Scattered clouds shifted above, a light autumn breeze brushed against my cheek, carrying with it contempt on the first day of the eighth grade, and I cradled the books I didn’t want to read. I was headed for an English class when Cayla, the cool girl, stuck out her foot. I lost my footing and swam for air as my books flew. I hit the pavement. I hit rock bottom with shattered glasses. She and her friends roared in laughter, pointing and mocking me. Mom just spent her last ten bucks to repair it. I gathered my books and pushed myself to my feet. I squinted and felt my way around the school for two days. I told my eyeing teachers my knees were weak Mom deposited a check to withdraw cash. I tagged along as Mom flipped through the bills to hand to the eye doctor for another pair of rims. On the way home, Mom blinkered and veered to the shoulder of the road. The engine was still running. The air was still pushing dust through the vents. My gaze embraced her attention. She shifted in her seat, eyeing me. Mom threw a punch in the air.
“That’s what I want you to do to the kid who punched your glasses.”
I tried not to, but I snorted a laugh.
Mom folded her lips under her teeth.
She shook her head. “What am I gonna do with you?” She turned over her shoulder and signaled to enter traffic.
I didn’t have it in me to tell her that a girl tripped me for the amusement of her stuck-up clique. Cayla hates me as though she knows me. But Cayla knows nothing about me. I hung on the edge of a waste of time. But a senior pulled me out of the water. I can’t even die right.
That’s how cool I am. Or uncool, depending on how you look at the afterlife. I believe in saving grace, but the only logical reason God placed me in this garden was to test Cayla’s trust and my luck. I developed a toned frame with dark, thick, styled hair. My jeans hugged in all the right places. I saw her tongue dance behind her lips. Tears burned my cheeks after hours of dreaming over shots at mindful dive bars.
Cayla began to surface at places I happened to be.
She’d make it a point to make eye contact, then wrap her long, dark hair around her neck
as if to tempt me for a bite.
What she did made it right in my eyes.
Mom caught wind of our mutual crush and told me she’s a keeper.
Mom told me if I didn’t marry Cayla, she’d kick my ass.
I cracked a smile.
Mom’s stern gaze softened.
I embraced Mom.
Tears spread across her cheeks.
On the way down the aisle, she had the same confident posture with damp eyes. Cayla tripped over her long, white dress, falling face first.
The crowd shrieked.
I snorted, but I held my breath.
But I guided her to her feet.
She placed one hand over her stomach
and threw her head back, cackling to tears.
“It’s what I deserve,” Cayla nudged me.
Laughter spilled through my lips as her friends laughed at me that day. But this was out of grace, not insecurity.