"Recess" by Lauren Derscheid
In elementary school, Jalen was always alone. I still remember her toothy smile, her tousled, unwashed pale blonde hair, and her perpetually broken glasses, sometimes taped up, sometimes left to balance on her nose and a single ear.
It was recess, a time I usually indulged on the swings, or playing foursquare or make-believe with friends. Maybe my usual playmate was absent from school that day, or maybe I was in between friends in a way you only can be in elementary school. Friendships never broke apart dramatically in those days. There was a consistent cycle of growing apart and discovery of new friendship before you ever realized it.
For whatever reason, I found myself alone on the playground that day.
The circumstances were ideal for the events about to be described, because at someone else’s side—I was always taking cues from my friends rather than taking the lead—I would never have approached Jalen. She was swinging on the monkey bars. I stood nearby and asked what she was up to. She told me that she was swinging on the monkey bars with her make-believe friend, because she didn’t have any friends of her own.
"I could be your friend," I responded.
I said it without hesitation. The moment the words escaped my mouth, I realized the burden this would be.
We played for a time, and I hesitantly followed Jalen’s eager lead, forcing myself to laugh and smile. Jalen didn’t seem to notice. Soon we heard the bell; recess was over.
As we walked to line up and return to our classrooms, Jalen turned to me: “Do you know what friends do? They hold hands.”
I wanted to run away. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to cry.
I took her grimy hand in my own.