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| I thought that we were going to be together forever. Everybody thinks that. Nobody ever anticipates someone you've known and loved basically all your life just dropping out on you. Unacceptable when fathers do it, it is just as bad when a stupid boy does it. In fact, it's probably that bad because it was preceded by your father leaving. But that's beside the point. Oliver Gold, known as Ollie to everyone in the world except his grandmother who refused to mutilate her dead husband's name, checked off a lopsided box on a discreetly small piece of paper in the second grade and became my on-again, off-again boyfriend for the next two years. We were drawn to each other right away: the redheaded Jewish boy and the Asian girl who, despite having only learned English just the year before, was the star pupil of the class. We hung around each other all the time and were teased about it mercilessly. Oddly enough, the teasing lessened and soon stopped altogether once the other kids knew that we were "dating". My parents started threatening divorce the year I turned nine years old. It was a disgusting battle that lasted a full year out of a war that would, in many ways, last a lifetime. It was during a time when it was still surprising to hear about divorced couples, especially the Asian ones. Her whole life, my mother was unassuming, quiet. Except for the trophies she won during her own school days for volleyball competitions and the like, my mother never had a title. All of a sudden, she was Subversive. All of a sudden, her name gathered the whispered and nudged "That's her right there. Mizz Lee. Her maiden name," kind of attention at parent-teacher conferences and the afternoons when for some reason, there was a delay in dismissing us students and the parents stood idly by the school doors and started to talk. This was when I fucked up the normal curve to life and started my angst phase four years ahead of schedule. I didn't know how to deal with the divorce and the great flaming pile of shit mess that followed afterwards. It was a pain I had never felt before, a pain I didn't know could exist. I didn't understand why or how I could have been so sad all the time, cried all the time, when nobody had died. That was what it had been like for me. It was like someone – everyone – had died. I grieved. It wasn't something I could talk about freely, that I knew without needing to be told; just as sure as I knew that strangers were not supposed to touch you. So I became moody. Downright bitchy. I knew I was no longer a child when most of my friends couldn't believe why I didn't want to play or even talk to them anymore. It was hard to explain that I couldn't simply because I couldn't, or because I was too upset, or because I needed to spend more time with my family while I still had one, when the only question they asked me was: "Don't you like me anymore?" There was one day in school when we had to read a story aloud together. It was about a little girl who went to the park or into the city or something with her daddy, the busy businessman, and all day long he would just do work somehow and ended up completely neglecting the daughter. She got upset and walked away from him, determined to teach him a lesson. She met all sorts of interesting people and had so much fun with all these other men (shady, I know) that she thought she was far better off without her father. It seemed like a very primitive version of Home Alone. Before we stopped for lunch, the girl had decided to stay there with strangers forever who appreciated her dances and her stories more than her father ever could and resolved to never think about him again. We were told to ponder some very heavy questions during our lunch break. Like Why do you think the little girl had so much fun with strangers than with her father? Or If you were the little girl, do you think you would have walked away like she had? Why or why not? I remember getting so furious with this fictional character that I thought any kid stupid enough to willingly desert their parents didn't deserve to have two of them and any adult stupid enough to write such a story must have hated kids, or fathers. After lunch, we picked up where we left off and when it was my turn to read a section, I refused. I offered no explanation, just flat out refused. I was a good student so the teacher didn't push it. As the day got longer, the girl realized that her dad wasn't going to find her, or worse, even come looking. She thought he didn't want her anymore and, realizing that she had been wrong to even think that she didn't need her father, started crying hysterically, weeping for the father who had abandoned her. Even though it was she who had walked off, I remember thinking. Like, This girl is a fucking brat. Then, magically, her dad appeared out of nowhere and told her that he'd been terrified all day, running around like crazy, worried, and the girl tearfully looked up at him like, "Really?" and the father said, "Of course, honey. You're my daughter." The girl said, "I thought you weren't coming to find me. I thought you were going to leave me," and the father said, "I am never going to leave you." It was a ridiculous story. I had no idea why we read it. At this point, the girl sitting next to me in class noticed that I was crying, silently, but fairly violently with heaving tremors and everything. Having all the tact of a freaked out nine-year-old, she brought everybody's attention to my booger-streaked face. I then ran out of the classroom, locked myself in a stall in the girls' bathroom, and spent the rest of the afternoon in the nurse's office. I claimed I was sick. Nobody phoned home. No counselor was called - thanks a lot, Department of Education! No one cared. The next day at lunch, just when I thought that maybe nobody remembered, all my classmates treated me like whatever had caused my meltdown was contagious and, except to taunt me, nobody came near me. Nobody except these three girls who would end up being my best friends: Sarah, Annie, and Laurel - the four of us already making up the majority of the Asian female population in our grade. More would trickle into the system behind us though. And by "trickle," I mean invade at an exponential rate. Anyway, they stayed with me because they knew what was happening at home and generally because they are the greatest human beings I have ever known. Already at that young age, my friends were doing all they could to protect me. Annie eyed the cafeteria carefully, ready to throw punches if I got teased. Sarah and Laurel made a valiant collective effort to get our lives moving on. Laurel by distraction and Sarah by way of talking it out, reasoning as best as she could. "No one's going to remember by tomorrow. Or even care. You're still cool," she said. For the most part, these roles have not changed much over the years. Then Oliver Gold made a beeline for my table and plunked his lunch-sack down next to me. So caught up with my parents' divorce, I had been ignoring Ollie for the past few months. Our relationship was off again at this point and would never be on again but I did not care because after this, Ollie became real to me. "That story was retarded," he said. "She would never have made it through the end of the day alive." His words were probably not as eloquent but he said something to that effect. "My mom's kicking my dad out," I said. Ollie nodded grimly, understanding but not understanding. And then he hugged me. Not an arm around the shoulder, pat kind of hug. Fully engaged, both arms wrapped around me hug. The boys in our class called him "Fruity Ollie" for weeks until he reasserted his masculinity by beating up one of them. It was then, I think, that I decided I was going to love him forever. | ||||||||
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