I don’t remember exactly what the boys said that day in science class. I was sitting alone at the back table, lost in the Warriors cat universe, when their mocking laughter over the “gay lifestyle” reached me. Eleven years of memorizing the scriptures at Christian Academy had taught me this was wrong. That I should defend those who couldn’t themselves. When I spoke up, saying something like “God loves everyone and we shouldn’t be saying those things,” I was surprised no one had said something sooner. More surprising, my teacher Mrs. Burns—the spiritual leader handpicked by the staff to instruct us in the ways of God, remained silent.
The bell rang. As I knelt beside my locker, Mrs. Burns halted behind me. She was an older woman, wrinkled with yellowing hair and a voice off-enough to make me turn.
“I heard what you said last period.”
“Did you?” I couldn’t help but feel a little proud. She’d noticed me living out the school’s Christian principles!
“Yes, but you aren’t gay, are you?” The question carried a threat.
“No,” I frowned. Christian Academy had enlightened me on the fire and brimstone that awaited such a lifestyle—this midwestern gal was as straight as they came! I just didn’t think people should be laughed at for not conforming to our beliefs. It was so obvious to me, but not so much to Mrs. Burns. After that, she stopped laughing at my jokes. If I tried to talk with her outside of academics—she’d walk away. I couldn’t quite place how, but the other teachers seemed more distant too. Given my good grades and the effort I put into assignments, I finally traced the odd behavior back to that day in science class and vowed to redeem myself. I had to show Mrs. Burns, and everyone, that I was on the right side—their side—in the war against Satan.
*
Two years my junior, my sister was everything I wasn’t at Christian Academy. She was the athlete. The teacher’s saving grace in robotics. An all-A student. A teaching assistant for the elementary wing. A participant in every fundraiser. During lunch, I’d watch her sitting with her friends across the cafeteria and wonder how I could be like that too?
*
Students had been complaining about our school musicals for years. They had to be Christian-based, and though the heavy-handed morals about trusting in God meant well, the plotlines were tacky enough to make even the most devoted disciple cringe by the end.
In 11th grade, I stood outside of the Math classroom where the teachers were eating on their lunch break. They invited me inside, and I scanned the powdered faces for the music teacher Mrs. Joy. She was eating a salad against the wall where several scriptures were hung. Her stringy chestnut hair lay limp on her shoulders.
“Mrs. Joy,” I croaked, my memorized speech melting on my tongue. “As you know, my sister is in your show choir and she was telling me how hard it was to find a musical last year. I didn’t know if I could work with you and write a play myself? We could splice in Christian songs between the scenes like you did last time—and I can make the scenes flow into the songs naturally to not make the transitions choppy!” For damage control, I quickly added, “It’s fine if you want to pass on the play, I know I’m no professional.”
The multiple blue ribbons I had earned for my creative writing over the years were well-known throughout our high school’s single hallway. Mrs. Joy seemed interested, and I promised a completed manuscript by the first week of the following school year.
I strutted down the hallway on my return to the cafeteria. Maybe I was awful at sports and couldn’t sing, but I could use my God-given abilities as a writer to benefit the school! I could, at last, redeem myself.
I pooled over my play the entire summer. While tossing leaking garbage bags into the Arby’s dumpster and scooping poop out of urinals, my mind was piecing together the story of “Charlie and the Temptation Factory.” Screaming customers were bearable beneath the chance of working alongside Mrs. Joy to produce something grand for my school.
True to my word, on the first week of senior year, I handed over my 160 paged manuscript—making sure to emphasize again that it was alright if she wanted to pass on it.
I felt lightheaded as I left her office. Now it was time to wait.
*
Three girls joined Christian Academy midway through high school and quickly warmed up to the students and staff. When one vanished in the middle of the year, the rumor was that she’d been kicked out after getting pregnant. It didn’t sit right with me that our school would drop someone when she needed support the most. In my Life Calling course (a class that helped students discover God’s destiny for them) our teacher asked what changes we wanted to see in the school. I brought up their mistreatment of the girl.
My teacher’s face wrinkled, her scowl telling me I was stupid for ever considering this a possibility.
“We did not kick her out,” she said pointedly. All eyes were on us. Watching. Judging. “She chose to leave.”
*
Despite having no football team, Christian Academy made the most of our homecoming that doubled as prom. Dancing was difficult, as we had to “keep Jesus between us” and not touch on the dancefloor. Thankfully, the hot sauce eating contest promised to compensate for the lack of other entertainment. Being on the homecoming committee, my sister volunteered and began scarfing down the chicken soaked in increasingly hot sauces. Soon, she and two older boys were the only remaining competitors. They had iron stomachs, so the chicken was replaced with swallowing spoonfuls of the hottest sauce available. All players had bulging eyes bloated with tears and smeared snot cracking over their red faces. Each spoonful sent them keeling and retching, but no one dared relent. The student body laughed at the spectacle while the boys’ friends chugged milk beside them with exaggerated enthusiasm. Realizing the contestants would sooner die than forfeit, a tie was called, and the victors stumbled to the bathroom chugging their half-gallons of milk.
I found my sister retching and half-choking on mucus over the sink. Cracked trails of dried tears sparkled on her red face. Milk had spilled on her dress, and her voice broke as she dismissed me with an angry wave. This rare moment of weakness was not meant to be witnessed—especially by her older sibling who’d failed to pick up a date for the evening. The phlegm-fused coughs followed me as I exited. Her voice and throat would be raw for days afterward, but she got bragging rights for staying in the running till the bitter end.
