Cheshire (Original Short Fiction)
There was a girl I used to know, years ago. I only formally met her in junior high, but I first noticed her in elementary school. Our classes had assigned seating back then. I could never figure out what kind of algorithm they were using to determine where the kids were seated, but she was always one row behind me, at the very back of the room. Sometimes she was right behind me, other times she was a few seats over, but she and I were always close to one another.
Close in terms of space, at least. In terms of friendship, we were miles apart. In fact, besides her name, there were only two things I knew about her when she first caught my eye. One was that she liked to use colored paper. I noticed that the first year she was directly behind me -- in fourth grade, I think it was. Every assignment she passed forward that year was written on light pink paper that smelled slightly of strawberries. It was much more ostentatious than most girls, who opted simply to write in colored ink as an expression of their individuality. I noticed in the years to come that her choice of color changed with each new school year -- yellow, orange, violet. However, that alone wouldn’t have been interesting enough for me to expend much prepubescent childhood thought on her, my head mostly filled with games and stories and sleepovers with my friends, had it not been for the other thing I knew: regardless of the season, she was always wearing a scarf.
It was a solid color, always matching the color of her paper, and appeared to be hand-knit, from the few times I was able to get a good look. It was wrapped tightly around her neck and face, just below her nose. After these two oddities caught my attention, I started to learn more about her, just through casual observation. I noticed that she never raised her hand to answer questions, and the teachers never called on her. I noticed that she was never present during lunch. I noticed that she never spoke to anyone. I noticed that we rode the same bus home, but that she always sat alone. I noticed that she seemed to have no friends.
I wasn’t the only person who noticed these things, and after the grapevine got wind of the weird girl who seemed to get special treatment, it became commonplace for kids to tease her. Mostly the bullying took the form of snide remarks from other girls in the hall, and she bore that well, pretending not to hear or not to care. However, there was one incident I remember clearly that ultimately pushed things too far. The bus had pulled up to her stop, and she was getting up to leave when one of the kids grabbed her scarf and yanked it off. She immediately threw her hands up to her face with a shriek, and ran crying from the bus as the other kids laughed.
She was absent for a week after that. It came as no surprise to me when there was an impromptu school-wide anti-bullying seminar that Friday. The school had tried to play it off as something that had been scheduled for months, but everyone knew the truth. Even then, I knew it wouldn’t do any good. It would only feed the rumor mill and the general negative sentiment about the girl. However, without naming names, it had been strongly noted that any child caught bullying another on school grounds would be severely punished, and so it returned to mean-spirited gossip and backhanded compliments when the teachers weren’t looking.
Not all of the children were cruel, of course. I had seen more than one girl approach her over the years with an offer of friendship. I was never privy to the explicit details, but it seemed that the girl had actively shunned friendship, and even the children with good intentions were spurned or simply ignored until they left her alone, frustrated or exasperated. I myself never approached her during those years, despite having witnessed her abuse. I was content to merely play the bystander, unsure of whether there was anything I could do.
When our elementary school graduation was closing in and summer had nearly arrived, our teacher asked us to do one last assignment. There were collective groans from the classroom, but the teacher assured us that it would be simple. All we had to do was write a one-page story about our experience in elementary school. It could be about a fond memory, or our general impression of school -- anything we wanted, true or false, as long as it was significant to us in some way. Most children wrote about fairly mundane things. A few children made up outlandish stories. I hardly remember what I wrote about, myself. But I do remember what she wrote.
After we turned in the assignment, on the last day of class, the teacher pinned them all up on the wall. She invited us to take the day off to read what our peers had written. The papers had been photocopied and the names had been blanked out for the sake of privacy, but as I walked around the classroom, pretending to read them so I wouldn’t get called out for doing nothing, I saw her paper. Even with the name blanked out, it was clearly hers -- the shade of the paper was noticeably darker than the others, despite being a black-and-white photocopy. I looked closer, suddenly interested. At the very top was the title, written in well-practiced cursive -- CHESHIRE.
The story was about a little girl who smiled all the time. Everywhere she went, she smiled at the people around her. Whether she was happy or sad, she always smiled -- but nobody ever smiled back. When she was teased, she would smile, but her bullies never stopped. When she was alone, she would cry softly into her pillow, still with a smile on her face. She never wanted to be alone, and watched forlornly as other kids made friends, but she could not help smiling, and knew that she would never be like them. She smiled every day of her life, and knew that she would never be happy.
