Scarred
It was cold outside, and there was snow on the ground. I was in the first grade, waiting for the school bus outside with some friends and a neighbor, who was keeping an eye on me while my mother took my little sister home to get warm.
A girl who lived down the street from me, Clarissa, was bragging about her new shoes.
"Look! I got new boots!" she said, hands on her hips, her blonde pigtails waiving around. I couldn't stand Clarissa. She was the epitome of what I imagine when I think of the popular girl stereotype -- blonde, annoying, a know-it-all who actually knew nothing.
I glanced down at her cool new boots -- they were exactly the same as mine, black with different colored gems decorating the sides.
"I can climb up this hill in these boots," she said proudly, climbing up the little hill that bordered the driveway where we were waiting.
"I have the same boots, Clarissa," I said.
"No, yours are different," she insisted.
I don't know what I was trying to prove. Maybe I wanted to be popular, like Clarissa, and have people oh and ah about my shoes. But even then I think I knew that, like almost everybody I have ever been told was one of the "popular kids," Clarissa wasn't popular at all. Nobody liked her, because she wasn't very nice, and all she did was brag. Maybe I just wanted her to stop bragging about the stupid boots.
"Climb the hill," she challenged.
I looked at the incline. It was hardly a hill. No problem. I could handle it.
I took a tentative step onto the slope with one foot.
"See?" I said, as I raised my other foot to keep climbing. "You're not the only one with nice boots."
Then I set my other foot down, right on some slick ice. When I rested my weight on it, I slipped and went flying. I couldn't get my hands out in front of me fast enough and I landed on my face -- my chin to be exact. Don't worry, my fall was cushioned by a nice icy rock.
The fall ripped my chin open and I started screaming. Carol ran over to me, pulled some tissues out of her bag and tried to hold my chin together. I was bleeding. A lot.
"C'mon, c'mon, Jill, we have to get you home. It's all right, but let's hurry."
The way my mother tells the story, I got to the door and my chin was split in two, gaping open like a second mouth. She says she nearly fainted.
They got me inside and bandaged me up. I don't remember crying that much, which is strange because I'm a whimp. I was crying, but not sobbing or anything like that. I watched David the Gnome on Nick Jr. (I loved Swift the fox) and begged my parents not to make me get stitches.
Unfortunately, I needed 15 of them. I was sewed up by a plastic surgeon who my family knew; my mother was afraid the emergency room doctors would do a bad job on my face and leave me disfigured or something.
All in all, it left me with a crooked scar about an inch long right on the underside of my chin - you can only see it if I’m looking up or making some strange facial expression that pulls my skin up a bit, like when I chew on my bottom lip.
It also scarred my pride. We had the same damn boots, but I managed to fall and get seriously hurt while Clarissa stood atop that little hill, smiling as if she had climbed Mount Everest.
A few years later, Clarissa moved away. I suppose it became some other girl's job to try to shut Clarissa up when she bragged. I hope that girl did a better job than I did, or, at the very least, that the ordeal didn't scar her for life.
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A girl who lived down the street from me, Clarissa, was bragging about her new shoes.
"Look! I got new boots!" she said, hands on her hips, her blonde pigtails waiving around. I couldn't stand Clarissa. She was the epitome of what I imagine when I think of the popular girl stereotype -- blonde, annoying, a know-it-all who actually knew nothing.
I glanced down at her cool new boots -- they were exactly the same as mine, black with different colored gems decorating the sides.
"I can climb up this hill in these boots," she said proudly, climbing up the little hill that bordered the driveway where we were waiting.
"I have the same boots, Clarissa," I said.
"No, yours are different," she insisted.
I don't know what I was trying to prove. Maybe I wanted to be popular, like Clarissa, and have people oh and ah about my shoes. But even then I think I knew that, like almost everybody I have ever been told was one of the "popular kids," Clarissa wasn't popular at all. Nobody liked her, because she wasn't very nice, and all she did was brag. Maybe I just wanted her to stop bragging about the stupid boots.
"Climb the hill," she challenged.
I looked at the incline. It was hardly a hill. No problem. I could handle it.
I took a tentative step onto the slope with one foot.
"See?" I said, as I raised my other foot to keep climbing. "You're not the only one with nice boots."
Then I set my other foot down, right on some slick ice. When I rested my weight on it, I slipped and went flying. I couldn't get my hands out in front of me fast enough and I landed on my face -- my chin to be exact. Don't worry, my fall was cushioned by a nice icy rock.
The fall ripped my chin open and I started screaming. Carol ran over to me, pulled some tissues out of her bag and tried to hold my chin together. I was bleeding. A lot.
"C'mon, c'mon, Jill, we have to get you home. It's all right, but let's hurry."
The way my mother tells the story, I got to the door and my chin was split in two, gaping open like a second mouth. She says she nearly fainted.
They got me inside and bandaged me up. I don't remember crying that much, which is strange because I'm a whimp. I was crying, but not sobbing or anything like that. I watched David the Gnome on Nick Jr. (I loved Swift the fox) and begged my parents not to make me get stitches.
Unfortunately, I needed 15 of them. I was sewed up by a plastic surgeon who my family knew; my mother was afraid the emergency room doctors would do a bad job on my face and leave me disfigured or something.
All in all, it left me with a crooked scar about an inch long right on the underside of my chin - you can only see it if I’m looking up or making some strange facial expression that pulls my skin up a bit, like when I chew on my bottom lip.
It also scarred my pride. We had the same damn boots, but I managed to fall and get seriously hurt while Clarissa stood atop that little hill, smiling as if she had climbed Mount Everest.
A few years later, Clarissa moved away. I suppose it became some other girl's job to try to shut Clarissa up when she bragged. I hope that girl did a better job than I did, or, at the very least, that the ordeal didn't scar her for life.
---
If you liked this entry, please vote for it over at therealljidol starting Friday afternoon. I've got some tough competition, so I could really use your help!