Of Faults and Fame

Written by Sarah Guo from Plainview Old Bethpage

John F Kennedy High School, New York, USA

Suddenly, on a random Thursday afternoon, my worth became equated to the handful of cynical remarks I could make about someone else. But I didn’t care. Rather, I loved it. 

That day, as I tossed my legs over the edge of the cafeteria table, I said things my previous 9-year-old self would’ve never thought. Even as I jabbed a finger at Abigail's bouncing steps, I felt no shame. After all, the very syllables that furled out of my tongue were met with laughter-filled approval by the girl that I now worshipped — Jazzy. Barely a month into my arrival at this new school, I had scaled the hierarchy of power. 

It wouldn’t matter anyway if we teased her about her glasses or the way her brown hair fell in eccentric folds — Abigail, with her crooked grin, stayed. She listened, almost fascinated by this autobiography of hers that she, of course, didn’t know about. “I don’t walk like that,” she would say, smiling in disbelief. Her opinion fell short, of course. She wasn’t even close to assuming the throne. 

*** 

Yet, just a few weeks ago, things could’ve been more different. 

During free time, Abigail and I were sprawled habitually on the floor of our 3rd-grade classroom, etching crayons into paper. A few feet in front of us, Jazzy and her friends sat in a mysterious circle, their legs folded tightly under their arms. I became enticed by this movie almost immediately — every glare, every look, every whisper. One girl — Jazzy — nodded her head towards Abigail, a sly grin wrapped around her lips. Then, the others in the group followed, shooting their heads around, staring at my friend before whispers erupted in unison. They cupped their hands over their mouths, smirks pressing at the corners of their mouths. For a second, Jazzy’s cunning, brown eyes saw right through mine, and I had totally forgotten that I was even in the room. 

“Abigail,” I leaned in hastily. “I think Jazzy’s talking about you.” 

“Oh! Really?” 

“Yeah.” 

“About what?” 

“I don’t know,” I murmured.

“Oh, alright.” She smiled childishly, clearly dismissive of the topic. It was then, when I looked up again, to see Jazzy confidently marching over. 

“Hi Abigail!” she greeted her sarcastically. “Do you finally have a friend?” She turned to me with a fake smile. Abigail nodded, returning her smile. Jazzy pressed her lips together before squinting to see her drawing. 

“What is that?” Jazzy remarked, her face contorted in repulsion. 

“My unicorn,” Abigail exclaimed, misinterpreting her blatant indifference. 

I looked at the large pony, yielding a lush, purple mane and bright, large eyes. “Hmmmm…” Jazzy clicked. “You like unicorns?” Jazzy’s disgust hung in the air. I loved unicorns as much as Abigail did. But my opinion died in my throat. To speak up felt absolutely impossible. 

“Wait,” Jazzy began, fixating on me. “Are those purple pants, like, all you wear?” 

Her words sliced through my consciousness like a knife through cake. I looked down at my pants, which were indeed purple — the ones that I wore every day—and hot blood swallowed my cheeks whole. 

“So?” she snarled. 

Abigail dropped her crayons and followed Jazzy, her eyes prodding at me intently like she too wanted to know the state of my wardrobe. I grimaced, an unwavering sense of anger brewing at the pit of my stomach. How could she possibly be so stupid? Jazzy was nothing but a tormentor. Her tormentor. I loved unicorns. These were my favorite purple pants. Yet in an instant, Jazzy’s words easily chewed through the confidence that held my beliefs. I wanted to scream, fully convinced that none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t been caught next to someone like her. 

*** 

A lot can change in 3 weeks. But detail after detail, I worked my way up. I changed. 

I tell myself this as I look at Jazzy now, sitting next to me, kicking her legs as well. I’m just like her, I think, and believe it, too. 

As my involvement with Jazzy’s group became intertwined with exchanging velvety layers of gossip, I too began creating my own fables. The following days of school slowly culminated in proposals of mere fabrications, myths that I’d unconsciously hoped would deter attention from myself. It was as simple as show-and-tell — any story would do. Nothing else had mattered up till this point; I, for all I knew, was no longer the shy, new, quiet kid on the first day. No, I was certainly more than that now — I was popular. 

