“WHAT IS THE WORST THING YOU EVER DID?”
“Laurie?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s the worst thing you ever did?”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know. So don’t ever ask me that again.”
“Why not?”
“Because, if you do, I’ll tell you. And you’ll hate me. So, please, do not ever ask me that again.”
(“Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
All dressed in black, black, black . . . ”)
“Laurie?”
“Hmmm?”
“What is the worst thing you ever did?”
(“Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
All dressed in black, black, black
She has a knife, knife . . . OWWW!”)
“What’s wrong, Nightbreeze? Can’t keep up? Awww, poor widdle Lau-wee fall down, go boom!”
“You pushed me, Valerie! Not fair! I’m telling!”
“You’re such a baby, gonna go crying to the teacher!”
“Mrs. Ergner!”
“Yes, Miss Brees?”
“Mrs. Ergner, Valerie just pushed me down!”
“Miss Livingston. Since you don’t seem to be able to play well with others, why don’t you spend the rest of recess in a timeout, over here with me?”
“Oh, you are such a tattletale! You’re dead, Laurie Brees! Dead!”
I never liked Valerie Livingston. No. I take that back. I hate her. I’ve always hated her. From the very first time I laid eyes on her in the third grade back at Westside Elementary. She was a transfer student from Aberdeen and, right from the start, she let everyone know just what a stuck-up spoiled obnoxious bitch she was. And I was the main target of her abuse. I guess she just didn’t like me for some reason. She picked on everybody, but she saved her best or worst for me.
For instance . . .
Middle School. Seventh grade. It’s a Friday afternoon, the last bell had rung, school was over for the week. I’m feeling pretty good about myself, just took a test in American History, my favorite subject, and I’m positive that I aced it. I’m at my locker, putting books in my backpack for weekend homework when Valerie and her bunch of lackeys show up and surround me. Before I can move, Valerie grabs me and shoves me into my locker. Then she slams the door shut, trapping me inside. Now, this was pretty easy for her to accomplish, considering I was four foot seven and about eighty-three pounds.
Yeah, I’ve always been the shortest and smallest girl in the bunch. Even now. I’m barely five foot one. Being so small has made me vulnerable to bullies of all shapes and sizes. Like Ramona Littlebear. She and I had it out at the Medicine Bow Rez a couple years ago. Well, that’s not really true. Fact is, she beat the ever-loving crap out of me that day. But I kept getting back up. Maybe that was dumb of me, the smart thing would have been to go down and stay down after the first time she decked me. But my Dad always taught me and my sister to stand up for ourselves. And that’s what I did. I earned Ramona’s respect that day. Along with a lot of bruises.
But that’s a whole other story.
Getting back to Valerie . . . I must have been trapped in my locker for a good fifteen to twenty minutes. It’s dark in there, I can’t see my watch, and it sure feels like a long time. I holler as loud as I can and pound on the door until my knuckles start to hurt. But people don’t pay any attention. They just keep walking past me. I can see out into the hall through the slats on the locker door and, if I didn’t know any better, I could swear that they’re purposely ignoring me. Kind of like how pedestrians and passers-by ignore a total stranger being mugged on a city sidewalk. They walk on by, too scared to get involved. Well, I’m not a total stranger. These are my friends, my classmates. I’ve known them my whole life. And none of them have the decency to open my locker door. They leave me trapped in there.
Finally, Mr. Simcox, the math teacher, hears me and gets the janitor to let me out. Mrs. Engelbrekston, the principal, tries to get me to tell her who locked me in there but I keep my mouth shut. Snitches get stitches. My life is hell enough already, thanks to Valerie. I don’t want to give her any more reason to persecute me. So I just shake my head and smile sweetly (if a bit forced) until Mrs. E gets the hint.
(“Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
All dressed in black, black, black.