*
A few weeks after delivering my play, Mrs. Joy developed a magnetic repulsion for me. She’d shuffle off whenever I approached to inquire about how far she’d read. I made sure to emphasize there were no hard feelings if she didn’t like it—and she told me she would get around to reading it. Months passed, and she was kind enough to tell me my biweekly check-ins were unnecessary—she would come to me when she was finished.
The suspense was torture. All I wanted was a simple greenlight or “no” and be on with my life. Yet, I had faith she’d give me her verdict soon. Her son was in my class and you couldn’t forget someone in a high school of sixty-some kids! I was reluctant to take on any extra activities’ senior year, for I had to be ready to drop everything if my production was accepted.
I was still waiting five months later when they handed over my diploma.
*
Spiritual Emphasis Week had its pros and cons. Pros: no homework or academic lessons! Cons: three days of rigorous spiritual instruction and evangelism that forced my shy self onto the streets to spread Christ’s good news. It was important practice for both life and the looming Senior mission trip I’d be taking with my class in a few months.
We followed behind our Applied Worldviews teacher Mrs. Key into a local restaurant. Paper Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling and a menu showcasing rice and noodles was mounted above the counter. The employees glanced up as we entered. Their restaurant was empty, and my class of twelve would seat at least half of their store’s capacity. Their smiles held as Mrs. Key—towering a good foot above them, strutted up to the register.
“Hello there,” my teacher proclaimed. “Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?”
The employees’ smiles grew increasingly desperate as my teacher shot down their polite declines and continued her rehearsed speech on salvation. I sent up a thankful prayer for being at the back of the class—far away from the possibility of being called upon for backup. This was the same teacher who taught that Muslims secretly voted to legalize gay marriage so we’d stop having children and they could “breed and take over America.” I’d reported that comment, but nothing came of it. Did it ever? It was for the best to let her madness run its course and hope the experience didn’t discourage the employees from our religion.
Finally, Mrs. Key backed off. With a declaration that she’d return soon, she marched out the door and we filed behind to leave the restaurant empty once more.
*
After my freshman year of college, I attended one of my younger friend’s graduation parties. She was the proud valedictorian in a class of four. Mrs. Joy was at a foldable table laughing with the other teachers. Considering my options, I walked over as politely as I could.
“Hello, Mrs. Joy! I was wondering if you’ve finished reading my play?”
I expected more excuses. Maybe my long-delayed “no?” The loud laughing that escaped her throat, the belittling way she revealed she’d lost my manuscript months ago and had completely forgotten about an entire summer’s worth of me editing and fact-checking, was unexpected. I managed a smile and “that’s okay” before walking off.
A few teachers at the table must have disagreed with the scene, for a little later she waved me back over. Asked if I could (again) send it to her email address.
One day, I’ll get around to it.
*
My black Arby’s uniform was traded for a green polo during my university job in foodservice. I was stuffing my face with breadsticks on break when my phone buzzed. My sister had texted. It was the first message she’d sent her entire senior year.
Guess what?
I get a detox early.
Detox? From what? The breadsticks weighed heavy in my stomach. I had a nagging suspicion that was confirmed when I called after my shift. With less than four months until graduating from the school she’d attended since kindergarten—she’d been booted out. They suspected she was a lesbian—and though she was dating a girl from another country online—they couldn’t prove it. However, her short haircut was deemed scandalous enough to toss twelve and a half years of doing nearly every sport and fundraiser away.
My sister did a little snooping and asked her friends how her departure had been handled. Departure? They’d been told she chose to leave.
*
The senior trip for most schools was the “senior mission trip” for Christian Academy. My class of twelve carpooled down to Nashville and went with a local church to visit a neighborhood for Egyptian immigrants. We arrived to find several middle school boys kicking a deflated soccer ball around on an abandoned basketball court—using the fading white lines on the cement as borders for the “goals.” They were insistent girls couldn’t play, so I went with my female classmates to knock on doors and spread awareness for our block party. A little girl who had been given a heads up met us at her apartment complex and offered us an armful of twinkies and sodas. Piles of rotting leaves rested against the indoor staircase, yet the girl excitedly insisted we take her food.
She guided us to other houses with kids, and when we returned to the basketball-court-turned-soccer-field, a decent-sized group followed behind.
In the setting sun, I noticed a large wire fence running alongside the apartments that barred off another neighborhood identical in flaking tan apartments and abandoned soda cans.
“What’s over there?” I asked.
“That’s the Muslim side,” the girl said as she skipped along.
That night, a stereo blasted music throughout the neighborhood while kids drank sodas and swung around hula hoops. I made balloon dogs for the kids. When the noodle balloons ran out, my fans gave me a sharpie and I drew funny faces on the round ones. By the time my class left, it was practically unanimous that visiting the Egyptian apartments was the highlight of our trip.
Yet the Muslim apartments stuck with me. They probably had rotting leaves inside their lobbies too. The children had to have heard our stereos and watched kids charging around with smiley-face balloons and hula hoops. But they weren’t invited. They were on the wrong side of the fence.
*
“It’s awful,” I spoke to the crowd at my class’s end-of-the-year mission trip presentation. Teachers, students, parents, and the highbrow staff on the school board watched me from foldable chairs positioned in uniformed lines across the gym. “To think that a fence was the only thing stopping those children from balloons and a dance party.”
I surveyed the crowd as I passed the mic, expecting nods from Christ-like people who sang “Jesus Loves the Little Children” on Sundays. Instead, scowls set in reddened faces met me. Arms crossed over fancy suits. Heat gathered in my cheeks. My last attempt to not be the weird girl had only cemented my place. There were only so many balloons and hula hoops to go around—and those goods were meant for the people on their side of the fence.
