Long Sleeves in Summer

Sarah always wore long sleeves, even in summer. I asked her about it once. We were only nine or ten at the time, lounging about in my back yard. Even though I had sprawled myself out in one of the piles of golden leaves my daddy raked up, Sarah sat primly on the porch, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Sarah's mommy didn't like it when she came home dirty.

"Sarah, why don't you wear a T-Shirt or something? It's a hundred degrees out here!"

I remember the way she looked at me, and it scared me a little. She didn't look like a little girl going into the fifth grade, she looked more like my mommy's friend Darlene who always came over after she had a fight with her boyfriend--old, tired, and scared.

"I just like wearing long sleeves, that's all."

I didn't ask her anything about it again for a long time.

When we reached seventh grade, we went to Middle School together. Everything had changed for us then. I had discovered boys weren't something to be avoided, and started flirting. Sarah discovered she couldn't always keep her secret hidden.

She and I had the same gym class together, and for the first time, we had to wear uniforms. This meant we had to change--in front of about thirty other girls--every day. This had caused some problems at first, since Sarah's daddy didn't like her undressing in front of anyone else.

When the teacher told her father that she had to dress out or she would fail, I finally discovered Sarah's secret. She would wait until everyone else left the locker room, but we could all still see what she always had kept hidden before. Sarah's arms were covered with bruises, purple and swollen. Her legs were peppered with tiny scratches and round scars. And at last, everyone knew why Sarah wore long sleeves, even in summer.

That year was one of the roughest for Sarah and I. We had to avoid that toughest subject of all: Why, after seven years of being friends, she had never told me what her mommy did to her. I was just a kid myself, and I felt totally powerless to help my shy, sweet friend. I didn't know anything about Social Services or how to help her. I was vaguely aware that the teachers and my parents were all working very hard to "help" her, but I didn't know what that meant--and at the time it didn't do much good.

I also remember what happened the first time the Social Worker DID come to Sarah's house. Sarah did not come to school for two weeks after that, and when she did return, her arm had been broken. She told me--and anyone who asked--that she had fallen down the stairs and that she didn't want to talk about it. Sarah's daddy then had a meeting with the principal, and changes were made. Sarah wasn't required to take any more gym classes. If Sarah ever got hurt or sick, they had to call her parents instead of sending her to the nurse.

Sarah never said a single word about her parents if she didn't have to. After that, none of the people at school tried to help Sarah any more. I still told my parents every time Sarah whispered some new horror to me, but I think they were scared of what would happen to Sarah if they told anyone else.

When we got to high school, things took a turn for the worse for Sarah. For one thing, the other girls tormented her constantly her about her wardrobe. For another, things at her house were worse than ever. Finally, though I knew they were frightened, I begged my parents to do something, ANYTHING. The next day, Sarah was called down from our math class. I didn't see Sarah any more after that. My dad had called a special organization who had the resources available to help her. They had come down the very next day and took Sarah away from her parents.

I got a letter from her today. She told me about the lovely foster family she had been placed with, and how they cared for her, and never, ever hit or burned her. Inside was a photograph showing Sarah in a back yard where an old man was barbecuing while a little dog played nearby. Sarah was smiling, and for the first time, wearing a short sleeved shirt.

word count: 744