She has a knife, knife, knife
Stuck in her back, back, back . . . ”)
I’ve always been a really good swimmer. Despite my shortness or maybe because of it. From the junior swim team when I was in middle school all the way through high school and into college, I’ve ranked very high in sectionals, regionals and state competitions. After my sophomore year in high school, I was the number one swimmer on the team, competing in Freestyle, Butterfly, Individual Medley and sometimes Relay. Right before the school year ends, Coach tells me that she’s nominating me to be sole Captain of the team the next year, the first Junior ever to have that honor. All the Juniors in the past had been Co-Captains. She says I’m a lock, all the girls on the team like and respect me. Between that and all the hard work I put in, she is positive I’ll win in a landslide vote.
But that was before Valerie Livingston decided she deserves to be Captain over me. Even though my times are consistently better than hers. Even though I personally saved our team in the State finals by making up time in the Butterfly for her slowness in the Breaststroke during the Relay. Oh, she was pissed that day. And maybe just a bit jealous. It didn’t matter to her that we won. Just that she felt I showed her up. And, okay, maybe I did. But it’s not my fault that she almost cost us the championship because she really sucks at the Breaststroke.
Anyway, she was determined to get elected Captain. And that’s exactly what happened. She got all her friends to vote for her, she bitched about me behind my back, she whined, she begged, she did everything she could to make it happen. And there wasn’t a damn thing Coach could do about it.
“Sorry, Laurie, my hands are tied. It is what it is. If it was up to me, you’d be my Captain. But it’s a popularity contest, plain and simple. And, for whatever reason, the team voted for Valerie. Not saying we have to like it, but we have to live with it.”
Like I’ve been living with it since the third grade.
Gym class during my senior year. Had my last growth spurt and finally broke five feet tall. With about three-quarters of an inch to spare. We’re in the locker room after running the track all period long. Hot and sweaty, getting ready to take a quick shower. Valerie walks by my locker on her way to the showers, with her ever-present posse. Why is it that bullies seem to always travel in packs? Like they need an appreciative audience to “oooh” and “ahhh” while they torture a helpless victim. Anyway, Valerie snatches my gym towel and wipes her sweaty ass with it. Then her friends “oooh” and “ahhh” while they grab my arms so she can rub the towel with her ass sweat in my face.
(“Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
All dressed in black, black, black.
She has a knife, knife, knife
Stuck in her back, back, back.
She cannot breathe, breathe, breathe.
She cannot cry, cry, cry . . . ”)
There comes a time, my Grandma always used to say. There comes a time when a body finally says, “Enough is enough” and takes a stand.
My time came a year later.
September 2002. Freshman year in college. Starting a whole new life. A new start in a new city. Sioux Falls. Augustana College. I’m not Laurie Brees, the shortest girl at Sisseton High any more. I’m not the perpetually picked-on victim of Valerie Livingston any more. It’s a fresh beginning. Life is sweet. For a few days, anyway.
“Well, well, well.”
My second day in Stavig Tower, I leave my dorm room to go to class. My new roommate Danielle (“Call me Nellie, Rooms. All my friends do.”) is pretty cool and super nice, it’s shaping up to be a good year.
Until I hear that familiar voice.
“Small world, isn’t it, Nightbreeze?”
Whafuck?! No! No freaken way!
Yes way. There she is, standing by the vending machines in the Common Room, tossing a shiny red apple in the air with a snarky smirk on her face. I stop dead in my tracks and gape, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I can’t help it. Last time I saw Valerie was at Graduation in June. And she’d changed in those couple of months. She was always tall, about five-nine with long legs like a model. Her body was toned and fit from swimming (even though she sucked at it), tennis, softball and Cross Country track. Long shiny black hair and crystal-blue ice eyes.
That was the Valerie from high school. Since then, her lips had gotten a bit fuller, fatter. Hello, Collagen. Hello, plum blossom lips. Hello, Angelina Jolie lips.
Not only that, the bitch also got a boob job. A graduation present from her parents. My graduation present from my Mom was a banged-up 1990 Dodge Daytona with 137,000 miles on it. A junker that threw a rod one Saturday afternoon when I dared to do 50 on Route 127. It was pronounced mechanically dead at the scene and was dispatched to that great big auto graveyard in the sky. I got a soon-to-be-dead pile-of-crap car. Valerie got a brand new pair of 38Ds. Life is so not fair sometimes, you know?
