Blood Sisters
By Bonnie Davis
The more my mother pulled on my hand the more I refused to climb the steps of the forbidding old brick
building on that frightful day in September of 1959.
“Don’t make me go,” I pleaded. “I’m not ready. I’ll
live with Margaret in Cameron. I’ll go to school there. You and Daddy can visit me.”
“Stop acting this way, Bonnie. Chester is our home now. Daddy starts a new job today.
You begin Fourth Grade. Tonight we’ll celebrate with chocolate cake and ice cream.”
Tempting me with my favorite dessert was
not going to change my mind about school. I understood why we were forced to leave our hometown of Cameron, West Virginia,
and move to Chester, a larger community further north in the state. My parents did not try to hide the fact that my father’s
business, a Ford garage dealership, simply was not producing enough income to pay our bills. When a buyer miraculously appeared
at the same time my father was offered a job in the Chester area, I had to admit it seemed like a blessing from God. I was temporarily caught up in the euphoria that filled
my home until the For Sale sign placed in our front yard prompted me to ask God to reconsider his gift.
Although my parents tried
to prepare me for the move, I was still in denial. My mind refused to acknowledge another school. I could not accept the thought
of making new friends. I did not want to be under a magnifier and examined by peers. I had friends, good friends, at the old
school. I did not see why I had to make new ones. The loss of my best friend, Margaret Simpson, was a fresh wound. We were
blood sisters, joined by two scratched fingers pressed together forever, but forever was gone.
When my mother and I finally
entered the main hall of the school, the smells of cleaner and floor wax filled my nostrils. I surveyed the oily and worn
wooden floorboards that were a huge contrast from the shiny new speckled tile at Cameron Grade School.
We were greeted by the principal, Mr. Stull, a thin-lipped man who smelled like sweet pickles. His crisp white shirt collar
hugged his neck so tightly that rolls of fat hung over the top like a melting triple-decker ice cream cone.
“Bonnie,” he said
as he extended his short pudgy hand. “We are delighted to have you join us at Chester Elementary.”
I ignored his outreach of
goodwill. Instead of responding to his gesture, I stepped away from him and frowned.
“You must excuse my daughter’s behavior,”
my mother said as she gripped my shoulders tighter than usual. “She is very upset by our move.”
“She’ll be fine,”
Mr. Stull answered, bending to look me in the eyes. “You will be happy here, Bonnie. Everyone will love your beautiful
blue dress and those big green eyes.”
“Can I wear jeans and my flannel shirt to school?” I asked without changing my expression.
“No, I’m sorry,
but little girls should look like . . . well like little girls.”
“But I want to ride my bike to school.” I pushed a wayward strand
of blonde hair behind my ear. “A stupid skirt will get caught in the chain. I plan on getting a paper route. You can’t
wear a dumb old dress when you fling papers.”
Mr. Stull did not answer. He backed up, wiped perspiration from his brow with
a neatly folded handkerchief and changed the subject.
After a quick tour of the building, we were introduced to Miss Olive John, my
new homeroom teacher, who reminded me of pictures of George Washington with apple cheeks and wavy white hair, minus his pigtail.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gray, for bringing Bonnie to school today,” she said as she clasped my arm in her hand and rotated
me into the opposite direction. “I’d appreciate it if tomorrow you would see that she arrives on time. The bell
rings at eight-o-five, not nine-fifteen.”
I could hear my mother apologize and quietly whisper goodbye. I did not turn around to see her leave.
I pretended she was still with me as I followed Miss John down the shadowy hallway to the fate that awaited me in Room 206.
“Children, I want you
to meet Bonnie Gray, a new student,” Miss John said as she positioned me in front of the room. “Bonnie, lift your
head. Let’s not be shy. Look at your classmates. Tell us a little about yourself and why your family moved to our wonderful
community.”
I slowly lifted my head from staring at my new black and white saddle oxfords. I saw a blur of thirty-two faces looking
back. Their eyes burned holes in me, as they scrutinized my next move. Suddenly my head began to spin and darting stomach
pains attacked my insides. I heard Miss John speaking my name, but I was too paralyzed with fear to respond. My mouth opened
and refused to close. To add to the misery, my white wool knee socks were slowly inching their way down my quivering legs.
The next thing I remember, I was running to the bathroom.
When I returned to class, a few of the girls whispered and giggled behind my back
but the majority of the class ignored me. I stayed to myself and spoke only when the teacher asked me a direct question.
During the noon break a classmate approached me on the playground. “Do you want
to play Dodge Ball,” she said as she dribbled a dark blue ball around the bench I was sitting on.
“No,” I said.
“I just want to be left alone.”
“I’m Patty Kaminski,” she said, ignoring my rudeness. “Miss John sent me to
the restroom with you this morning. Do you remember? Your head was in the toilet so I left.”
Although I acted annoyed with her chatter,
I was intrigued with the way the scarf in her ponytail matched her green dress. She had that well-bred look and she was the
smartest kid in class. I knew this because Miss John had a seating arrangement that endorsed placing students in rows by their
grade averages. Although I was on the honor role in Cameron I was asked to sit in the last row in the last seat when Miss
John discovered I had never been introduced to a division problem.
Perhaps my lack of education was what changed my circumstances. Before the final
bell rang that day, Miss John asked Patty, if she would mind staying after school to tutor me in math.
“I know you don’t
want to be here,” Patty said as she pulled a desk next to mine. “I know this is tough, but let’s get it
done and get out of here. Grandma owns a grocery store and the sooner we finish the sooner we’ll be eating free ice
cream and candy.”
I felt humiliated and angry. It was embarrassing to be tutored by a classmate, especially on the first day of school.
I decided I wouldn’t cooperate. I had nothing to lose. She wasn’t Margaret.
“You’re seriously messed up,” Patty said after she tried repeatedly to gain my attention. “I’m
trying to help you. But I won’t beg you. You’re the one who bummed everyone out this morning. You went zombie
on us and then came back really weird like it was our fault.”
When I turned to face her, she was gone. My self-pity had not impressed her. I
realized for the first time as I sat in the empty classroom that I was wrong. She only wanted to be my friend. She wanted
to make my life easier and I turned her away. I ran out the door and down the long corridor to the top of the stairs.
“I’m sorry,”
I shouted to the figure at the bottom of the steps. “Please come back.”
During the following days the child in the first
row, first seat, nurtured the child in the last row, last seat. Patty fed me, like a timid animal, bits
of knowledge to help me understand the basics of a division problem. In a short period of time my seating arrangement changed
for the better. Eventually I was accepted by my classmates when I took the first step to reach out and connect with them.
Although Patty and I never
became blood sisters, our extraordinary bond has made me realize good things can and do come out of unpleasant chapters in
our lives. This year marks forty-nine years of our special friendship. Though miles separate us we still manage to visit each
other at least once a year to share our many priceless memories.
[Bonnie S. Davis lives in Nokomis, Florida.
She is a wife, mother, grandmother, and a retired real estate broker from Ohio. She has been published in the Sarasota Herald-Tribune, The Peppertree, a
literary magazine, Dialogue Magazine, Storyteller Magazine (Silver Quill Contest Winner) and the online
publications Yesterday’s Magazette, Doorways Memoirs, and The Perspiring Writer. Her short
story, Queen Anne, appears in a recently published book, Dolls Remembered, a collection of stories about childhood
dolls compiled by Madonna Dries Christensen. Bonnie says: Thank you for giving me an opportunity to relive my childhood.]
