On Scars

by Leonora Desar

It was the first day of kindergarten and all the mothers had abandoned us. I was sitting in the back. There were other kids there. We were all crying. Some of us sobbed. Others were more snivelers. I was a choker. I felt the tears leaking out and sucked them in. It was all very mucous-sy.

I remember seeing this one kid. He was playing in the aisle. Half his face was burnt. I am trying to remember how it felt; I remember looking at it and realized I shouldn’t be staring. The burn extended through his skull, down his neck; it seemed to stop abruptly before his shirt, as if it had no interest going places where it wouldn’t be seen—I imagined touching it. I imagined having to wear it or having it wear me.                 

But of all the kids he was the only one not crying. He looked okay. He looked a little bored.  Maybe he wanted to go home and watch Jeopardy, or Dungeons & Dragons. Our eyes met. Or they didn’t meet, that’s something that happens when you’re older. We saw each other and didn’t smile. I wanted to smile but I remember thinking, he’ll think you pity him, so I was very careful not to smile—I tried for a very neutral look. I can’t remember how he looked, I was too busy worrying about me.

This would be the story of my life. I was too busy looking in, at my own scar, which was very interested in being seen—It was shaped like my father drinking scotch and my mom yelling at him not to and my dog who just lay there, being a dog. Oh, and my next-door neighbor Felicia, whose father was in jail. There were bars, and everything. I was very jealous of her. I wanted a dad in jail, my dad was just an alcoholic.

I wanted to tell him this, the boy. I knew that he’d understand, that we were the same. His scar was outside and mine was in, and maybe we’d compare them. We’d fall in love and my parents would get angry; I was just making my life harder. They were always saying this: that ugliness made life hard. I wanted a hard life. I imagined it like wood, or worse, something strong and tough and impenetrable, and this boy and I could live in it and screw everyone else. Only I didn’t use the word “screw,” I was in kindergarten. In any case I imagined it (sans screw) and then a teacher called us in and read to us and I conveyed telepathic messages to the boy, messages like:

“I have a scar”

and

“will you marry me?”

and

“let’s have a hard life”

and

“I don’t want to have any children because then they’ll steal the toys.”

I kept waiting for a sign. Some kind of nod, or maybe just a kiss. Or maybe he’d just point to a block and this would mean of course, no children, children suck, they’re not coming anywhere NEAR our toys. I waited and I waited. Finally someone sneezed, but it wasn’t him. It was someone else. Someone boring and unscarred whose parents packed him a cheese lunch and whose father never drank, not even a bit.

Published April 24th, 2022