During free time one day, Jazzy, Alexa, and I crouched in a corner between two bookshelves. Apparently, cool kids didn’t do foolish things like draw—we talked instead. But it wasn’t long before they noticed a new change I had made that day. 

“Sarah,” Jazzy said at last, studying the collar of my crewneck. 

A sudden tingling, burning sensation crawled up my chest. 

“Is that…a bra?” Her eyes fluttered with curiosity and shock, her brows pinched in a frown. 

“No!” I exclaimed, though I didn’t have any idea what a “bra” was. Either way, saying “yes” seemed like it would be a death sentence to my rank. 

Alexa’s hands jumped to her mouth at the realization. They exchanged sceptical looks before Alexa sprang to whisper in Jazzy’s ear. She nodded in agreement, as if considering something. Jazzy then bent forward, trying to get a better look at the strap that sat on my shoulder. I remembered that just this morning, I had thought that layering a spaghetti strap under a crewneck marked the beginning of my stylish reinvention. 

Her hand instantly clasped the bottom of my crewneck, along with the tank top. I gasped as it lifted.

“Oh my god!” She squealed before letting go. Audible gasps erupted. I was mortified. 

Slowly, she turned her head to face Alexa before they both burst out in shrill laughter. I shuddered, though my hands moulded into sweaty fists. In that instant, I envisioned myself leaping at them, thrashing and yelling. In reality, my muscles felt sore and heavy, my bones stiff. In the corner of our classroom, there was a closet, and, in my dreams, I was crawling into it and never leaving. In reality, Jazzy’s other friends shuffled over to deliberate on her findings. The cold tiles beneath me were no longer those of our classroom but of a slick, glass display, for I was now an exhibition for passers-by to look, examine, and, most importantly, to judge. 

*** 

“Jazzy is a sweet girl,” were the first words that came out of Mrs. Robin's mouth. Sweet girl. My stomach twisted. “Sweet girl,” Mrs. Robins had noted so reassuringly; the idea almost seemed tangible. 

“She would never mean to do that,” she continued. “Right?”

Jazzy nodded obediently, her eyes widening with forged innocence. I stared back blankly, as I raked my memory for satisfying moments where we simply clicked. All of the bathroom whispers, the classroom chats, the cafeteria storytimes. They were the ripest of fruit, and I had, ashamedly, latched onto every one, even when I didn’t have the slightest business to. Exasperated, I looked down, just now tasting the bitterness that swelled on the mass of my tongue, which was already laden with explanations. Useless explanations, because secretly, I knew I had already lost — not to the teacher’s judgement, but mine. This was all a big mistake. A misunderstanding. I picked my head up as we locked eyes with each other. For one last time, I searched her eyes for a truce. 

Will our friendship ever be the same again? 

Only she simply looked shocked, confused, and worst of all, betrayed. All of these opposing expressions, yet I was willing to forget them all just to claim my friendship, my title again. 

Obviously not. 

*** 

At dismissal, I counted until I felt sick. Waiting to go home, I was exposed in my solitude among circles of friends, buzzing conversations, and classes of status. Jazzy’s group was huddled far off to the left, and raw fear seized me as I imagined my name jumping between their lips like sparks of flame. From the corner of my view, their animated expressions played effortlessly between the curves of their pink cheeks with every fleeting second. And though I looked no different from them just the other day, I was different. In all the battles of fighting to become someone I wasn’t, I’d lost. Truthfully, my childish nature had always pertained to unicorns and rainbows. I’d never instinctively pointed out someone else’s flaws, nor did I care to do so. Peeking behind my now vacant stare, I was drowning in shame. 

But in the distance, there was a voice.

Did I truly lose a friendship if, at heart, I wasn’t myself?

“Sarah!”

Of course I did. 

“Bye, Sarah!” 

Today, I still reminisce about how I should have responded if I'd believed in the definition of a friend. 

I’m sorry, Abby.