Sensing my shock and discomfort (and loving it), Valerie casually saunters over to where I’m standing. She’s still tossing that apple up in the air and catching it. She purposely stands directly in front of me so the nipples on her newly enhanced breasts could poke me in the eyes if she leans forward. Or sneezes. Or has a spasm.
“What a surprise seeing my LITTLE friend from high school here,” she gushes, in an overly loud voice dripping with blatant insincerity. People are lounging around, killing time, doing last-minute homework, grabbing snacks, talking, texting. She has an audience. And she works it like only she can. She pats me on the head. I flinch and jerk my head back. She continues, in that same honey-coated voice, “I just know you and I are gonna have oodles of fun, picking up where we left off . . . ” She leans forward and down till her mouth is close to my ear. Her voice suddenly drops to a low private hissing whisper. “And you’re not gonna do a damn thing to stop me. You’re just gonna take it like you always do. Like the scared intimidated little bitch that you are.”
I can feel the hot flush as my face gets redder than the apple in Valerie’s hand. My fists clench in helpless fury but she’s got me pegged. I just stand there and take it. Like always. Even though my brain is screaming for me to lash out, just once, and belt the bitch right in her puffy Collagenized lips. Screw what happens next. God, it would feel so fucking good to punch her just one time!
But I don’t. I fucking stand there.
Valerie gives me a triumphant snarky smirk. “I thought so,” she murmurs with a giggle.
The hallway starts to fill up with students headed for the elevator to get to classes. She hands me the apple and announces, in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “Here, sweetie. You need this more than me. It’s way healthier than chips and candy. And we both know that a girl as short as you would look just awful carrying the dreaded ‘Freshman Fifteen’!”
Still giggling, Valerie joins the small throng at the elevator. I’m rooted to the spot, trembling, fighting back the tears, as the elevator door opens. Before she steps inside, Valerie turns her head and locks eyes with me for an instant. Giving me that “I gotcha again” look. The look I’ve seen so many times before. The look I see in my nightmares. I know I’ll keep seeing it, over and over, like a bad memory you just can’t shake.
Unless I stand up to her. Finally. And end the reign of terror. But that’s the problem. I’m terrified.
The elevator door closes and she’s gone. I fling the apple down to the floor furiously and it splatters in a juicy blob at my feet. The few people left in the Common Room look up from their lounging, time-killing, homework doing, snack eating, talking, texting.
“So, is all this leading to something or are you telling me that murdering an apple instead of standing up to a bully is the worst thing you ever did?”
“Ha ha. I’m leading up to something, Smarty. And, yes, it’s definitely worse than fruital homicide. It happened about a week after that day in the dorm hall. It was about nine o’clock at night. Nellie and I were in our room doing homework. She was laying on her bed reading Paradise Lost by John Milton for her Lit class. I was at my desk on my computer, doing research for a history paper on the lost colony of Roanoke.”
“Shit,” Danielle yells, jumping up off her bed, throwing down the book she’s been struggling to get through.
“What’s the problem, Rooms?” I ask, my eyes fixed on the tiny words on my monitor as I jot down what I think are important facts about a bunch of people who up and vanished without a trace a long long time ago.
“I am never gonna get through this cruddy assignment,” Nellie moans. “I’m supposed to write a paper about the similarities between Paradise Lost and Star Wars.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So . . . I’ve never seen Star Wars!”
“Yeesh, that IS a problem,” I nod sympathetically.
Nellie grabs her windbreaker. “I’m going to Blockbuster, it’s still open. Maybe I can rent the video.”
“I hope they have lots of copies. You’re not the only one doing that assignment, ya know.”
“Shit! I didn’t think of that! Wish me luck, Rooms!”
“Good luck, Rooms!” I call after her as she scurries out the door. “Fingers crossed! Toes too!”
I go back to my paper, checking my notes and searching the web for other sites about the topic.
“Finally! I thought she’d never leave!”
