There was a girl
It was the second year in a row that we were classmates--fifth grade. We were never really friends. We didn't start hanging out til the school play. We both had minor roles, we played while waiting in the wings. But I didn't like her games, if that's what they were.
I can talk to spirits, she said, I know many different ones and they can talk through me. I didn't believe her. She said she would show me. She explained rules, names, personalities. She intrigued me. Then she brought out her pin cushion. We all had sewing kits for our little crafting and stitching classes. The pins were different colors. She was the type of kid that always had all the colors, be it crayons or pens, whatever. She said the white ones were safe, harmless; the blue-ish ones were a bit dangerous, they might just make you sick; the black ones were bad... they could kill.
She asked the nice one to come first. We talked. I tried to ask sincere questions. Then she would have a different one come. Then the mean one would come, the evil one. And there was that pin cushion again. I watched as her face took on this hard look, and she slowly pulled out a pin. I went from asking what she was going to do with it, to holding her wrists away from my body. She would push back. She managed to poke me lightly, while I wasn't looking. Then she would be back to herself, and I'd be secretly grateful that it wasn't the black pin. But that doesn't mean she never used it.
The next time I felt more little pricks on my arm, and I held her back harder. I asked a friend if she was just pretending. My friend wasn't sure. She sat between us at the next rehearsal. I don't remember if she got poked. We stopped playing that game.
We didn't become classmates anymore after that year. I realize I haven't spoken to her since then.
I wonder how she is now.
I can talk to spirits, she said, I know many different ones and they can talk through me. I didn't believe her. She said she would show me. She explained rules, names, personalities. She intrigued me. Then she brought out her pin cushion. We all had sewing kits for our little crafting and stitching classes. The pins were different colors. She was the type of kid that always had all the colors, be it crayons or pens, whatever. She said the white ones were safe, harmless; the blue-ish ones were a bit dangerous, they might just make you sick; the black ones were bad... they could kill.
She asked the nice one to come first. We talked. I tried to ask sincere questions. Then she would have a different one come. Then the mean one would come, the evil one. And there was that pin cushion again. I watched as her face took on this hard look, and she slowly pulled out a pin. I went from asking what she was going to do with it, to holding her wrists away from my body. She would push back. She managed to poke me lightly, while I wasn't looking. Then she would be back to herself, and I'd be secretly grateful that it wasn't the black pin. But that doesn't mean she never used it.
The next time I felt more little pricks on my arm, and I held her back harder. I asked a friend if she was just pretending. My friend wasn't sure. She sat between us at the next rehearsal. I don't remember if she got poked. We stopped playing that game.
We didn't become classmates anymore after that year. I realize I haven't spoken to her since then.
I wonder how she is now.