Cynthia Ellerby

Cynthia Ellerby, who had tormented me for sucking my thumb at the child-care center, was now in my kindergarten class at Washington Elementary. Although we were both a year older, she hadn’t changed one bit. As soon as she saw me on the playground on our first day, she sidled up and asked with a smirk: “Still sucking your thumb, you baby?” I didn’t even have a chance to answer before she stuck her nose in the air and flounced over to the swings.

Cynthia still wore pretty ruffled princess dresses every day, and she still waved around her little gold ring with the amethyst birthstone for all to admire. But something had changed. We had a new teacher, Miss Bacon, a middle-aged, no-nonsense woman who wore round, metal-rimmed glasses and wore her iron-gray hair pulled back into a tight bun just above her neck. She always wore navy blue or black suits and sensible oxford shoes.

From the first day, Miss Bacon had her eye on Cynthia Ellerby. Twice since school began, she had called Cynthia up to her desk and had talked with her about acting prissy and having such a high opinion of herself. Everyone in the class could hear. But Cynthia paid no attention and went right on acting prissy.

Then one morning Cynthia came to school wearing a brand new dress her grandmother had just made. It was sewn of white polished cotton sprinkled all over with bright green shamrocks. White lace and narrow green velvet ribbons decorated the neckline and the puffed sleeves. I’d never seen a prettier dress. Her grandmother had even tied tiny green velvet bows onto the barrettes she wore in her hair.

As Cynthia strutted up and down the aisles between our desks, giving everyone a chance to admire her new dress, Miss Bacon had had enough. With eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line, she jumped up from her desk, approached Cynthia from behind, grabbed her shoulder, and pushed her toward the cloakroom at the back of our classroom, slamming the door shut behind them. Though we couldn’t understand the words, we could hear Miss Bacon talking sternly. Then Cynthia began to cry.

Sitting silently at our desks, the rest of us looked at each other with our mouths hanging open, and then began giggling as Cynthia’s wails grew louder and louder.

After several minutes, the noise died down, the cloakroom door opened, and Cynthia came out, holding the back of her shamrock-sprigged dress with both hands. Her eyes were red from crying, and greenish snot from her nose oozed down onto her upper lip. I’d never seen such a lovely sight. Cynthia went straight to her seat, and Miss Bacon returned to her desk. “Please, children, turn your readers to page nine.”

A few days later, during morning recess, I saw Cynthia sitting all by herself on a bench by the wall. She looked like a broken doll, all slouched down and sad. Even her princess dress looked limp and ordinary. Ever since the spanking, nobody wanted to play with her. At first I relished the sight of her, sitting all alone over there. She was a brat and had  had the spanking coming for a long time! After a while, though, I began to feel sorry for her. I knew how it felt to be left out. Sometimes it hurt so much you could hardly stand it. I walked over and sat down next to her on the bench.

“I don’t suck my thumb anymore,” I said.

She didn’t reply. She didn’t even look up.

“And my big sister is teaching me how to skip on both feet.”

Still not a word, but Cynthia turned her head a bit, just until she could see me out of the corner of her eye.

“If you want, I won’t be your emeny anymore,” I offered.

Cynthia couldn’t resist. She turned to me and, in her best singsong voice, said, “It’s not emeny, silly. It’s enemy.”

I bit my tongue to stop the first words that came into my head. Instead of calling her a know-it-all or a snot, I said sweetly, “Oh, I didn’t know that. Enemy. Maybe we could not be enemies anymore?”

“Okay, but you have to promise you won’t call me Cindy. Cyntha is okay, but not Cindy. It’s a common name, you know. My mother says so.”

“I promise.”

We got up from the bench and walked together over to the swings. Cyntha let me have the first turn.

 

Author: Patricia Minch, Writer, etc.

Growing up an “Army Brat,” by age eighteen I had lived in nineteen different homes in half a dozen states, Europe, and the Far East, and had traveled extensively beyond those. A National Merit Scholarship finalist in 1958, I attended the University of Texas, El Paso, and the University of California, Berkeley. Years later, I took additional courses at Cabrillo College in Aptos, California, and then spent thirteen years as a self-employed editor for court reporters. An avid writer, genealogist, gardener, landscape designer, amateur architect, woodworker, and antiques collector/dealer, I am also wife, mother, and grandmother. I’ve written feature articles for local newspapers and recently completed my first book, a narrative non-fiction account of my father's experiences as a guerrilla in North Luzon (Philippines) during WWII. I currently live with my husband, a retired college instructor and Air Force veteran, in Northern California.

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