A scar

Things had been rocky. Quietly tearing up at recess, wordlessly sulking through gym, thoughtfully riding home from school. A misplaced giggle selfishly defended, a growing pile of lies told to save face. A prayer, a biased mock trial, a request to stop crying all the time; it made their verdict seem insensitive.

One afternoon, some field game, laughing easily together for once. And then:

"Sarah, I thought we weren't going to hang out any more."

Polite, discrete, clear, so that I couldn't possibly misunderstand.

Walking, then running, then crying. Meeting the other girls. "She just ditched me," I sobbed. Ditched. It was all the rage then, and it had happened to me.

"What a bully," they said, but turned their backs and followed her inside.

Then, the solo walks of shame across the playground, the miserable journal entries, the quiet crying late into the night, the half-sobbed anthems of the young and dramatic. These fill books, movies, tv shows, and the pages of every girl's diary. Since then I've learned the word "cliche," but the label cannot lessen the pain of memory.

"They asked me to go with them, is that ok?" Of course, I say, and the self-pity sets in. She was the last one to go. Alone.

I bear this scar, a sixth-grade-rejection-shaped scar. My eyes well, the lump in my throat grows. Flashbacks, no less vivid with the passing of time.