I whirl around to the open door at the sound of the voice. Valerie Livingston is framed in the doorway, her hands resting lightly on the doorjamb. As much as I hate her, I have to give her credit. The bitch knows fashion. She always looks like she should be competing on America’s Next Top Model or something. Even here, dressed casually in the dorm. Her snug white V-neck cotton tee complements her skin-tight black leggings that display her long legs to perfection. Her black hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. Compared to her, my black Muledeer Rainbow halter-top, baggy gray sweats and unruly hair make me look like a homeless teenage crack addict.
“What do you want, Valerie?” I mutter, annoyed. “I’m busy.”
“Can’t an old friend drop by to say hi?”
“Sure. Next time a friend of mine drops by, I’ll be happy to say hi to her.”
“Ouch. Breezy is in a bad mood tonight.”
“Fuck off, Valerie. Go annoy somebody else.”
“Now, there’s no need for that kind of attitude, Laurie. I’m just trying to be sociable.”
“Oh, really? What about the other day by the vending machines? That your idea of being sociable?”
Valerie lets out what she thinks is a sweet innocent giggle. “Oh, that. I was only teasing. You thought I was serious? Oh, come on, Breezy, we’ve been friends way too long. Why would I be mean to one of my oldest friends?”
I roll my eyes in disgust and stand up. “Oh, please! Don’t give me that crap! We’ve never been friends, Valerie.”
“How can you say that, Laurie?” She has a look of stunned hurt on her face. “Okay, so maybe there have been one or two times when things kinda sorta went a little too far. But it was all just innocent fun teasing between friends. That’s all.”
I look at her, thunderstruck. “Teasing between friends? Seriously? Seriously?! Is that what you think it’s been? Well, guess again, bitch! You’ve been giving me shit right from day one. Well, all that is over and done with. It stops now. Get the fuck out of my room and don’t ever bother me again.”
There comes a time . . .
I feel my heart racing as I’m saying these words. I know there’s no way to take them back. They’re already out there. Like I’m throwing down the gauntlet. I see the gleam of sadistic triumph in Valerie’s icy blue eyes. The mask of innocent sincerity falls. I realize I’ve given her what she wants. I walked right into her little trap. She’s goaded me, pushed my buttons, gotten me to stand up to her. With a cold grin, Valerie shuts the door behind her and casually walks to me with slow deliberate steps.
“And who’s going to make me, midget? You? That’s a laugh,” she sneers. “You’re all alone. No one can help you. Not Nellie your “Rooms”, your new bestie. And definitely not the cute guy I saw you having dinner with at the O in the Morrison Commons. Ryan. That’s his name, isn’t it? He your boyfriend?”
I clench my fists in fury and hiss, “That’s none of your business!”
Valerie tosses back her long black hair and says with a snarky sneer, “I wonder how fast he’ll dump your sorry ass when he finds out what a pathetic little piece of shit loser you are!”
I don’t know who was more shocked by what happened next, Valerie or me. I guess I’ll call it a tie. Flip a coin. Without thinking, without warning, without a worry about my own safety, I haul off and slug the bitch right in the face.
Okay, there is an eight inch height difference between us and I have to punch upwards but my fist makes solid contact, slamming into her surgically enhanced fleshy lips, driving them into her nicely capped teeth. (Oh, silly me, I forgot to mention that before. Valerie has more store-bought parts than anyone else I’ve ever known.)
Her head snaps back and she lets out a startled gasp. With over a decade of built-up rage and frustration, I launch myself at her, flailing away with both fists. Catching her completely off-guard, she starts to back up and is defenseless as I slam into her, sending her crashing to the floor with me on top of her. I quickly straddle her, locking my thighs tight against her body as I sit on her belly and rain wild punches down into her face. She raises her hands and manages to block some of them as she starts to get her wits back. Her lips are already cracked and trickles of blood dribble down her chin.
The initial shock of my attack wears off as Valerie shields her face with her left hand and starts slamming hard punches into my ribs and belly with her right. She bucks up like a wild bronco trying to throw me off her but I manage to stay on top. I stop punching her face and grab her hair instead, pulling her head roughly up off the floor and then slamming it back down again. Valerie groans as the back of her head crashes into the thinly carpeted dorm room floor.
