Finding My Voice by Marie Myung-Ok Lee

Author:Marie Myung-Ok Lee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2020-09-14T16:11:04+00:00

I drop my calc book, as though it were leprous, into my bag before heading to gymnastics.

Even on the mat I can’t get calc worries out of my mind, and I am fervently praying that I’ll get partial credit for the story problems I set up but didn’t solve.

“Hey, ching ding-a-ling—watch it!” Marsha Randall’s voice reverberates through the gym. I am standing, with my thoughts, in the middle of the mat, in her way.

I step off the mat with leaden feet. Everyone else is looking away, like that day on the bus. I hear the hollow thunk-thunk of someone working on the bars. Satisfied, Marsha zooms down the diagonal to do a tumbling pass.

I gather my sweats and walk out of the gym, anger and sadness mixed inside me like oil and vinegar. I hear laughter spilling from the gym, and it all sounds so foreign.

I park myself, sweats and all, in Barbara’s office. It’s time to let her know that things have gone too far.

Amidst all the sports trophies, I sit on the hard wooden chair by her desk. There is a picture on the wall in front of me of Marsha Randall, smiling on the beam. I turn the chair so I won’t have to look at it.

Beth is the first to pass the office on her way to the locker room. She gives me a smile of encouragement but doesn’t stop. Marsha Randall and Diane Johnson flutter by, laughing and chattering as loudly as a bevy of quail. Neither glances at me when they pass.

Finally, Barbara comes in, lugging the heavy vault springboard. She stands it against the wall and then looks at me. “Can I help you?” she says.

“Yes.” I get up and shut the door. “I’d like to quit.”

“What?” she says, looking at me as if I’ve gone dotty.

“I want to quit,” I say. “I’ve had enough.”

“What are you talking about?” she says.

Where has she been when Marsha Randall has been saying these things? On Mars? From her office, you can hear everything that goes on in the locker room.

“I’ve had enough of people calling me names,” I say patiently.

Barbara looks at me. “Names?”

“Like ching ding-a-ling is not my name!” I have a sudden morbid urge to laugh.

“Ellen,” Barbara says, putting her arm around me like a sympathetic older sister, “I don’t know what you’re talking about—and you don’t have to name names—but I’m sure they don’t mean it.”

“I think it’s getting worse,” I say, stiffening.

Barbara paces around the office, her huge body seeming to fill the small room. “Oh, you know how kids can be mean to each other,” she says, rifling through some old score sheets. “Don’t take it personally.”

I feel my blood pressure rise. Don’t take it personally—easy for her to say! I feel like yelling this to her face, but I let the stony silence of politeness take over.

“Listen, Ellen,” she says, still rustling the score sheets. “You’re doing really well this year, and I was thinking of putting you on as an alternate for floor exercise if we go to state.

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