They Laughed

Transitioning from the seventh to the eighth grade, I still hadn't made any close friends. It wasn't that I didn't want friends; I did. It was the fear that once someone got to know me, they would reject me. There was something wrong with me; I never felt as if I fit into my surroundings. I was different from everyone else, so, therefore, "not good" in my mind. I built a protective shield around me so no one would hurt me anymore than I was already hurting. I was a pencil-thin, pimply, bucked-tooth, glasses-wearing solitary young woman and I disliked myself immensely. There was absolutely nothing about me to like.

Thinking that I was defective was not unfounded. I wasn't good enough for my father to love me; he left home the day I was born and never looked back. Mother said him leaving her didn't make any sense because she was a good Christian woman. She said it had to be because Edna had big boobs that he left her, but why did he leave me? It didn't matter how hard I tried to be good for Hazel, my father's replacement for seven years, I never measured up to her expectations of me. Eventually I stopped trying to win Hazel's affection, but by then Mother's Prince Charming had made an entrance, and off to the suburbs we went. A new life. A new chapter.

At fourteen and just starting eighth grade, I carried a heavy load of unhappy with me everywhere I went. But, at the same time, I saw humor in things that no one else saw. I cried a lot and I laughed a lot. The only person at home who laughed at my attempts at humor and silly jokes was my stepdad, until, that is, one day when I was late for school.

Sarah didn't laugh: My joke was stupid and not funny.