This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Dead Cat Walking
Vickie Clasby
She ran with great speed down the slight incline of the gravel walk to the blacktop playground, her hair whipping behind her. Gaining velocity as she ran, she reckoned she was moving faster than her legs had ever carried her before. Beginning her third week at the new school, she felt invisible, like a specter moving among the other children who already had friends and did not seem to need another. “Oh, they’ll notice me now!” was her last conscious thought as the toe of her well-worn saddle shoe caught the edge of the blacktop, starting the process which would end with her prone figure, ten feet from the edge of the playground, lying in a bloody, tangled mess of arms, legs, shoes, hair, and shame.
Lying on the unforgiving pavement, she slowly came to realize what had happened in that split second in which she had dared to dream. She was not dead, although in that moment she wished to be. She had merely hoped to be noticed, perhaps even admired for her speed, yet the eyes of her classmates appraised her from a distance like a dead cat on the side of the road, with no sympathy, only mild curiosity. The physical pain of her injuries had not yet registered, but the embarrassment enveloped her, stealing her breath and holding her pinned to the ground like a captive butterfly.
When she turned her head and angled her neck, she could see three boys pointing at her and laughing behind their hands. The one named Larry snorted loudly and said, “She looks retarded!” And the other two laughed as if this was the funniest statement they’d ever heard. Several girls in the crowd whispered to each other, but none came to her defense.
Realizing an offer of assistance was too much to hope for, she quickly took stock of her injuries. As she moved her legs around and sat up on the ground, she noticed her knees were both scraped beyond recognition, as were her elbows. The toe of one shoe was nearly destroyed, and the other shoe was missing entirely. Her chin was scraped, as were her palms, in addition to her knees and elbows, from apparently skidding several feet after touching down. She carefully rose to her feet and retrieved her shoe from its position near the edge of the blacktop where her hope of acceptance had been dashed. All eyes were on her, intensely watching her movements with as much interest as if the dead cat had risen and begun to walk.
Three quick blasts of the whistle signaled the end of recess. She smoothed her short skirt, pulled her damp hair out of her face, and began the long, lonely walk back to the building, trying to act as if she were not hurt when in fact she was destroyed. Her teacher, Mrs. Adkins, took one look at her and sent her immediately to the nurse.
She spent the rest of the afternoon in the infirmary, enduring the painful extraction of the bits of asphalt from her wounds. Mrs. Frank, the school nurse, admittedly tired of the usual stomach aches and sore throats, attacked the job of cleaning her up with enthusiasm and a marked lack of compassion. By the end of the day, her wounds were professionally bandaged with soft, clean gauze which immediately began to turn red as her scrapes continued to bleed.
When the bus rider bell rang, she slowly made her way to the front of the school with the throng, painfully mounted the steps onto the bus, and sat alone like a leper. Her wounds throbbed with every beat of her heart. At home that evening, her mother mourned the loss of the saddle shoes.
Later that week, her mother announced the family was moving, again, for the second time that year. Another school in another town. Another playground, another chance.
For the first time in her short life, she was not upset.
