Mary

When Mary stepped onto the porch of the white farm house which she called home, she held open the door for her friend to follow her to school. The September morning was dry; she felt hot wind against her cheeks and through her hair, carrying with it the scent of Oklahoma Hackberry, freshly mowed and watered grass, and the plains.

Mary was never without her friend. Not since two years ago. She was eleven. Her parents had stopped at a gas station late one night in Comanche County. She needed water, and after she insisted her way through Stephens and Jefferson County that her spit wasn’t enough to swallow, her mother released a sigh of exhaustion and told her husband to stop at the next exit; she needed to pee anyways.

There had been shouts, she remembered. The doors locked, the sound of her mother’s heels on the asphalt of the parking lot, grunting, begging. She didn’t feel like going into it.

Her friend had been there. All those hours, waiting. Holding her in her arms. And after that night, during their time at the orphanage, and then with the Foleys, and now with the Rupps; Bumps had been there for Mary.

“Come on Bumps, we’re gonna be late,” Mary said.

The walk to school was nine blocks long. Past the manicured lawns of Cassius Barnes, and the pink flamingos that perched outside Miss Hammon’s cotton candy pink and white trimmed split-level. They stopped at a park which had overgrown grass that Bumps nibbled on for her breakfast. Mary held Bumps’ hand as they crossed NW Euclid onto NW Homestead and headed to Tomlinson Middle School.

Children sat on the patchy lawn below the flag pole in the front of the school. Some read magazines, some whispered in close circles, some smoked cigarettes in the driveways of neighboring homes. All the girls seemed to have their circles of friends to gossip with about the changes they were experiencing. Mary and Bumps stayed together, not bothering to make any new friends, and told their own stories to each other while they waited until it was time to go to Miss Belle’s homeroom class.

“Umm, what are you doing?” asked a tall and attractive girl who looked and acted much older than thirteen.

“I’m just waiting with Bumps for Miss Belle’s homeroom,” replied Mary.

The girl threw back her head and laughed. “Oh my god, what a freak,” she cawed to her friends. Her name, Mary later found out, was Landry Lane. Landry was into pageants, social status, pink jumpers, and public mortification.

“It’s okay, Bumps. Sticks and stones may break our bones, but names will never hurt us.”

The warning bell rang through the halls and Mary gladly took Bumps’ hand and led her to class. Miss Belle taught Pre-Algebra. The first day of the semester, she asked the class to forgive her for sitting down instead of chalking the equations on the blackboard. Her toe was broken but she was wearing stilettos, on the off-chance that a reporter from the Lawton Constitution might come and present her with a teacher-of-the-month feature. She was wearing a slightly sheer purple leopard print blouse and a black pencil skirt. Her hair had silver highlights and her skin was hard with tan.

Mary found two spots in the middle of the room for herself and Bumps. The middle was the best place because teachers always tended to pick on the ones in the back, and the front of the room required a great deal of eye contact. Mary had Bumps sit right in front of her, so she could pass notes and keep her in sight.

“Um, can I sit there?” asked a girl named Shellei. Mary remembered her because her name was so unusual. Her father was in the army, so her mother had had ample time to come up with a unique name for her daughter.

“Sorry, but my friend is sitting there,” Mary replied.

“Class is about to start. I don’t see anyone.”

“She’s right there. Look there’s a seat back over in that corner.”

Shellei laughed through her nose and left Mary, responding with only a what.everrr, and a toss of her hair.

The class bell rang and Miss Belle called the class to order, took attendance, and read through the morning announcements. “Alright class, today we’re going to work with graphing simple equations.” She began drawing an x and y axis on the board and Mary turned to a fresh sheet of paper in her binder.

As Miss Belle’s lecture proceeded, Mary noticed that on either side of her, the other children were heatedly whispering to each other and pointing at Bumps, and then at Mary. She was not unfamiliar with the situation of an outsider and at first thought nothing of the attention.

Halfway into graphing y=3x+1, though, Miss Belle took notice of the commotion. “What is goin’ on?” she asked of a suddenly silent class. “Shellei, honey, I see you’ve been whisperin’ with Landry. Why don’t you share with the class this urgent news that can’t wait until the end of my valuable and relevant lecture this mornin’?”

“Well, Miss Belle, I was just commenting on how it smells like somethin’ died over near where Mary’s sitting. We think it might be that ratty old lamb backpack she always talks to,” Shellei cooly replied.

“Her name is Bumps and she’s not a backpack. She’s my best friend.”

The laughter started slowly; they were uncertain whether Mary was joking. Soon, though, Mary’s injured and intent glare at Shellei revealed that she wasn’t kidding. Some of the kids tried to hide their laughter, shaking slightly, faces turning red with the effort to keep quiet. Others turned to each other and laughed out loud; unashamed of their callousness. Mary looked around in confusion. Ricky, a short, tan boy who lived a few houses down from Mary, went over to the backpack and opened it up. Inside were dried pieces of grass, rotting chicken, hay, and moldy carrots.

“NASTY!”Ricky cried. “Look at this!”

The children, and even Miss Belle crowded around the backpack in wonder and disgust. It made the children laugh and play to see the lamb at school.