behind Natasha. I hear her crying. I want to go to her, tell her I am sorry, make her peanut-butter Ritz crackers to make everything better, but I don’t. I am afraid. I’m with Sarah and Ria and Carrie. I want to belong to the club. Sarah is talking. I have no idea what she is saying. But I throw my head back and laugh loudly anyway. She puts her arm around my shoulder. I know what that means. She approves. I’m safe.
When my mom asks me how school was that day, I don’t tell her how sad I am or how badly I hurt Natasha. I push my feelings down.
I show my mom my perfect score on my spelling test. “Good for you,” she says. Then Dad, who lives across town, comes over to take my brothers and me for the weekend. I overhear my mom tell him about my perfect spelling test and how I beat all the boys in the city track meet. He looks at me proudly. “Is that true?” he asks. I nod. He picks me up and gives me a big bear hug. “I’m so proud of you. You’re my star!” He says. I am Dad’s star. I look at my parents. They are both smiling. I understand something important. Winning track races and earning perfect test scores is the way to make my parents happy. It’s as if I’ve unlocked a secret door. All I have to do is get good grades and run fast; then we’ll all be happy, together.
#
I am eleven. I am staying at Dad’s house for the weekend. I never see Dad just kicking back, the way some fathers do, in front of a Sunday football game on TV. Dad is always in action mode. We grow up on a lake, so sailing is a regular activity on Sundays in the summer. I’m sure we went out on nice, sunny days, but I only remember the slate-gray ones.
One day, when a storm is brewing on the lake, Dad steers the boat toward the darkest patches of water because “that’s where the wind is.” My eyes are glued to the far side of the lake where lightning burns its way from sky to water and the clouds are as black and flat-bottomed as cast-iron skillets. Dad waves happily to the captains steering their boats toward the sheltered harbor, then says to us kids, “Why are they going home when it’s just getting good?” To Dad, the storm is far away, and the lake is big. We can always choose a different heading. What is terrifying to me and those other captains is exciting to him.
So, we watch the lightning the way I imagine other families would watch fireworks, except that they would be safe on their checkered blankets on land, while we float in a tiny boat on a big lake between fierce explosions of thunder.
“Hey kids, isn’t this a great show?”
Our plastic, yellow slicker hoods nod “yes” in the pouring rain.
“Uh oh,” my dad says suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“The halyard is stuck on something…Susie! You’re the lightest. Come scamper up the mast and untangle the lines,” Dad says as if he is saying, “Come throw the ball with me on the lawn.”
“What about those dark clouds?” I ask, nervously.
“Plenty of non-threatening sky to the west,” he responds.
I am thrilled to be asked. This is a job reserved for my brothers. There’s no time to be scared. But it is cold and windy, and I don’t really want to go. The weather will hold. Don’t let him down, Susie. He’ll never ask again. Partway up the mast, I can’t stop shivering. My teeth knock against each other and rattle my jaw. The wind vibrates the rigging and makes a loud, howling sound. Everything is shaking. Gusts of wind whip my hair across my eyes and I can’t see. I’m not that far up, but I can feel the whole boat rock from side to side beneath me. The storm is still far off in the distance, but up here it seems so close I can touch it. Dad’s smile is wide as he looks up at me. I know that look. He is proud of me. I am not delicate or soft. I’m tough. I’ll do anything to win that smile, to earn his love.
“Come on down!” Dad shouts up at me. I can’t tell if he is saying that because he doesn’t need my help anymore, or because I have failed him. I cling to the mast as the wind pushes and pulls me. I swing way out over the water on one side of the boat, and then way out over the water on the other side. It’s time to climb down, but I can’t center myself.
#
I am thirteen and in junior high now. Fortunately, Natasha and I are best friends again. I quit the Cotton Ginny club and showed up at Natasha’s house with a box of Ritz crackers and a jar of peanut butter. I apologized and told her that I knew I’d been a jerk. I had let the fear of not fitting in blind me from what really mattered. “I hurt you, and I’m sorry. Being in a popular club is not worth losing you,” I told Natasha. She opened the door, and let me in her house. We cried, then laughed, and promised we’d be braver in groups from then on.
Soon, we join the school orchestra; she plays alto saxophone and I play trumpet. We meet three new friends: Teza (flute), Alli (violin), and Jill (trombone). With them, I am relaxed, even funny, totally myself. Around everyone else, I’m nervous and I pretend to be someone I’m not. I steal candy and smokes from the neighborhood store because I want everyone to think I’m cool. But with Alli, Teza, Jill, and Natasha, I am truly brave. I am vulnerable, nerdy, and square. I even read Jane Austen books in front of them. There is no pressure to perform, no expectation to be cool, no need to be perfect.
When I am with these true girlfriends, my inner voice is louder than Fear’s voice. That inner voice says, Write poetry. Return the things you stole. Be there for someone who needs help. Run because you love to run. There is a power here that feels different than when I am motivated by anxiety or praise. It feels bigger, lighter, and freer.
Together, we are more powerful than alone. We make things happen. We run for student council. When we want to do something for the school, we go into the closet at the back of the cafeteria, our office, and plan it out. When a tornado strikes a small town nearby, we break several school rules to launch a giant fundraiser. We don’t put limits on ourselves.
When some friends of ours complain that they are afraid to go into the ravine near the school because of a “violent gang” that hangs out there, we march into the ravine and make friends with the gang. They were not violent. They were just a bunch of boys who looked different and dressed differently. They had been told enough times that they were stupid and didn’t belong, so they started to believe it. They stopped going to school. They hung out in the ravine, smoking cigarettes and acting tough. All we had to do was be brave enough to reach out and let them talk. We listened to their stories. And we kept showing up in the ravine,