“Awww, wassa matter, baby? Did widdle Va-wuh-wee get a boo-boo?” I mock her with an evil giggle. I twist my nails into her scalp cruelly as I yank her head up again. Just as I slam it back down, Valerie shoots her long left leg up, driving her knee into my back. The impact pitches me forward and Valerie pushes me off her and rolls away. We both scramble up to our knees at the same time. Valerie glares at me, a look of hate on her face and, maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I also see a bit of fear in her eyes. She runs her tongue across her bleeding lips and gives me a little nod with a tight grim smile.
“So the little bitch finally decides to fight back. Took long enough.”
I match her intense gaze, locking eyes as I snarl, “Well, maybe if I knew what a weak-ass loser you really are, I woulda kicked the shit of you back at Westside on the playground.”
I stand up, take a quick breath, and beckon Valerie with a wagging finger. Her eyes widen and I see a flash of uncertainty in them. Strange, I’m not the least bit nervous or scared. Here I am, alone in a room with a bitch who’s bigger than I am, an obnoxious bully who’s been tormenting me for years. And she’s the one showing signs of fear and nagging doubt.
But she covers it up fast. She wipes the blood from her lips with the back of her hand and flicks it at me with a defiant smirk. I flinch and take a step backwards and Valerie rushes forward, arms outstretched, just like I hoped she would. As she grabs for my hair, I duck and slide to my left, firing my right fist deep into her belly. Valerie gasps and doubles over, clutching her belly. I quickly grab her ankles and pull back hard, sending her facedown to the floor.
(“Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
All dressed in black, black, black.
She has a knife, knife, knife
Stuck in her back, back, back.
She cannot breathe, breathe, breathe.
She cannot cry, cry, cry . . . ”)
Snarling, my eyes wild, my lips curled, my teeth bared, I leap at her but Valerie quickly rolls over onto her back and savagely kicks me in the chest with both feet. I let out a strangled little cry of pain as I fly backwards, crashing into the side of Nellie’s bed. I pull myself up to my feet, my left arm pressed lightly against my breasts as I blink back tears and try to ignore the pounding throb of agony in my chest. Valerie scrambles up at the same time and tackles me from behind, pitching us both onto the bed.
The angry bitch has me facedown on the bed and she’s intent on dishing out some serious payback. She sits up on my back, grabs my hair and yanks my head up off the bed cover. “No way will you ever be better than me, you little loser bitch,” she hisses in a hate-filled voice as she starts punching me in the face with her right fist. Her fist slams into my right eye and then my cheek. I get my right hand up to deflect some of the brunt of her blows. Luck is on my side. I manage to grab her by the wrist. I twist my head as much as I can, open my mouth and savagely sink my teeth into her hand.
Valerie screeches in pain as I clamp down like a mad dog. She releases my hair and jerks her body back as she tries to pull her hand free. I twist my body under her to roll over onto my back as she fires down hard punches into my head with her left hand. She finally pulls her right hand free and stares in unbelieving shock at the red teeth marks and the blood on it. Then she looks down at me under her. I give her a defiant sneer, my front teeth pinkish-red from her blood mixed with my saliva.
“You are fucking dead, you cxnt!” she roars as she wraps her hands around my neck and starts choking me.
Okay, deep down I know that there’s no way she’s actually going to kill me. At least, I THINK she won’t. But there’s that tiny nagging doubt that maybe, just maybe, she actually means it. And the tightening grip of her fingers crushing my throat are turning that tiny doubt into a definite possibility.
Not that I’m taking it lying down. Oh, no. I’m putting up a hell of a fight. I’m bucking, I’m twisting, I’m digging my nails into her wrists and forearms, I’m flailing my legs to try to knee her in the back. Valerie is snarling and hissing, her eyes are wild and demented as she tries to squeeze the last breath out of my body. A low guttural rasping noise comes from my open distended mouth. My right hand lets go of her left wrist and I throw a desperate punch up at her face. My vision is getting blurry and it bounces off her shoulder instead before it falls back onto the bed. My fingers hit something hard lying by Nellie’s pillow.
A book. Paradise Lost by John Milton. Four hundred pages. Hardcover.
