In my school theres a girl whos an orphan. She lives with her greatgrandmother, a very old and devout woman. Every Sunday they walk to the parish church past our house, both of them slight and fragile, wrapped in white headscarves. Rumour has it that her grandmother bans her from watching TV, eating sweets, or laughing out loud, fearing that demons will slip in, and forces her to splash her face with cold water.
We tease the girl. She looks at us with gray, faraway eyes and whispers, Lord, have mercy on them; they dont know what theyre doing. Nobody befriends her; they think shes a bit crazy. They call her Molly.
Back in my childhood, the school canteen never tasted good. On Fridays, though, they serve jam scones with tea or a sausage roll with cocoa and a small chocolate bar. One Friday, as someone pushes Molly, she bumps into me; I crash into a table where a tray of cocoafilled cups teeters, and the whole chocolate river spills over two older pupils.
Whoa, the seniors say.
Lets run, I tell her, grabbing Mollys hand, and we dash to our classroom.
It feels as if a squad of marching soldiers and a herd of cattle chase after us, shouting. The last two periods are maths. Behind the glass door, two tall silhouettes loom. The door cracks open now and then, letting two heads peek in, then whisper to each other. I realise what awaits us a hearing, a judgment, a punishment.
The trick is to slip out unnoticed, then I know a way up to the attic; we can hide there until its dark and slip home afterward, I say.
No, Molly replies, well go out like the girls do quietly, with our heads down.
But Molly, those boys theyll?
What? What will they do? Dump yoghurt on our heads? Throw us out? Beat us, the fifthgraders? she snaps.
Um
Even if they beat us, itll be once. If you stay hidden, youll live in fear every day, I answer.
We leave the classroom with the rest of the class, as proper girls should, modestly. Two senior boys lean against the hallway wall.
Hey, little ones, lost something? one of them asks, holding my MickeyMousestamped wallet with ten pounds for the swimming pool and art studio fees.
Here, he thrusts the wallet into my hand, and dont run off again.
I walk home, swinging my satchel, thinking how lucky I am. Everything has turned out fine, and Im glad I have a new friend.
Should I call my mum? She can ring your gran, get you out of school, and we can watch cartoons at my place. Or is that a problem? I ask.
Molly rolls her eyes.
Lets go, grab the waffles with condensed milk granny baked today, she says.
We stay close for many years, until life drags us to opposite sides of the world. Yet I always remember that one day.
Jumping from the high dive into the blue pool looks terrifying, but its only terrifying once. Trying something new is scary. Whats the worst that can happen? Theyll call me foolish? Just once. And then Ill remind myself of it every day.
Its scary once, or every day. You conquer fear once, or it lives inside you for the rest of your life. The choice is yours.
