Port Wine Stained Heart

The bell rang for lunch. Everyone ran out of the classroom quickly. Some boys were pushing and shoving each other out the door way. I heard the slamming of locker doors and happy chattering. I waited until the rush ended, and then started putting my textbook and notebook away. There was no way I was going to get caught in the middle of that mob. It was like a jungle at the very start of lunch. People thought that if they weren’t first in line, the food would run out. Like a cafeteria would ever run out of food.
By the time I trudged to my locker, the hallway was empty. I took my paper bag from the top shelf and opened it. A peanut butter and fluff sandwich, and cut up apple slices, with a juice box. The same lunch my mom has packed for me since I was in kindergarten. She said it was a good balance of healthy and unhealthy, with the fluff being the only unhealthy part. I didn’t mind. I liked to be healthy. The juice box may have been a little too much now that I’m middle school, and not a kindergartener anymore. But sometimes it was okay because my mom bought the juice boxes with the lame jokes on them. They still made me laugh.
I made my way to the lunchroom and braced myself. I still hated walking into the lunchroom alone after all these years. I didn’t have anyone to distract me from the staring and the whispering. But as soon as I stepped in, it started. Girls turned their faces away from me and whispered to their friends, but their eyes were always glued in my direction, watching me. The boys snickered and elbowed each other, calling out “Scar face!” and “Freddy Kreuger!” which never made any sense to me. I didn’t have a scar, and I wasn’t a scary knife wielding monster.
It was just a birthmark.
A birthmark that spread over half of my face, and was a much darker color than my own pale skin. The scientific term was nevvus flammeus, but everyone just called it a port wine stain. I’ve had it since I was born, and it’s never gone away. It grew with me, never getting better, but never getting worse. It’s smooth for the most part, but there are places where it’s kind of bumpy. My mom always told me it made me unique, and that it was okay to be different. That it just meant God spent a little extra time making me.
I took a seat over in the corner, where I always sat facing the wall. I was used to the name calling, but it helped if I didn’t have to actually see everyone.
I tried to block out the voices, singing “I’ve got you under my skin”, by Frank Sinatra. It made me smile, thinking of my grandfather, who would always sing this song to me while we were driving around in his pick-up truck. My grandfather was always a constant in my life. He never said anything about my birthmark, and when he did, it was the same as what my mother said; God spent a little extra time making me unique. He and my grandmother were married for over fifty years, and I would spend weekends at their house, with my brother Mason. We never really had a father. He left when Mason was five, and I was two. Even though we both asked a lot, our mom wouldn’t spill any details as to why he left. As I got older, I stopped worrying about it. I had my grandparents, my mom and my brother as my family, and they’re all I will ever need.
Two years ago, my grandfather passed away. It changed all of us, because he was so involved in our life. It’s like a huge puzzle piece went missing from our bodies. Even their dog, Muffy, noticed something was wrong. She was usually so happy, but for weeks after my grandfather’s death, she would mope around the house, not even playing with her favorite chew toy. I still miss him, but I keep him alive in my heart, repeating everything he told me. And now, to block out everyone’s voices, I sing Frank Sinatra songs to myself and think about the afternoons we had together.
Time still seemed to drag on and on. Lunch was always the longest, and worst part of the school day. I had no friends, so once I was finished eating, there was no one to talk to. And even though I was used to the name calling, hearing it from time to time still made me bristle.
While eating my last apple slice, the cafeteria went silent. This was something new, so I took a chance and turned around, hoping everyone’s eyes weren’t looking in my direction.
When I turned around, I saw something I thought I’d never see in this school; there was a boy standing in front of the lunch room, holding a tray, eyes darting around looking for a place to sit.
He had a port wine stain. It covered half of his face.
If I hadn’t been so shocked, I would have waved him over. But instead, I stared like everyone else in the room.
Then someone shouted, “Hey! Scarface has a new boyfriend!” And then the cafeteria exploded into laughter. A lump formed in my throat, the kind that you always feel before you cry. A wave of nausea hit me, and I turned around and put my head down on the table. The coolness of the plastic felt good on my forehead.
I knew the new kid must have been still trying to find a seat, because I still heard everyone shouting names at him. They were loud. And ugly. Such ugly words. I was glued to my seat, frozen. I was too afraid to stand up for him--and for myself. I know it’s the right thing to do, but the last thing I needed was to draw more attention to myself. I grabbed my empty lunch bag and stood up, ready to bolt out of the cafeteria before it could get worse. Mr. Harrison, the teacher on duty was trying to calm everyone down, yelling at them to stop. He was the art teacher, so no one took him very seriously. The man didn’t have a very intimidating voice either, so it wasn’t a surprise when no one stopped.
I must have turned around too fast because I didn’t see the new kid come up behind me. I smashed into him, and his lunch. We both ended up on the floor, and the cafeteria erupted into laughter. Again.
My face was burning with humiliation and I started crying. I covered my face with my hands, not wanting to anyone to see me. But of course everyone did, especially the new kid, who was covered in the lunch of the day: mashed potatoes and salisbury steak. His carton of milk had exploded as well, and it covered the front of his pants. He wasn’t crying though. He was already standing up and trying to clean himself off. Mr. Harrison was coming towards us. I couldn’t tell if his expression was angry or pitiful, but he was coming towards us pretty fast.
“Here Mackenzie, let me help you,” He said, putting his hand out for me to grab. Slowly, I gave my hand to him and he gently helped me up. “Let’s get you guys cleaned up.” Mr. Harrison put his hand on both our shoulders and led us out of the cafeteria, down the hall to the nurse’s office, leaving the chaos behind.
I looked at my feet the whole way. I was way too embarrassed to look at the boy next to me. I didn’t really know what he looked like besides his port wine stain. I wasn’t sure if he had noticed mine at all.
“Wait here, and I’ll go get some spare clothes for you, Adam.” Mr. Harrison said, looking at the boy.
“Thank you.” He said quietly.
“You can both have a seat and take a breather.” He gave me a smile that read, ‘I feel sorry for you’ before he left the room.
Adam and I sat down on the uncomfortable plastic chairs lined up against the office wall.
Should I apologize? I felt like I should say something because sitting here in silence was getting really awkward. My leg was bouncing up and down, something that happened when I got nervous.
I noticed Adam was doing the same thing.
I tried to look at him out of the corner of my eye, but I guess he caught me because he said, “Sorry for bumping into you. You were all alone so I thought maybe I could sit with you…”
This time I looked at his face. Adam was looking at me, his mouth curved into a tiny smile. He had light green eyes and hair the color of sand. His port wine stain was a dark red color, like mine.
His smile disappeared when he saw me. “Oh…” is all he said.
I wanted to look away. Maybe he would still make fun of me. Maybe he would be just like everyone else.
“You have one, too.” Is what he ended up saying.
“Huh?” I was so surprised that he didn’t have a nasty reaction, I was struck dumb for a second.
“A port wine stain,” he pointed to his face. “You have one too.”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I put my hand near my face. “I do.” Shrugging, I said, “It’s just a birthmark.”
He looked at me again. This time his smile came back.
“Yeah. That’s all it is.” He shrugged.
My heart leaped. Finally, someone else who understood.