I grab the book and swing it up into Valerie’s face. It smashes against the bridge of her nose with a sickening sound. She cries out and releases my throat bringing both hands up to cover her face. Blood seeps through her fingers. I suck in a lungful of badly needed air and use both hands to slam the book into her face again. And a third time, just for good measure. She falls off me and lands on the floor in a heap, moaning and sobbing.
I sit up slowly, closing my eyes to keep the room from spinning. My vision starts to clear as my senses return. I swing my legs off the bed and look down at Valerie on the floor. Blood is streaming from her nose and I know right away that it must be broken. I can also sense by the way she’s lying there, on her side, tucked in a sort of fetal position, that there’s no fight left in her.
(She cannot breathe, breathe, breathe.
She cannot cry, cry, cry.
That’s why she begs, begs, begs.
She begs to die, die, die.)
There comes a time . . .
One part of my brain is telling me, it’s over, she’s done, you beat her, you finally beat her, you’ll never have to be afraid of this bitch ever again in your life, it’s over, it’s finally over.
But that OTHER voice, the loud one that drowns out the compassionate voice of reason is screaming, fuck that, this bitch doesn’t deserve your sympathy or compassion, not after everything she’s done to you, she has to be punished, she has to be taught a lesson, you owe yourself that, make her suffer, make her pay!
Which voice do I listen to? I’ll give you three guesses. And the first two don’t count.
I stomp my heel down hard into Valerie’s side. She groans and curls up even more. I get off the bed and slowly walk around her, looking down, careful and alert in case she might be playing possum. But she isn’t. She’s done. She knows it. And now I know it too.
“Please,” she whimpers. “Please. Don’t hurt me any more.”
I kick her again. This time in the ass. Then I move over to her head, reach down and grab her hair. I yank her up to her hands and knees and pull her away from Nellie’s bed so she won’t bleed on it. She’s not resisting, not putting up a struggle. My bully has surrendered herself to me completely. I push her down onto the carpet and roll her onto her back. I pull up her not-so-white-anymore tee and use it to wipe the blood from her face. Then I sit on her belly and amuse myself by slapping and pinching her brand-new boobs.
“You really got your money’s worth on these, Val,” I smirk as I slap them even harder and twist her nipples savagely. She just lies there, moaning. Her eyes are closed, like she’s too ashamed to even look up at me.
“Open your eyes,” I demand in a stern voice. “I want you to remember this moment forever!” Her eyes stay shut so I backhand her hard across the face. “Open them, I said!”
Her eyes fly open. The slap must have sent shockwaves of agony through her already broken nose. “Please,” she begs. “I give up. Laurie, please, I’ll never ever bother you again. I swear.”
There they were. The words I’ve been waiting to hear come from her puffy Collagenized lips for years. I thought they would be enough. But they’re not. Not for all she’s put me through.
I smack her around some more, torture and torment her simply because I can and she can’t stop me. She whimpers and begs and tries to raise her trembling hand to stop me but I swat it away and continue my revenge. I finally yank her up to her feet by her hair and drag her to the door. Just before I open it, I pull the taller bitch’s head down and hiss in her ear, “NOW it’s over!”
I shove her out into the hallway and watch her stagger away on rubbery legs, her head bowed, little gasping sobs coming from her mouth. Past Nellie, who stares open-mouthed at Valerie and then at me, with Star Wars in a plastic Blockbuster bag in her hand. Past the people in the Common Room who are lounging, time-killing, homework doing, snack eating, talking, texting.
She never looks back.
“I don’t get it, Laurie. How can beating the shit out of the bully who made your life hell for so long be the worst thing you ever did?”
“Because,” I say patiently, “I didn’t stop after she gave up. I kept beating on her. Not because I had to. Because it felt too damn good to stop. And that’s when I became what I hated most about Valerie Livingston. I became the bully. She was crying, she was helpless, she was humiliated. And I was loving every minute of it. That’s why it was the worst thing I ever did.”
“That makes sense . . . I guess.”
“But,” I add, breaking into a big grin, “it was also the BEST thing I ever did, too.”