I didn’t understand the story, but it filled me with remorse and pity. I realized that there was a girl underneath that scarf that I had never seen before. In all my observations, she was someone I did not truly know. I looked around the room and saw her sitting at her desk, alone. She was looking at me, but she quickly turned away as our eyes met. I glanced at her occasionally throughout the rest of the school day while I milled about, pretending to read other papers. She had her head down, but would occasionally glance up towards her paper. I looked at it myself occasionally, but no one ever stopped in front of it for more than a few seconds. I have no doubt that I was the only person who read it.
I thought about her during summer break. I thought about the story she had written. I thought about the girl I had never seen in all the time that I had watched her. I resolved to at least introduce myself when the new school year started. It was likely that I would be turned away like the others before me, but if there was a chance of learning more about her, I knew it was worth the attempt.
Our junior high class was split into several groups, based on placement testing. I can only guess now that our seating throughout elementary school was similar. I was in the Advanced Placement group, while several of the kids who had always been seated at the front wound up in the Remedial group. I didn’t make that connection for several years -- all I knew was that I was still in the same classes as her, and she was still sitting at the very back. Even for the classes that had no assigned seating, she always opted to sit at the back. Already I could hear the rumor mill churning as kids from other elementary schools learned about the “scarf girl”. I decided then to suck up my embarrassment and introduce myself.
I got to class early one day and saw her sitting alone in the back corner. Despite most other seats being empty, I walked straight to the back of the room and sat at the desk next to her. She glanced at me briefly as I sat down, but made no attempt to communicate. I sat for a few minutes after I had pulled my books and papers out, then I glanced over at her. She was wearing a deep violet scarf, and the papers on her desk were a light violet to match. I thought about mentioning the scarf, or the paper color, but nothing I said in my head sounded natural, and most of it sounded creepy. I finally ended up just blurting out her name -- a fact I very quickly regretted.
“Julia, right?”
The words were like an awkward explosion in my mouth. She started suddenly at the unexpected volume of them, then looked over at me. I had a nervous smile on my face, trying desperately to look friendly. She looked away, then scribbled something on a piece of paper, ripping it out and handing it to me. It simply said Go away.
I had blown it. I turned away from her and sat quietly as the class started. I didn’t hear the lecture through my burning ears as I stared at the back of the head in front of me. I thought about what I could do or say to try again, but I realized that another attempt at an introduction was pointless. As class was wrapping up, I pulled her note back out and scribbled my own message on the back. I thought Cheshire was really good. You can talk to me if you ever want someone to smile with. At the bottom I wrote my email address. I left the note sitting conspicuously on my desk as I stood up and left the room. I didn’t know if she would take it, but I knew it would be awkward for both of us if I waited to find out.
The rest of the day was fairly nondescript. I didn’t try sitting next to her again, and most of the lectures went in one ear and out the other. I scribbled thoughtlessly in my notebooks as I wondered whether she had read the note. I had to assume she hadn’t -- or, even if she had, that it was a meaningless gesture, and she would probably ignore it.
When I got home, I sat at my computer without expecting much. Much to my surprise, I had a new email from an address I didn’t recognize. I opened it hesitantly and my heart rate picked up as I read it.
Is this Brian? This is Julia. I’m sorry I was rude to you before. I appreciate what you were trying to do, but I don’t think you’ll want to be my friend. I’m not very nice. I just thought I owed you an apology.
I quickly hammered out a reply, insisting that I had no problem with being her friend, and if she ever wanted to talk to someone, I would be happy to listen. I sat and stared at the screen without blinking for several minutes after hitting the “Send” button, but another reply never popped up. I tabbed out of the window and back into it several times. I closed it and opened it again. I checked my internet connection. I rebooted my computer. Still no reply.
I sighed, assuming that I had simply overstepped my bounds, when my heart jumped at the sound of a new IM. I tabbed over to my messaging client and saw that it was my friend asking if I wanted to come over. Busy, I replied. I sat at the computer for the rest of the night, drumming my fingers on the desk and swiveling in my chair, but there was still no reply.
I shrugged slightly to myself as I looked at the clock and saw that it had gotten late. I was about to close my email and turn off the computer when I saw another message pop up. I quickly opened it.
We’ll see.
That was good enough for me. I messaged back that I hoped so, then I got in bed, very prematurely excited at having possibly made friends with the girl with the scarf.
I didn’t sit next to her for the rest of the week, either in class or on the bus, and she continued to sit alone. I madly refreshed my email whenever I got home, but I still never saw another message from her. I was quickly starting to lose hope when I was on my computer late that Saturday. It was well after 1:00am, and I was planning to turn in soon when I saw a new email from her.
What do you want to talk about?
