Runt (2 page)

These were not primitive peoples, after all. This was 1775
B.C.E.,
the height of culture and civilization. If a person caused another person's death, they should be put to death.

Fair's fair, as long as both parties belonged to the same social class.

A citizen was certainly allowed to try and seek justice outside his or her stratum. He or she could wait weeks, perhaps months, pay the appropriate court fees, and appear before the tribunal. The offended party of the lower class was then welcome to plead their case, present evidence, and ask for justice, but fat chances, bub.

There is the well-known story of the Babylonian sheep herder and the Hittite Princess, but its ending is far too gruesome to relate in this paper.

Of course, there is the famous yearlong trial of Ramses' two sons, both of whom believed he should be Pharaoh, but only one lived long enough to kill his father and take the throne.

And how can anyone forget the case against Osiris, captain of the chariot team? Osiris was known to have lost over two hundred slaves due to his harsh and inhumane treatment, and was sued by his own stockholders.

The Ten Commandments (also written in stone, interestingly enough) came along about two hundred years after the Babylonian Code, and were a slightly improved version.

The Bible says,
Ayin tachat ayin.

An eye for an eye.

But at least this time, the same rules were supposed to govern both the rich and the poor, both kings and peasants.

The Romans followed, with monetary compensation taking the place of an actual tooth or eye extraction.

And in modern times, of course, there are all sorts of safe and creative punishments for people who try to step out of their ascribed social standing.

No one, however—not Moses, not Hammurabi—could have predicted middle school.

B minus.

Very creative, Freida.

Great illustrations,

but you did not do the assignment.

Allison Robinson stared at herself
in the mirror and made a pact with the higher powers, and at that moment she didn't really care which higher power was available. The mirror hung inside her closet door, and the door swung only partially open because the edge of Allison's desk stuck out too far. So in order to see her whole twelve-year-old body, Allison needed to stand partially inside the closet, pressed up against the shirts, skirts, dresses, and coats that never looked as good on, as they had in the store.

“Okay, so what's worse?” Allison asked aloud to herself. “Braces or being fat?” Allison wanted to be a teacher one day and she often practiced the art of
directing a conversation with leading questions.

When no answer came she added another variable. “Or having pimples?”

In this case, Allison thought, logic could prevail. Braces weren't really part of your own body, so no one could really judge on how you looked with a mouthful of metal, right? But they certainly didn't help and they made your lips look puffy, so in that way braces were pretty ugly. Besides, if you were pretty to begin with and had straight teeth, you wouldn't need them.

Well, pimples aren't really your fault either, are they?

Allison's skin was clear, “like peaches and cream,” her grandmother said. Allison's hair was dark with soft curls, the kind you only see in shampoo ads. And she had the longest, thickest lashes in the world, apparently, because whenever someone was trying to be nice, that's what they said. And apparently long, thick lashes were desirable, at least to old ladies and other plain, overweight girls.

So it's being fat. That's the worst.

“You're the farthest thing from fat,” her dad said.

“I had the same exact body when I was your age. It's just baby fat,” her mother said, and so Allison had scoured her mother's old childhood albums. The woman
must have been delusional—Allison's mom looked like she weighed no more than sixty-five pounds when she was in sixth grade, with arms you could wrap your fingers around and legs so skinny there was no difference between the top thigh and calf.

And this was Allison's pact:

If I could be skinny I'll never ask for anything ever again.

• • •

Henry and Allison sat together at the far end of the cafeteria table, the table designated for those with nowhere else to sit. In her mind, Allison had dubbed it the No-Tolerance table.

“Do you know how many words you can spell with the letters in ‘tolerance'?” Allison asked Henry.

“Where did that come from?”

“I don't know. Nowhere.”

Allison liked Henry and not just because they had the same last name. He was smart and funny and shared things with her. He wasn't afraid to tell her embarrassing stories about his life. It made her feel like she could trust him and tell him things about herself, but Allison wouldn't dare tell him how she felt about him. Even Henry Robinson wouldn't want to hook up with a girl like her.

