Dear Mrs. VanScoy

Mrs VanScoy,

Do you recall the time in elementary school when you gave me detention because I was single and pathetic?

So do I.

It was May.  I remember because that day we had played a kickball game outside for gym class, and one of the class morons, Ryan, was screaming, "MAY DAY!  MAY DAY!" at the top of his lungs every SINGLE time he ran the bases.  I also remember wishing I could trip him, but ended up sparing him my foot; I was afraid that his girlfriend, Jordyn, would put a zebra cake under my ass  before it hit the cafeteria bench.

Anyway, on that particular day, I had forgotten my lunch money and consequently had nothing to drink at lunchtime.  (My father had given me a flask for my 9th birthday and I was right quick to use it.  Jack Daniels before breakfast, Absolut after a hot luncheon meal of "Grilled Cheeze" or "Turkey 'N' Gravy", Sambuca for my night cap.  It worked out well in general, until I passed out on my Apple keyboard while playing Oregon Trail.)

Because my flask was pilfered, I was dying of thirst-- not to mention I had just finished playing a rigorous game of kickball-- and my trachea was swollen from swallowing the dust that Ryan kicked in my face after his second home run.  To top it all off, my pockets were empty and I couldn't ask any of my friends to help me out.

I know you're thinking, Why?  Why wouldn't her friends pitch a few bucks at her? And Jesus, your father gave you a flask?

Okay. So that may have been a hair hyperbolic.  It was a portable shot glass. And, if it were any less than three years ago, I may not have told you the truth about my friends.  But I've grown up, Mrs. VanScoy.  I can admit, only now, that the reason I couldn't ask is because I didn't want to ask.  I was on a reduced lunch plan, which meant I could get as much food as I wanted for a quarter.  A quarter!  Those lunch ladies smiled at me with distaste and condescension.  Their hairnets caught on fire when they grazed my grimy 5th grade fingers as if I were committing some sacrilege.

But you know what?  I ate like a queen and took advantage of my parents' misfortunes.  Most of the time, it was glorious.  Unless, of course, you forgot your fucking quarter on the corner of the counter because your little brother stabbed you in the arm with a pencil and all short-term memory conceded itself to pain. 

Nevertheless, I couldn't let anyone know about the fact I paid for salt with quarters.  I could have asked for the regular price of lunch like a smart child, but I'd like to think that even back then my moral ground was above sea level. I lied to my friends and said I wasn't hungry, and never asked for a sip of any of their Capri Suns.  Not to mention, if Ryan ever knew I was poor, I would never have a chance with him when he and Jordyn inevitably split up after he let her Nano Baby die while babysitting it.

Mrs. VanScoy, I'm sorry.  I've gotten off-track, but I promise I'm almost to the point.  Let's recap: I was annoyed with Ryan.  I was thirsty from the combination of rage, dust, and general loss of water due to running bases.  My hunger lost to my pride during lunch.  Generally speaking, my day was already a pile of dog crap.  And this is where you come in.

Upon coming back to the classroom, you informed us that we were to continue our journeys on Oregon Trail in pairs.  Because we sat in groups of four, the remaining two were to complete Mad Math worksheets.  My worksheet was DONE.  I had ten minutes left until my TURN on the computer.  My throat was a field of cotton.

Can I go to the bathroom and get a drink, please?

Sure. Take the pass, and be quick.

You weren't a fan of warmth.

After I relieved myself (can I use that word in reference to a little girl going pee?), I walked to the drinking fountain.  The only reason I didn't chug water first was because by that time, I was about to piss my pants too.  A right lovely combination for a buck-toothed, quarter-tossing, impoverished little twerp.

When I got to the fountain, I had my fill. When I looked up, I saw the letters "RTY" in big, bold, black letters on a poster about six feet up the hallway.  I KNEW it was going to describe in detail the time, date, and details of the Spring Fling roller skating party.  The only thing that could turn my day around was scoping it out so that I could temporarily get my hopes up about being asked to it, anticipate holding hands with a boy I couldn't stand (but it was a boy!), and go home knowing that nothing would matter come Monday.

Of course, Mrs. VanScoy, you knew nothing of my sad secrets.  How could you?  And that's why you did what you did.

Apparently I was gone too long, so you peeked your head out the doorway of our classroom.  You saw me beyond the periphery of the bounds you had given.  Before I could blink, you stormed up the hallway and threw me against the tile brick, a gnarled finger in my face.  Your nail was cracked and streaky like you hadn't had a manicure in years. Red rivers made your eyeballs look like you stole my flask.  I remember thinking you were a bitch for doing that, but then realized it was only a joke I had with myself.  The jowls on both sides of your face swung like pendulums, and it was out of fear that I threw my arms up to protect myself.

Really, though: did you not care about your appearance, even years before you taught me? The worst part was your breath. The rancid air escaped your mouth in the form of ditched first dates, under appreciation, a brother who died too young, and a daughter with skin cancer. 

Shocked? Good. I know all this about you, Mrs VanScoy, because word gets around in a small, small town.  And I still blame you.

 You're shocked again.  And I don't care.  Maybe that day everything in your life that ever fell to shit electrocuted your soul simply because I stepped over some imaginary line you created.  Total truth.  But you didn't know my boundaries.  You never knew anything about your students because you could have given a fuck less.  Every single day of my existence in fifth grade I straddled the lines between child and adult, pretty and ugly, popular and nerdy, okay and, well, not.

So, Mrs. VanScoy, I'm writing to tell you that while I still blame you, I'd like to make amends.  Not with you, but with myself.  I'm sorry I was annoyed with Ryan that day, but it was only because I was jealous.  I'm sorry I was too proud to ask my "friends" for a quarter, and that I let the lunch ladies look at me with disgust without giving them the middle finger.  I'm sorry that I never actually bought and used a flask at a young age, as it might have helped me in situations like these, and at winning Oregon Trail.

But I'm not sorry for looking at that poster.  I'm not sorry that I walked further than I was supposed to. And I'm not sorry about making you mad.  In fact, I'm glad you were, because when I remember your jostling chin and crudely-lined lips, I remind myself that beauty is both on the inside and outside--and I go and get myself a manicure.

Hoping you're well hydrated,

Lindsay