Writing Warm-ups: 7/19/2011

She looked at me with firm eyes, a pursed mouth, clenched fists. Oh no, I thought. She probably needs to go to the bathroom. I knew it irked her to ask me for permission to go to the bathroom. 

And soon enough, she came over, and through gritted teeth, narrowed eyes, she growled. "I'm going to the bathroom." And without a glance from me, she walked right through the classroom doorway.

Her name was Melissa, but I would've guessed it to be 灾难,  which means catastrophe in Chinese. I couldn't imagine such a troublesome 4th grader was anything but a ferocious tiger in the guise of a human child. I still had scratch marks. Tiger indeed.

The room was crowded, the children noisier than they had been during lunch. They were clambering over tables, climbing across backpacks. Begging for snacks and dealing out playing cards. Jumping all over the place.

"大班，洗手!"  a voice cried out. Immediately all the kids from the oldest class lined up at the door, following the teacher’s instructions. It was immediate. I didn’t have to look down to know I was being glared at. I led them to the bathroom.

“Psst,” said someone. I turned around to find Michelle, one of the older girls that I knew from volunteering here last year. She had grown older. At least now, she was nearly at my shoulder.

“What do you need?” I replied back. She was grinning. Shivers attacked my back. I had accepted that this was generally a bad omen.

She glanced around, but her eyes strayed a little at where the teachers stood. Three girls talked avidly with them. Melissa was with them. I groaned; what had I done wrong this time?

Michelle noticed I had noticed them, and quickly asked, “I need you to—one of my friends needs—she needs your email address.”

That was weird. Especially since Michelle already had my email address; she somehow stole it and had emailed me occasionally throughout the past year. I grinned. So that’s how it is. I thought.

“So, Iris wants it?” I asked. Iris was one of the girls near Melissa. I flicked my eyes over to where Melissa was. And as busy as she was talking , I knew she was listening attentively to what we were saying.

“No, its—never mind, just right it down, ok?” Michelle said, not really getting what I was asking.

I wrote down my email address, but paused, before handing her the sheet. It’s always a weird feeling when someone 7 years younger than you asks for your email address. I would know. I didn’t know whether I should feel happy that someone had actually asked for my email address, or ashamed for being so happy. There was one thing I was definitely ashamed about: I didn’t know anyone else desperate enough to actually give a 4^th grader his email address.

I handed the post-it over to her. Carefully, I watched it pass through a number of girls’ hands before finally reaching Melissa, who skillfully, folded it without glancing down, and put it into her left shorts pocket.

And that was that.

Hours later, past midnight, past the bedtime of chirping crickets and the howling wind, I lay on my bed, worrying. Had I given her the wrong email address? What if she couldn't read my handwriting? I had, after all, been told that my handwriting was worse than a drunk surgeon's. Only now did I really begin to worry that it was true.


And what if she did make contact with me? Would she still want to talk to me after she sees the "original" me?   The creepy kid who hardly knows what life is supposed to be about? Cold sweat drenches my pillow. I check the clock. It's still 4 a.m. I haven't slept at all.


I get up and take a walk outside. It's humid, and the air drags you like several weights. But its quiet. No cars, no birds, no wind, no people. It's quiet enough for me.


 And I simply don't know what to think, what to do, how to react to this situation except walk away, forward in some direction I don't know until I reach some landmark I might recognize and know where I am. Quite simply, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of making mistakes, breaking social cues, embarrassing myself in front of her. I'm afraid of what I see her as; will she be some acquaintance with whom I occasionally reminisce with? Or will she hopefully be some sort of a friend, despite the age difference?


5 a.m. passes without stopping. 6 a.m. and 7 a.m. follow suit. Before I can stop it, I hear birds chirping; the sun is up; the cars noisily stream down the road. And still I have no answer. I wish I could apologize a million times in the future for all the mistakes I would do to her, but I'm almost certain that wouldn't be enough. Especially since I've made about 100 mistakes since I first met her. 


At about 9, I finally ask myself why I care so much. Just another question I can't answer. Only this one I get to blame my parents for. 

At the very least, I'm glad I’m not a pedophile.