31/05/2022
Secrets Are Like Pumpkins
By SAM ELIZA GREEN
Remember that story you told me and Noah when we were so little we could still sit on your lap? You said that secrets grow like pumpkins in the patch, and if you keep them too long, they’ll rot and the rot will grow to the other pumpkins and spoil them too. I have a rotten pumpkin, and I don’t know what to do with it.
Last year in Literature, we learned that the best way to decide how to say something is to write it down. I guess I'm writing now because there’s something I need to tell you. I should have told you sooner, but I was scared of what you would think, worried you would be disappointed in me. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone, and I was afraid if I told you the truth, it would make you cry.
But then, I remembered what happened when baby Anne spilled her grape juice on your floral, Easter dress. She was crying after she’d seen what she did, and instead of getting upset, you blotted the juice away, shrugged, and said, “Just another flower.” Then, you pulled her into your arms until she was happy again. I hope that we can turn this rotten pumpkin into a daisy like that.
Do you remember when you dropped us off for the first day of school this September? You were so excited about those matching purple backpacks you found on clearance for Hannah, Leah, Beth, and me. Really, you seemed frustrated about having to sew those holes that Winnie tore in our old ones, especially because our books and journals kept falling out and getting lost.
You spent hours attaching the little patches that had our names embroidered on each, even made friends with the owner of the Esty store after doing so many custom orders. When you sent us off that morning, with the sleepy little ones in the back seats, you seemed pleased about our togetherness, that we all managed to leave the house with full lunch boxes and two shoes.
When you drove away, there was a group of kids pointing at your van, laughing over something I couldn’t hear.
Then one of them said, “Look, a tour bus is here. I didn’t know we were having a field trip.”
My heart sank when I realized they were talking about our 16 passenger van, joking about how big it was.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, one of the boys from the group came up to us and asked, “Hey, how did your mom learn to drive that thing? It’s huge!”
You always told us to look for people’s best intentions, so I guessed he was just trying to get to know us, but it still stung to experience the judgment of these kids we’d never met.
Hannah, always quick to the punch, said something funny like, “She learned … with her brain. She’s really smart.”
Then a tall, gorgeous girl I didn’t know came over, looked at my bag, and said, “Cute name tag. Are you part of a cult or something?”
I was too embarrassed to answer, so I walked away, leaving my sisters, and looked for the nearest bathroom to hide. Those few moments before my morning class, I was miserable. My cheeks were blushed, I was trying not to cry, but it wasn’t the first time I heard people say mean things about our big family, and I was tired of it all — the matching clothes, big vans, clearance shopping, and buffets for outings. Like most high school freshmen, I just wanted to get through the first day without getting made fun of, and that had already happened before the first bell.
I wish I had remembered all the hours you spent making hidden stitches on those patches, the happiness in your eyes when you found the half-off deal and bought four identical bags to replace our torn ones, something you had been stressing about for months. Instead, I grabbed my notebooks and pens and tossed the bag into the garbage can.
I told you I lost it after tennis. You called the school and asked them to check the lost-and-found. Eventually, you gave up and unearthed one of our old bags, hunched over a pile of patches, and made your fingertips sore all evening. I went to my room that night and cried until I fell asleep. I felt so guilty about forgetting everything you had and would do for me and betraying that because of some silly thing another teenager said.
I was too scared to tell that girl how I really felt, so I’ll tell you instead. I’m proud of you for waking up every morning and deciding to give us, all of us, your best. I love our big family, the live-in best friends you’ve given to me, and I wouldn’t ask for anything else. I hope that eventually, I can learn how to answer people who ask questions like that, and maybe, you can teach me. But, mostly, I hope you forgive me for this rotten pumpkin secret.