My heart leapt into my throat as my brain scrambled for a reply. I hadn’t actually thought this far ahead. What could we talk about? Her paper? Her scarf? No, that was too personal. I had already screwed up one attempt to get to know her. I knew I had to lead with something non-threatening. I asked her if she liked our classes.
Not really. They’re too easy.
The reply was almost immediate. I asked about her electives, since that was the only time I didn’t see her at school, except for lunch. I was taking a drama class and a French class myself, so I was curious what she had taken.
I have Creative Writing fourth period. I do independent study sixth period. That’s usually when I do my homework. I have piano lessons after school most days, so I need the extra time.
The conversation continued like that for a while. It was fairly dry, but I was overjoyed at finally being able to talk to the most elusive girl in school. After about an hour or so, her replies slowed down, until she finally responded,
I have to go to bed. We can talk again tomorrow.
I told her that I would be happy to. The next morning I woke up to a new email from her.
Why do you want to be my friend?
I suddenly noticed the timestamp, and realized it had been sent well after I had gone to bed. I thought about it for a while. Why did I want to be her friend? Was it really as altruistic as reaching out a hand to someone in need, or did I have ulterior motives? Was I merely seeking the satisfaction of doing something that no one else had done? What could I possibly tell her that wouldn’t be demeaning, or an outright lie?
After thinking for several minutes, I gave up on trying to understand my own motivations, and simply responded, Because I like you.
I assumed that it would be some time before I got a response, so I went about my business for the day: I casually flipped through my homework, doing parts of it and putting off the rest; I lounged around and watched TV as I ate lunch; I played video games with my friend Thomas until his mother called him home for dinner. By the time I had remembered the email, most of the day had gone by, and I quickly returned to my computer. I had three new emails.
It’s okay if you just want to be friends, but I hope you know I don’t “like you” in that way.
I’m sorry if that was presumptuous. I just mean that I only want to be friends.
I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.
I quickly wrote out a reply apologizing for not replying earlier, and ensuring her that I only meant I liked her as a person, and I only wanted to be friends. As I was about to hit “Send”, I paused. Was that really the truth? Was it just friendship that I wanted? Or had I lied to myself? I thought about her. She had long brown hair that she wore up in a ponytail, presumably to keep it out of her scarf. She had a small button nose that poked out just above the violet knitting. She had large brown eyes that almost seemed to sparkle green when I saw them. Why was I only thinking about how she looked? Did I actually just have a crush on her? Was I as shallow as that?
I erased the email and rewrote that I was simply happy being friends with her. I wasn’t sure if that was the truth or not, but I knew that I would rather be friends than nothing at all. She responded back instantly.
I’m glad.
I heaved a sigh and moved the conversation back to safer topics. We talked about her piano lessons, what she was working on for Creative Writing, and a number of other relatively mundane things. It seemed that things were safe for the time being, and I told her I was getting ready for bed, but I was looking forward to seeing her at school tomorrow.
Please don’t talk to me at school.
There was a crash like a pair of cymbals in my chest. What did that mean? Was she embarrassed to be seen with me? Was she just pretending to be friends? I had no idea how to respond when she sent a second email.
It’s not that I don’t like you. I just can’t talk to you at school. I can’t explain right now. I hope that’s okay.
I didn’t know what to say, so I told her it was fine, and I wished her good night.
Several weeks passed. We talked for hours online almost every day, but still she insisted that we not talk at school. I tried to figure out what was going on, but it didn’t make any sense to me. I had thought about bringing it up again, but I didn’t want to seem too imposing. However, the stress of not understanding why we could only secretly be friends got the better of me, and I sat next to her on the school bus one day.
“Julia,” I said quietly, so the other kids wouldn’t hear us talking over the clamor of the bus, “I know you asked me not to talk to you, but you haven’t told me why. I just want to know if we’re really friends or not.”
I looked over at her, a sad and helpless expression on her face. She reached into the right pocket of her jacket and pulled out a violet piece of paper, handing it to me. I unfolded it and read it.
I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you. It’s that I can’t.
I looked up from the note and saw her pointing to the scarf. I was about to ask why she didn’t just remove it when I remembered the incident with the bully. Then I realized that she already had the note with her; she had probably written it weeks ago, and was simply waiting for the right time to give it to me. I nodded at her.
“I understand. But we don’t have to talk to be friends, right? I think it would be nice just to sit together.”
I smiled at her, and she blushed fiercely enough that her cheeks nearly took on the same color as her scarf. She turned away for a second, then looked back at me with a friendly nod. I smiled again and sat in silence for the duration of the ride.
When I got home, I found a new email waiting for me.
