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I need a really Southern name.

MaryAnna? Sarah Beth? Seems to me that Southern names are really two names, stuck together. Still searching for the perfect one.

In the meantime, our protagonist will remain nameless. Interestingly, she doesn't need a name. Not yet, anyway.

Can you guess where this story is going? I tried to make it a little vague. Hopefully I achieved that!

Love, Lisa



I was in fifth grade when Michelle Jenkins destroyed my world. Or, at least, my social life.

We stayed in during recess. This was the millionth time I tried to explain to her the difference between a possessive pronoun and a contraction.

“Your shows ownership,” I explained while Mrs. Simpson wiped the chalk board clean. She was used to me spending recess in here with Michelle. Seemed we went over school lessons twice a week…sometimes more. Michelle just couldn’t wrap her head around certain concepts. I was happy to help.

“So when I write your, spelled Y-O-U-R, I am talking about someone owning something?” Michelle asked, furrowing her brow.

I nodded. “Exactly. You’re, on the other hand, with the apostrophe…well, that is just a convenient way of combining a noun and a verb. It is a literary shortcut, basically. A faster way to say what you originally wanted to say.”

Michelle nodded. Her light brown hair moved softly around her shoulders, falling back into position flawlessly. She was so pretty without even trying. Looks came naturally to Michelle. Friends and crushes, too. It was school that gave her trouble. I was the exact opposite, which made things interesting. I was a whiz kid in the classroom but a loner in every other setting.

“Ok, let’s test it out,” I said, sliding a piece of paper toward Michelle. “I’m going to say a couple sentences, and you write down which word I’m saying.”

Michelle grabbed a pencil. We usually worked in pencil. Never in pen, because Michelle tended to make lots of mistakes. The erasers on her pencils were worn thin.

“You’re a great actress,” I said. It was true, Michelle was one of the best in the school. I’d seen her in the fall play and the winter musical. She stole the show. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she ended up in Hollywood.

Your, Michelle scribbled across the blank page.

I slapped my forehead without meaning to.

She glanced at me, then erased the word. She neatly wrote you’re. Which wasn’t very impressive since it was the only choice left. At least her handwriting was impeccable. It was composed of little square letters, perfectly symmetrical like something generated by a computer.

“Let’s keep going,” I urged, trying to remain positive. No use making Michelle feel dumb.

She cracked her knuckles like this was a really intense exercise. Then she picked up the pencil once more and concentrated on her sheet of paper.

“Don’t let anyone steal your confidence,” I said, glancing up at the clock. Five minutes left until recess was over.

Michelle wrote Y-O-U and then stopped. She was torn. I watched as she bit her lip, trying to decide what to write next.

“Is that something that belongs to you?” I asked quietly, nudging her toward the correct answer. “Is the confidence yours? Isn’t it a possession?”

She threw her hands in the air. “I don’t freaking know. What does this matter? When I text, I just write your all the time. People know what I’m saying. This is so stupid; who cares whether it’s a contradiction or not?”

“Contraction,” I corrected her lightly.

“Whatever.”

“Don’t get frustrated. It becomes second-nature after you practice,” I assured her. “And it does matter which form you use. Think about resumes, and formal documents, and stuff that needs to be professional. It makes a difference. People won’t take you seriously if there are tons of errors.”

She nodded without saying a word.

“Ok, let’s try one more before the bell rings,” I suggested. I scooted my chair an inch closer to her desk. “I’m happy that you’re my friend.”

She pressed her pencil to the paper, then stopped. Her blue eyes flicked toward my brown ones. She tilted her head, as though evaluating my statement.

“Are you serious?” she asked. “I mean, is this for testing purposes…or are you for real? Because we’re not really friends, you know. You’re my tutor. Basically.”

My mouth dropped open. Yes, I had been tutoring her. But it’s because we got along.

I wanted Michelle to do better in school. I wanted her to get A’s like me, without having to struggle so much. Didn’t that make us friends? I had given up so many recesses and lunches for her. I’d stayed after school, and devised mini lesson-plans at night so I could explain things better. I’d spent tons of time on this. How could she say something so cruel?

“Michelle, I just thought-“

“You're always thinking,” she cut me off. “Just stop already. Don’t make something out of nothing. You help me with schoolwork because you’re smart; that is all.”

The bell rang and Michelle shuffled toward her locker. She didn’t glance at me, not even once. I returned to my desk and pretended to do homework while students filed into the classroom. They didn’t want to look me in the eye, so why bother lifting my gaze from my desk?

I was just the smart girl, that’s all. Nobody worth talking to.

End of story.

***

That afternoon, I arrived home to find a thick envelope in the mailbox. We hardly ever got mail like this; usually it was thin letters from the cable company, the car insurance people, or the homeowners’ association. Bills and ads cluttered our mailbox.

But this was different.

It was heavy, for one thing. And post-marked from Memphis, TN. None of our bills originated in Tennessee. I knew Daddy wouldn’t want me opening his mail without asking, so I hurriedly sent him a text.

Can I open the big letter in the mail? There’s no return address, but it’s postmarked from Memphis.

Dad didn’t respond, of course. He was busy working and wouldn’t even see my text until he drove home.

Which meant I could open the letter and tell him I’d tried to ask permission. Not my fault he ignored my question.

It was a perfect plan.

I crept into the house, stepping lightly even though I was the only person home. I felt like a sneak and a fraud. But my curiosity was eating away at me. It had always been a problem; my mind zipped along like a super-charged jet plane. I was always plagued by worries and wonders.

Bob, sign all the places marked with red ink.
-Jenny

That was all. No explanation of why she’d left, no well wishes for a bright future. No mention of the daughter she had abandoned for the millionth time.

Tears clouded my vision as I looked over the divorce papers. They were filled with legal jargon, vocabulary words that made little sense to me. The message rang out loud and clear, like a church bell centimeters from my ears.

She wanted to erase us.

She wanted to break free from the baggage that was her former life. I was a weight, a burden she didn’t want to carry any longer. Dad was a memento from her past. A souvenir that she decided she didn’t need anymore.

I could deal with Michelle’s mean words. I could handle my isolation at school. But this was a whole different ballpark. This was my flesh and blood, trying to deny that I even existed. This was my mom’s attempt to cut me out of her life. Forever.

Setting the papers on the kitchen table, I swallowed back my tears.

No use wasting them on that woman. She never cared about me. So why should I care about her?

I opened my History textbook and began reading the next chapter. I could memorize every word just by looking over the page a couple times. It was a talent; it was my greatest gift. I was good at something, after all. I was not a waste.