Kelly

Kelly made me jealous. I detested her long thin face and sad limpid eyes. They were chocolate set into an old knowing frame. Kelly's limbs were so long and thin she was lanky like a teenaged boy and she leapt at Corey almost every day to retrieve what he'd stolen from her even when she wasn't wearing a headband. Her dignity was snapped up as soon as we huddled by the door leading to the playground. This was futile and he sneered, jerked back and leered at her. At the end of each lunchtime, though, she got her headband back, or whatever of hers it was that he was hiding. Except for her dignity. He kept it bruised and malnourished.

Kelly squawked, the monkey in the middle of hurtled insults. If the other kids didn't hurt her feelings Corey threatened to hurt theirs. Nobody cared about Kelly's feelings because nobody wanted to be like her. Years later she had rhinoplasty to shave away Corey's rottenness. Her smaller nose reminded me of Corey more than her jutting bridge had. “See, I'm pretty now,” she would say, barely a teen. “My nose was ugly! I'm not ugly anymore. My nose is normal. Remember how beaked it was? It's not like that anymore!” She'd preen, sleeking back her hair, folding her legs onto her couch. Her parents were never around.

I had to fight Kelly inexhaustibly. There was no time to rest. She chose her words like thorns. She knew Corey needed an outcast and scrambled to push me into his crosshairs before I could toss her there. In second grade, Kelly was my biggest threat: she was Christie's other best friend. Proving to Christie that I deserved the honor of staying her first best friend took up as much time as I had in the deaf classroom that wasn't spent spewing the sewage that kept Corey's fists from raining blows. I was in first grade and Miss Pardick was nice to me. Christie and I had nothing in common.

Kelly had dirty blonde hair and pretty shirts. She had a pool party. The rest of us didn't have pools! It was an aboveground pool with a bright blue bottom and legs dangling into the cool water as we lazily kicked at a beach ball and chattered excitedly. It was her birthday and even Corey was invited. He was polite and his snout was smooth and boyish. His eyes danced. The mean things he said slipped out occassionally without his usual grimace.

There was nothing else connecting me and Kelly. Christie pitted us against each other smugly. They had matching hair which, Christie boasted, was proof that they were sisters. They were both tan with brown eyes. Kelly was the real best friend, obviously, Christie grinned, because on top of all that they lived closer to each other. I wasn't grown-up enough to close the gap that had opened when Christie had left Gerri and our blue cots and big aluminum saucer for Miss Pardick. Kelly had been new that last year of naptime and Christie had abandoned her each time I'd returned from kindergarten.

When Corey realized I was the biggest threat ever posed, I passed that right along. I pointed out that Kelly was stupid and ugly as confirmed. Her hair was greasy and limp; she was obviously the poorest of us. The shirts and headbands were distractions. Her waving claws and squawking protestations were clearly signs of deficiency. “NO!” she howled. “I'm best friends with Christie! Stop it!” She usually won, so I had to run from a litany of fists every lunchtime. Kelly was exhausting.