Gray Matter

The voices became apparent in third grade.

Mrs. Tellier had taken the class for a visit to to the school library and told us that for being such good students we deserved to be read a story.

It was then, as the lot of us sat huddled together on that deep blue, alphabet printed carpet that I heard Blake Carter announce his hatred for my tie-dyed shirt. How he believed it to look like I was wearing colourful vomit.

Only, he hadn’t announced it at all. He’d only thought it. Because Blake Carter’s parents had been strict advocates of the “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” policy and had adamantly reminded their only son of it.

But, nonetheless, I believed he had said it. Thus also making it the day that I made Blake Carter cry in front of the entire class by rotating in my spot, slapping him across the face, and decidedly stating my own opinion on how gross I believed his nose picking habit to be.

Needless to say, our class was never again taken for a visit to the library.

After the incident, Mrs. Tellier sent me to the principal’s office, where, after receiving a lecture about the wrongfulness of violence to solve my problems, I was told it was best that my guardian come pick me up and take me home. I wholeheartedly agreed with them, mostly because home is where I could change my shirt.

When Adam showed up, he did not reprimand me. He did not yell or scold, but just took my hand and gently tugged me toward his beaten up minivan - it was one of the ones with the blunt nose and the wood panel along the side. He buckled me into the front seat then circled around so he could take his own position behind the wheel. His hair was still totally brown then, and completely different than my own honey blonde locks. It was long too, and he aggressively ran his fingers through it.

“You did nothing wrong,” He said after turning the keys into the ignition and starting the heater. “It was not your fault.”

Confusion settled in. The other adults had told me it was my fault. That I had no reason to be provoked. That I needed to apologize even though I was certain that Blake was the one who had started it. When I told Adam of my puzzlement, he told me that it was natural, that he’d explain soon enough, which made me feel better but still didn’t add any clarity. Then he sighed, reaching behind his seat to grab something.

When an individual packet of chocolate pudding was placed on my lap, all of my third grade troubles disappeared. My shirt was no longer ugly. Blake Carter no longer existed. And the possibility of no longer being allowed recess didn’t concern me.

After that first day, my outbursts occurred more and more often because I heard the voices more and more often.

For multiple days in a row, I’d notice the quiet words of Maisy Johnston, who, despite convincing everyone else that she was just shy, didn’t want to do group work because she believed we were all too stupid for her. Sometimes I’d hear Robert Slavic admit that he believed I’d be cuter if I were skinnier.

Blake Carter’s words were always the loudest, though.

It did not matter that I robotically apologized after each one, because the voices kept coming and I continued to react. And each time Adam would arrive at school and give me a packet of stupid pudding and take me home and that was the end of it until the next time.

I don’t blame myself for my ignorance because I was just a kid. I do, however, regret my lack of questioning. Because I feel like if I had noticed the puzzle earlier, there would be less pieces to put together now.

Because with Adam, “soon enough” never came.