Lizzie Glover was my best friend, from the third grade…and worst enemy. We now have the word “frenemy” but we didn’t in the early 60s. She would betray me all the time, but we kept making up. A confusing time, for sure, probably for her as well.
By the fifth grade, though, my M.O. was clear. When shit goes down, go invisible.
A defining moment that helped me hone that skill took place when we were in the fifth grade. Drew Steinberg and I were an item. He was eleven, I was ten, but we were clearly ‘together’. Everyone knew it. We never really spoke or sat together, but he was my boyfriend in that mysterious way that such things get established in the fifth grade. One day, however, I discovered to my horror that he was sitting right next to Lizzie (!) at lunch. Sat next to her. Talked to her and everything!
I was devastated. I went to the classroom, sat down and wrote him a note: “Dear Drew, you double-crossing, no-good LIAR.” (Pencil tore through the paper here.) “Never talk to me again. I hate you. Have fun with Lizzie. I hope you’re happy now. Tina Lear” I underlined my name, folded the note, put it in his desk, and waited, my heart looking around frantically in my throat for the way back down.
Lunch took forever. Through my now quieting rage, I wondered what form his remorse would take — would he lose his reason and yell I’m sorry in front of everyone? Would our eyes meet, and tears almost form in his? Or would he be imaginatively contrite for weeks, sneaking in his apologies every chance he got (flowers, notes), working to repair our relationship during lunch or during recess, or — the most romantic possibility — on the bus? At last, everyone started dribbling in. I watched, stopped breathing. Drew came in, sat down.
Mrs. Hampson: “Ok, class, open your math books to page 59…”
He opens his desk, sees the note. I taste blood. He unfolds, reads, and — WHAT?! — raises his hand.
“What is it, Drew?”
“Someone left me this note.”
“Let me see it.” He shows it to her. And then she says, “Well, this looks fairly important. Let’s let everyone have a look at it.” And before I know it, she has tacked the note up on the wall, and invited everyone to pause, giggle at my broken heart, and go back to their seats.
As the line slowly passed the note, the hilarity hit me. A real SMH moment. Why did I sign it? If I’d only written it without signing it, none of this would have happened so directly to me. I laughed at my own stupidity. Silly me. More I thought about it, the funnier it got. Now I’m laughing with everyone.
“They’re not laughing with you, Tina.” Mrs. Hampson feels the need to point this out.
And in my proudest moment, only ten years old, I said, “Well…um...I’m laughing with them.”
*******
Epilogue: It was one of the handful of times in my life when I had the right thing to say, and I said it. But it was also a moment that developed what has become my M.O.: Go invisible. Stuff your pain back down where no one can see it, make it into a joke.
All that rage and hurt. Where did it go?
Away.
(Not.)
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