Page 9 of The Pucking Kiss

Were all those years of friendships for nothing? I shared my secrets with her, only for her to go around and reveal them to everyone else in the school.

With a sigh, I pushed open the front door, and the scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air. I could hear my grandmother in the kitchen, clattering utensils as she took the tray of bread out of the oven.

“Romai,” she greeted me enthusiastically as I walked in. “ I’m so glad that you’re home. I want you to try this new brioche I baked.”

I shrugged my shoulders and threw my bag on one of the chairs before taking a seat at the table. My mind was too consumed by what happened today to form a coherent response.

“My sweet girl,” my grandmother took a seat next to me when she noticed the sullen look on my face. “Talk to me. You look as though you’ve had a terrible day.”

She reached out and took my hand in hers. Her touch was warm and comforting. Suddenly, I felt as though I was a child again, seeking solace from my grandmother. I wanted to bury myself in her arms so I wouldn’t have to think about how awful my life was.

“It’s just the kids at school,” my voice was hoarse, and I realized that I had been holding in my emotions for too long. I begin to blink rapidly to keep the tears in, not wanting to cry in front of my grandmother.

“Are they causing you trouble?” my grandmother asked gently, concern etching lines onto her face.

“They’re not being very nice to me,” I admitted without divulging too many details.

“At your age, kids can act in a way that is difficult to understand,” she said softly. “Often, they’re insecure about their own lives and think that being mean to others will make themselves feel better. You should not take it too personally.”

Her words were full of wisdom accumulated over a lifetime. She squeezed my hand once again, letting me know that she was there for me in whatever way that I wished her to be.

“I know,” I murmured, trailing my gaze to the table in front of me. “But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.”

“My dear, I want to tell you a story,” my grandmother began with a kind expression, “Did you know your mother went through something similar when she was about your age?”

I looked up at her, my curiosity now piqued. Even though my mother passed away when I was just a child, I felt connected to her whenever my grandmother told me these stories. I nodded at once, encouraging my grandmother to continue.

“Your mother was a bright girl, always very confident in herself and her abilities,” my grandmother continued, her eyes sparkling with nostalgia as she recounted the memories, “But sometimes even the brightest people find themselves in a dark place.”

“Once she turned 16, we moved cities, and she had to go to a new high school. At this new high school, she had to make new friends and start over from scratch. For some reason, the girls in her class decided that they didn't like her very much and made it their life mission to make her miserable. They whispered cruel words, spread hurtful rumors, and made sure that she didn't have any friends.”

I winced, feeling a bit surprised that my mother was bullied in high school. I had always imagined her to be confident and extroverted, the complete opposite of me.

“I didn't know that,” I admitted, now hungry to know how this story ended.

“Yes, it was hard for anyone to believe that someone as charming and lovely as she was could be bullied at school. But that's the thing. Bullies don't care how great of a person you are. They just want to project their insecurities on you.”

“And what did mom do? Did she just let them bully her?”

“Oh, she decided that she was stronger than a bunch of mean teenagers. She ignored them and instead focused on her passions.”

“And that worked?” I asked, my mouth slightly agape.

Could it be that the solution to my problem was just as simple as ignoring the people who were bullying me? When it was just Bryan, it was easier to manage. Now, it seemed as though the entire school disliked me and poked fun at me.

“Your mother discovered an important lesson. The best way to disarm bullies is to show them that their words do not hold any power over you,” my grandmother continued, “So, she went about her day with grace and confidence and refused to let herself be defined by what they thought she was.”

I began to picture my mother as a teenager in high school, being the subject of snide remarks and mean comments. The fact that she did not let their words get to her made me admire her even more.

“And you know what?” she said, “Overtime, the bullies just stopped. She found her group of friends that accepted her for who she was. It did not define her, and she emerged a stronger person.”

“I wish I were that strong,” I muttered under my breath, feeling sorry for myself.

Ignoring what people were saying about me felt impossible. Especially when they were willing to stoop as low as writing mean things on my locker.

“But you are,” my grandmother assured me, “You carry your mother’s blood. She passed on her resilience and her kindness to you. You should give yourself more credit.”

A faint sense of hope washed over me. “Do you really think so?”

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