She haunts me still. I’ve stopped shuddering when I picture her. I know the scent of her ointment and feel my nostrils and lungs collapse when I close my eyes and remember the smell waft by. We were friends by virtue of having a mutual family friend. But while on the school bus, I never let on that I knew her.
My own actions, my inactions really, haunt me still.
When she stepped onto the bus the frolicking din of middle school children turned its tenor from general rambunctiousness to a mean spirited pep rally of sorts. The audible gags and gasps were drowned out by the name calling and jeers. Yet she held her head high, posture straight, making no eye contact as she ambled to the back of the bus. No one moved over for her to share a seat. Ever.
Neither did I.
I averted my gaze, alternating looking at my feet or pretending to flip through a notebook, all the while overheated with the sweat of shame. I did not smile or make eye contact or speak. While I did not participate in the bullying, I did not speak up in her defense. I didn’t utter a sound. I chose shame over honor.
She had a rare skin disease. I don’t recall the details. I’m not sure I ever really knew them. Her face and arms were covered in flecks of skin paper thin and dry as if she were covered in a horrific sunburn. Her features were hard to make out. Her scalp and palms were also affected, and her hair was thick in its disheveled state. It hadn’t occurred to me how painful it must have been to wash and brush it. The ointment was malodorous, and she moved gingerly. I never appreciated the physical pain she endured but am positive the emotional suffering was worse.
When I read the book Wonder with my sons, it was her face, not Auggie’s, that I saw. It’s taken me a lifetime to sort through my contributions to this girl’s childhood hell. I sobbed reading Wonder. I internalized so much and was consumed with blame. I say this not for pity or sympathy. It was cathartic and necessary, albeit overdue. The experience reading this marvelous book aloud was a release, a reckoning. To flippantly say “children can be so cruel” is woefully understated. I can’t shrug this off and carry on so easily now that I am a mother and witness to similar singling out and bullying. Those kids on the bus were cruel, and my inaction was the oxygen that fueled their fire.
“…just an ordinary kid, with an extraordinary face. But can he convince his new classmates that he’s just like them, despite appearances?”
She never had the chance. Her condition required a lot of care, and infection came easily. She missed many days of school. None of us ever checked in. Eventually she stopped riding the bus. We carried on, indulging in adolescence as one does. My encounters with her, I can hardly call it a friendship since I didn’t reciprocate a drop of kindness, faded away. Yet she tugged at my memory and has always occupied a piece of my heart as I matured and became more deliberate and thoughtful in how I want to treat others. She taught me to “choose kind,” though I continue to falter. I was among the few who saw her smile, and that abashed grin has been a beacon. I’ve never forgotten her face, but not for the agony and discomfort it stirred up on that bus long ago. I remember the girl stuck in the skin that imprisoned her. I remember the Shaun Cassidy singalongs and Madame Alexander dolls. I owed her more than this lousy blog post.
Auggie’s tale was a literary turning of soil for me. All the emotions I had buried were dredged up and the muck mixed with the guilt and shame. The book came alive in ways I had not anticipated. Such is the power of a story crafted by a gifted writer. I won’t spoil the ending for you. Just know that in a recent Facebook meme someone asked me to list the top 10 books I’ve ever read. Wonder made the list. The story, while personal to me, will resonate with anyone who’s been mocked, ridiculed, or derided and been picked up by friends, teachers, and ultimately themselves.
I wonder what became of her…