Page 76 of Where We Call Home

Twenty-Seven

AGE 9

Ihate school. I hate school. I HATE school.

I wasn’t going back, no matter what Mom or Dad said. They could send me to work instead—like, real work. I could babysit Mrs. Schwartz’s dog, bag groceries at the store, or maybe even help out at the diner. Anything would be better than stepping foot in that place ever again.

This morning, I was excited. I wore my new sneakers—pink and teal, the coolest shoes I’d ever had. They matched my backpack perfectly! I even spent some of my birthday money on them because I thought they were that amazing.

The girls at school didn’t think so. They made fun of them, whispering behind their hands and giggling like they always do. Usually, I ignore it, but today? Today, it got to me. The mean words, the whispers, the looks.

I yelled back at them, saying the same kinds of mean things they’d been saying about me. But, of course, the teacher didn’t see them being mean. She only saw me yelling, so I got in trouble. I had to sit inside for the rest of recess while they stayed out and played jump rope like nothing happened.

Now, I was sitting on the bus, holding back tears the whole ride home. My backpack sat on my lap, and I stared out the window, biting my lip so hard it hurt. When we got close to my stop, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears spilled out, drop after drop, and all I wanted was to be home.

The brakes squealed, and the bus stopped. I didn’t even wait. I jumped up, wiped my nose with my sleeve, and ran off. My new sneakers hit the sidewalk, but I didn’t care anymore if they got dirty.

When I got to the house, I threw my backpack on the floor, bolted upstairs, and slammed my bedroom door behind me. I collapsed onto my bed, curling up into a ball as the tears kept coming.

Why couldn’t I just be normal? Why couldn’t they like me? I just wanted to fit in, to have friends, to not feel like this all the time.

There was a soft knock on my door.

“Theodora? It’s me.”

It was Dad. His voice was quiet, almost like he didn’t want to scare me. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine!” I shouted, even though I wasn’t. I didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m just doing homework. I have a lot!”

The doorknob turned, and he came in anyway. He stood there for a second, looking at me as I played with the little string hanging off my bedspread.

“There’s no way that string is that interesting,” he said, trying to make me laugh.

I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even look at him.

He sat down on the edge of my bed, close but not too close.

“Princess,” he said softly.

That did it. The second he called me that, I lost it. I started sobbing, my shoulders shaking so hard I couldn’t even sit up straight.

Dad pulled me into his arms, holding me tight. I buried my face in his shirt, and even though it smelled like work—sweat and sawdust—I didn’t care. It was comforting.

“Why are they so mean to me, Daddy?” I hiccuped through my tears.

“I don’t know, Princess,” he said, stroking my hair.

“They said my shoes were ugly. And my clothes were old. And then I yelled, and I got in trouble, and they didn’t!”

“Let it out,” he whispered. “If you keep it all inside, it’ll just make you stinky.”

That made me giggle, even though I was crying. He always said that, how bottled-up feelings make you rotten. No one likes someone rotten, he’d say.

“It’s okay to feel mad and sad,” Dad said. “You’re allowed to feel hurt when someone is mean to you. And it’s okay to be angry when things feel unfair. You’re not wrong for feeling that way.”

I nodded, sniffling against his shirt. The tears were slowing down now, but I didn’t let go of him.

He didn’t let go of me, either. He just held me, letting me cry until I couldn’t anymore.

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