Shame and the Sixth Grade

Mandy Abrams was my meanest friend.

                  Her family lived in a small green house with white shutters, and Mandy shared a room with her two siblings, Greg Jr. and Elise. Most of what I remember about Mandy took place when we were in the fifth grade and she lived in that little house. I always entered through the back door, which went directly through the kitchen. A dilapidated toaster sat on the counter with a crucifix hanging directly over it. There was a small alcove just off the kitchen with a wooden table that served as their dining area. The table was piled high with catechism materials.

Mandy’s mother, Beatrice, was a slight and timid woman who wore her hair in a short, brown bob. Mandy looked a lot like her in that she was skinny, bony and had the same ashy brown hair, but she also had blue eyes and buck teeth like her father. All my memories of Mandy’s father, Greg Sr., are of him standing in front of the fireplace, clutching his overalls, smoking a pipe and slurping from a tall can of Budweiser. Greg was extremely imposing with a gruff voice and coarse, dark beard. He was usually either sneering at everyone or barking orders at his kids in a deep voice that made me shudder.

                  We didn’t like to hang around the house because of Greg Sr. and because it was too small to play in there, so we usually went three blocks down the hill to Morse Park where we could circle around the pool or collect sticks and interesting-looking bits of trash along the irrigation ditch. One time, Mandy suggested we leave our typical path and explore a path that ran along the ditch and behind some houses.

                  “I’m not sure where that path leads,” I said meekly.

                  “Why do you have to be such a chicken? It’s just some houses,” she replied.

                  Mandy started marching in the direction of the new path and I followed tentatively behind her. Dogs started growling and barking from behind the fences of neighboring houses and I grew increasingly nervous as we walked. I tried appealing to Mandy’s sense of reason.

“I don’t think I should go on too long of a walk because my mom is picking me up back at your house,” I said.

                  “Yeah in like three hours,” she replied.

                  We continued along the path behind the houses and the more we pursued it the more overgrown it became with grasses and shrubs. A tall, concrete retaining wall ran alongside the path to separate the ditch from the adjacent houses and it constricted the path even more. My heartbeat quickened and beads of sweat glistened on my forehead. We proceeded around a darkened curve – each step further away from the familiarity of the park.

The only solace I had was a small, black tape player that I carried. I had just gotten it for my 11^th birthday along with a Whitney Houston tape that I had been begging my parents to buy me for several months. We listened to Whitney croon, “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” and crunched the leaves while we walked. “Let me see the tape player,” Mandy said, jutting out her hand. “I want to find a better song.” I handed it to her and she immediately grabbed it and scaled up to the top of the concrete wall. She started walking along the top.

                  “What are you doing up there?” I asked, hesitantly.

                  “The path was too narrow,” she responded simply. “It’s easier to walk up here. Come up.”

                  “I can’t. You know I’m afraid of heights.”

                  “Fine. Stay down there,” she huffed.

She started walking more quickly along the wall and disappeared around another curve before I could catch up to her. When I finally got to where the path turned, she was nowhere to be found.

                  “Mandy?” I called out her name a few times. “Mandy? Where did you go?” Panic started to expand in my chest. My friend was gone, my tape player was gone, and I didn’t know where I was. I tried to swallow down the tears along with the stinging sense of betrayal. I tried to strategize. I thought about going back home, but I knew Mandy would be mad if I left her behind.

                  I called out her name a couple more times. Nothing but silence. A soft breeze rustled through the maple trees. “Um… Mandy? I don’t know where you are, but I guess you started walking back.” I tried to sound nonchalant but my voice still quavered. “I’ll head that way, too, and, um, meet you back at the park? I hope you still have my tape player. ” I gulped. Still nothing. I started to walk back. I was taking my time and kicking rocks to make noise so I wouldn’t be scared if she jumped out at me.

                  A few minutes later Mandy emerged from a person’s backyard where she had been hiding all along. She scaled the wall, jumped down, and brushed a few dried leaves off her shoulder.

                  “I was right behind you, stupid. Here’s your dumb tape player. It doesn’t even work anyway.”

                  She thrust it back at me. I fumbled trying to grab it and it fell. I picked it up, blew off the dirt, and opened it up. The tape was tangled within. We walked home in silence.

                  I only remember going to Mandy’s house one more time after that. I went through the back gate and rushed past her bouncing dog. The back door was open so I went in and found Beatrice alone in the kitchen rinsing dishes and pretending that everything was normal. It had been prearranged that I would come over, but Mandy’s father was clearly very angry about something so I didn’t know if I was staying.

I could hear Greg pacing back and forth in the living room yelling, “If you kids are too stupid to pick up your shit, then you don’t get to have anything!” As I glanced into the living room, I saw Mandy and her brother kneeling on the floor with their pants down and their hands clasped behind their backs. The front windows were open and their backsides were exposed to me and everyone else in the neighborhood. Tears streamed down their faces. Mandy turned her head slightly in my direction. She didn’t speak, but her eyes said, please. Please. Don’t look at me.

When Greg noticed me he calmed down somewhat. “Hey Alice,” he said. “We’re almost done here. Go wait outside and Mandy will be out to speak to you in a few minutes.” I went out back and sat on their concrete porch. A few minutes later Mandy came out. Her face was red and swollen from crying, and her voice was monotone with a few, intermittent hiccups. “My Dad says I have to clean my room so we can’t play today,” she said flatly. She went back inside and let the screen door shut gently behind her. I walked home.

                  Our friendship ended the following school year. We were in the sixth grade and Mandy wanted to start hanging out with the popular kids at recess. She wrote me a note that read, “We’re not friends anymore. I’m mature and you’re not. You look like an ass skipping around the playground during recess. I’m sorry, Alice, but I don’t want to look like an ass. – Mandy.”

                  We went to different middle schools, different high schools, and then completely drifted away from each other’s lives. I still have the note she used to cut the cords of our friendship. It’s buried deep in a trunk of keepsakes at my parents’ house. I don’t know why I kept it. It’s sort of a morbid thing to do - like saving a bruise or something.

                  About ten years ago my mom ran into Mandy at a local grocery store in the neighborhood where we grew up. She was working as a check-out clerk. She had a six-year-old son and she had been in and out of drug rehab, but said she was doing better now. Mandy asked after me, and my mom told her I was working in advertising but had just returned to school to become a teacher. Mandy said, “That’s really good to hear. I always knew Alice would make something of herself.”

                  She meant it as a compliment but it didn’t feel like one. Not when I measured it against the fact that she probably never even dreamed of achieving anything for herself. Maybe that’s why I kept the note: to remind myself of our separateness.