A Perfect Day for Bananafish
By Jessika Pasko, Managing Editor

All the Lonely People- Where Do They All Come From?

Growing up, I suppose I was more sensitive than the average elementary school student, having spent most of my young life with adults rather than children. Perhaps this is why, throughout elementary school, teachers would often pair me up with the troubled kid in class, as sort of a tutor/peer mentor.

Strangely, I never really seemed to question it. Even at a young age, I think I almost understood why some kids had such problems. Granted, my mother was also the type to have explained this all to me. Still, I think that I even naively hoped maybe I could make their lives just a tiny bit better.

In the first grade I was paired up with the class bully, Jennifer M., a girl so naughty she wasn't allowed to go to the girls' room without a chaperone. She was mean, and received poor grades. And she was also one of the saddest girls I've known. She didn't have a mother, she was overweight; her clothes were always dirty and her hair was unkempt. She often wore a short skirt sans stockings and tiny ankle socks in the middle of winter. Her father usually pushed her out of his truck when he dropped her off for school, yelling at her all along.

In contrast, I got good grades, and was quiet and shy. I am not and never have been an aggressive person, much the opposite really. Regardless, Jennifer and I were to be "buddies." I suppose I was expected to be a good influence on her. So I tried. But Jennifer wasn't ready to comply- on our trips to the bathroom she'd splash water at me. On the playground, she'd stomp on my foot and laugh, while I stood there patiently, quietly asking her to please stop. Sadly, this resulted in more stomping and more laughter.

I could have easily told our teacher that she had stomped on my foot or splashed me. But I never did because I knew that tattling on Jennifer would only make the situation worse for both of us. She'd probably get abused by her father when she went home that night, and I'd bear the brunt of her frustration the next day. So I took the passive resistance route and would do no more than calmly ask her to stop hurting my feelings. It never worked of course.

The other night I couldn't sleep and I found myself wondering whatever happened to Jennifer, who transferred schools after the first grade. Did her life ever improve? Did she graduate high school? Was anyone else ever there to care about her? I wish that I knew what happened to her. I want to hope that she maybe, just maybe, had the opportunity to attend college. As the hours ticked on into early morning, I became horrified by the possibilities. I became convinced that my kindess had no effect on Jennifer. I worry that she still has many problems, that she lives in a rundown trailer with several kids and an abusive boyfriend who takes after her father; that they make bootleg crystal meth in their backyard. Perhaps she is in jail, or worse.

I tried tracking her down online that night, but to my dismay I couldn't remember the correct spelling of her last name, and either way the possibilities came up endless. But I can't stop wondering where she is now. I wish that I could have helped her further in life, rather than just the fleeting opportunity I had. But just maybe, she is out there somewhere, and has had the chance to be happy. Either way, I want her to know that my six-year old mind did care. Jennifer M., if stomping on my foot in the first grade made your life a little more pleasant, then maybe my purple toes were worth it.