Childhood

Childhood

She called them shadow dancers, for there was no other name to describe them. The instant that her mother flicked off the switches, she observed how the lights flew to the second story and about the perimeter of her ceiling, whirling to the other side of the room before vanishing. It was inside of these lights that they would appear: little faces with little grins, like skeleton heads on Halloween. And that was all they were to her- high perched grimaces that urged her to dip her line of sight under the covers where the darkness was perpetual and bearable. But still, she sensed them.
Upon waking to the sound of a radio set to BigGirl Pop music, she often times would feel more alive than she had thought possible. The way the light would stream through her cracked window made her rush and peer out at the sparkling grass, the peeking buds. There was a smell of fifty degree weather and dirt freshly scrubbed with winter that seemed to seep into her laid-out clothing, bedecked with green and mild pink flowers that were so popular for all the girls that season. Her mother loved to brush her golden hair into perfect pigtails, only to be struck down. The pigtails would then be transformed into a green-scrunchied high swept ponytail and two blue butterfly clips, as the girl was trying to grow out her bangs.
Her timed multiplication test score decreased by one point almost every time she took them.
“It isn’t because I’m stupid or something,” she told her girlfriend. “It’s because Ian Moore sits in front of me.”
“He is such a hottie!” the other piped.
The girl nodded. “Exactly- I’m distracted by his good looks and that’s why. Every time we take a test, I simply am too busy lookin’ at him to get that extra thingy.”
While the other girls had Lunchables, the girl would buy the cafeteria pizza and chocolate milk. While Tupperware containers were tucked into purple boxes, she convinced Justin with “special needs” to throw away her Styrofoam tray because she knew he liked her. Thankless, she went out onto the blacktop to play foursquare as a sub.
Once, a boy in her class asked her if she liked Justin.
She punched him and ran off crying.
Her mother found out from the teacher and forced her to apologize to the boy. She lied and said she would but never did. However, she threw out her own tray for six days.
Class was hellish. She had to sit next to kid-who-still-picked-and-ate, who made smacking sounds as they did so. Her teacher assigned her books to read that were at a third-grade level when she had been beyond that for about three years. And, as aforementioned, there was Ian Moore. The only African-American in the grade, he brought an aspect of erotica into her daydreams, which she doodled thoughtlessly through mathematical functions into the corner of her papers. He was the man of her dreams- tall, dark, and oh so handsome; his buzzed, tightly curled hair and Chicago Bulls jacket seemed to cry to be rubbed with the palm of her hand, which she did on many occasions. She loathed watching the more able girls flirt with him- girls who had outgrown overalls due to their pre-mature buds and knew already how to sway their hips just right. They wrote him little notes that she would pull out of the trash and take home to rip and recycle.
She had her first erotic dream. Ian Moore kissed her and then cuddled with her. It was fate, she thought, as the stars had played a part in it.
Her girlfriends thought it was a scandal and didn’t talk to her at recess for a whole day.
She sat staring at him, her hands clutched between her legs so tightly that her teacher asked her if she had to use the restroom. Pretending that she did, she faked out of class for the second time in her life. Inside the bathroom stall, she eased herself on top of the toilet head and put her feet on the lid, glaring at her chubby knees poking out from the khaki shorts.
“Crap,” she muttered.
There was a silence.
“Crap.” Her voice rose.
Nothing happened.
“CRAP!” she cried, balling her hands into fists. “VAGINAS! CROTCHES! HUMPING! POOP! PERIOD!”
She hopped down, washed her hands, got a drink, and gave herself a walk down the hallway, singing a little boisterous version of the first verse of ‘Someday My Prince Will Come.’ Then she calmly slipped into class, a devious grin on her face. Five minutes passed before Ian Moore turned around and opened his beautiful bow-shaped mouth.
“We heard you,” he said bluntly.
The way home was another legend. In the winter while running, she fell into a snow drift up to her waist. The boys who rode her bus ignored her, leaving her there for so long that she wet herself and tears froze on her cheeks. The next day they threw sticks at her.
Those spring days were infinite. Walking home in the sunshine from the bus stop was far easier- she would sometimes take little detours over to a gnarled tree that she believed was used to hang people on in less tolerant times. Underneath it, she would picture the rope, thick and yellow, dangling heavily. The person was almost always a woman of about 19 years old, wearing a wide white collar and a stiff black dress. On her left palm was a tattoo of the evil eye, a touch she added every time just to give her a little more of a chill, sometimes making her hurry on her way. She loved the woman- she was hers, she was someone to suffer for her sins, and she was so beautifully shaped it was hard to ignore. She drew her once and the teacher threatened to call home. No one seemed to understand it.
The woman began to appear even without stopping under the tree.
She told no one of the change.
The shadows from the Blackpool lights were no longer faces. When she would peer from her covers, she could see them taking full form and using their fingernails to pry themselves down the wall. One hand extend, one hand clutch. Extend. Clutch. And they reached her floor. Straightening their bodies, they would become women or men, differenced by their 18th century outlines. Then dark music would begin in the girl’s head.
Carnival music.
The full skirted women allowed their hands to be kissed by the men, who dipped low and then swept them into their arms. And they would begin to twirl, swishing the fabrics in tune with the dipping of the calliope just so. Extend. Clutch. The Blackpool lights continued, adding more and more, increasing the size and sound of the music until it was indeed a party of shadows.
The girl just shut her eyes.
But the shadow dancers were still there.