I’m really glad you sat with me today.
I started sitting next to her in class and on the bus every day from then on. Occasionally we would pass notes to each other. I learned that she had a witty and incredibly sarcastic sense of humor, and more than one of her notes landed me in trouble with our teachers from my sudden outburst of laughter. We were still talking over email every day, but it had finally started to feel like we were real friends. I could tell that she had brightened as well; though I couldn’t see beneath the scarf, I finally had a real sense that she was smiling.
Months went by, until a new school year had rolled around. Her scarf and notebook papers had changed to lime green over the break. We had gotten extremely close since we had started talking, but we still only saw each other at school, having spent no time together over the summer. I had asked her a few times to hang out with my friends and me, but she had always refused, usually citing her ongoing piano lessons as a severe time constraint.
One night, while we were exchanging emails, I mentioned offhandedly that she should come over for dinner sometime, since it would be in the evening, when we were usually just chatting anyway. It seemed like an innocent suggestion at first, but she suddenly responded,
I can’t do that.
I was about to ask why, when I remembered the scarf, and how she was never around during lunch. I thought about it for a moment, then I tried a different tactic. I suggested, if she couldn’t come over for dinner, maybe I could eat lunch with her one day.
No.
That was that. I didn’t know how to follow up, so I apologized for imposing. She didn’t reply for several minutes, so I thought that would be the end of that night’s conversation, until another email popped up.
I’m sorry. This isn’t like when you wanted to talk to me. This is something that I can never do. I don’t think you would understand.
I told her that I would be happy to try, if only she would give me a chance. Another several minutes went by before she replied.
There’s something I haven’t told you. But I think I can only tell you in person.
I looked at the clock. It was still relatively early, and it was the weekend. I could probably slip away for a little while without my parents jumping down my throat. I emailed her back, suggesting that we meet at her bus stop. It was only a few blocks from me, and I could bike up there pretty quickly. After another few minutes, she agreed, and I raced out to my bike.
I pedaled like mad as my heart and mind raced, wondering what it was that she needed to tell me, and why she couldn’t do it over email. I was sweating and winded when I came to a stop at her street. I saw her standing by the side of the road, under the bright fluorescent glow of a street light, and wheeled my bike over to her.
“What’s going on, Julia?” I asked, trying to catch my breath. She looked at me with incredible sadness in her eyes, then pulled out a piece of paper, handing it to me. I looked it over carefully as my eyes adjusted, the ink barely standing out against the lime green paper.
I never wanted this conversation to happen. I was so happy just pretending that everything was okay. I was so happy just being your friend. But I can’t do that anymore. I love you too much. I can’t just be friends anymore, even if that means losing you forever.
I smiled as my heart raced, my face burning as the blood rushed to it.
“Julia, you didn’t have to worry about this,” I said, lightheaded. “The truth is that I’m crazy about you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met. I just never thought you felt the same way. Of course I love you. You’re not going to lose me.”
Julia shook her head slowly as a tear ran down her cheek, her eyes closed. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a second note. She handed it to me, then unwrapped the lime green scarf tied so tightly around her neck. As it pulled away from her face, I saw heavy scarring around her chin and throat, and her teeth bared in the moonlight; her lips were not merely curled back -- they appeared to be actively fused with her gums, leaving her with a perpetual, agonizing grin.
She started to whimper as she redid her scarf, and I looked down at the note in shock.
My parents did this to me. From the time that I was born, they kept a mask over my mouth, locking it open or closed with a vice. It was so tight that I could not move my jaw at all. The tissue on my face scarred over, and my lips grew up into my gums. I was eventually rescued by my aunt, but my face has never healed, and I’ve never learned how to talk. I know that no one could ever love me the way I am, but I hope we can still be friends even though you know the truth.
The note was badly wrinkled and written in shaky cursive, and as I slowly read through it, it dawned on me that it was written on plain white paper. My heart broke as I looked up at her, tears streaming down her face, and stepped forward, wrapping my arms tightly around her as she sobbed into her scarf. I could only guess how many years she had held onto that note, waiting for someone to give it to. I stroked the back of her neck softly as she cried into my shoulder, and gently reassured her that neither my words nor my feelings had changed -- that she would never lose me.
She didn’t; but sadly, I have lost her. Some knew Julia Idoni Moore as a world-renowned classical pianist; most knew her as my wife of 53 years. Only a few knew her before her reconstructive surgery. However, I wanted everyone to know her as I once knew her: as the girl in the scarf who never stopped smiling.
~Obituary for Julia Idoni Moore, written by Brian Christopher Moore
January 17, 2061