If I could be skinny I'll never ask for anything ever again.

“There's nothing worse than being unpopular in sixth grade,” Allison said.

“Now where did
that
come from?”

Allison shrugged.

Henry said, “But since you asked, I will tell you what's worse than being unpopular in sixth grade, which, by the way, you are not. Popularity is all relative.”

She knew it wasn't true, but it felt good all the same.

“Being stupid,” Henry told Allison. “That would be worse. Being dumb is the kiss of death.”

“You're probably right. And by the way, it's fifty-seven.”

“What is? The number of words in ‘tolerance'?”

Allison nodded. Henry was smart. And he had really pretty blue eyes.

Henry balled up the wrapper from his sandwich and stuffed it back into his bag. “That's it? Fifty-seven?”

“Yup.” Allison really had no idea how many words you could make with the letters in the word tolerance but she made a mental note to go home and try it out.

“Is lunch almost over?” Henry asked.

The rest of their class seemed to be done eating and were engaging in various other activities—passing notes,
emptying out the contents of Pixy Stix onto the table, carving their initials in the formica.

“Hey, Allison.”

Henry and Allison both looked up. It was never good to be noticed during lunch—or any other time for that matter, but particularly during lunch.

“Hey, Allison. Smile.”

There was some laughter coming from somewhere.

“C'mon, smile.”

Allison didn't, but one of the girls, surrounded by other girls, at the far end of the table, snapped a picture with a tiny camera. It was Cynthia Conrad.

“It's my new sticky-film Polaroid. It's so super cool,” Cynthia Conrad announced, though no one had asked her. “Just hope you didn't break the lens.” That line seemed to elicit a round of wild giggles.

“No good will come of that,” Henry whispered.

“It's just a picture. It can't hurt me,” Allison said. She picked up her lunch tray. “C'mon. Let's go outside.”

“Don't worry. She'll get hers.”

Allison dumped her trash into the garbage and dropped her tray on the conveyor belt that fed the dirty dishes back into the kitchen.

“What do you mean?”

“Everybody gets theirs, one way or another. One day or another. I have proof.”

Allison laughed. “I wish I believed that. I wish I knew that one day someone would be really mean to Cynthia Conrad and she'd feel bad about how she treats other people.”

“I didn't say anyone was going to feel bad. I just said they'll get theirs.”

“Okay, so what's your proof?” They walked outside. It was freezing.

Henry spread his arms out wide. “Right there,” he said.

Allison looked at the trees and let her eyes scan the playground. Most everyone was standing around with their arms wrapped around their bodies, trying to keep warm. A few boys were kicking a ball around on the grass.

“Where?”

“No, out there. Look past the playground and softball field. Look—there is life after middle school.”

Allison laughed.

“Besides, in another year nobody's going to want a
Polaroid. Cynthia will be using her super cool new camera as a paperweight. Within ten years everything's going to be digital.”

“Digital?” Allison asked. “What's that?”

My pant leg is covered
with dog hair. I notice it as soon as I get to class. But what else is new?

“You smell, Elizabeth,” Justin Benton says to me. Justin always tells me I smell.

“So do you.” I sit down at my desk right behind his. He doesn't smell, though, and I probably do. I probably do, but I'm so used to it I can't even tell anymore. It's in our clothes—anything made of natural fabric—jeans, sweatshirts. And hair. Hair really holds on to smells. I should just wear polyester and shave my head.

Bet I'd be real popular then.

“You stink like dog pee,” Justin stands up and leans over into my space just to say this. I swipe at him, but
before I can knuckle him in the arm, he drops back down into his seat.

“Dummy,” I say. It's all I can think of.

Anyway, he is a dummy because it isn't pee. There's no pee on me. It's just the smell of all the animals in our house; all the dogs that come and go. All of them are housebroken. So it's not pee.

“Miss Robinson?” Hannah Montana raises her hand. Well, that's just what I call her. She's so stuck-up and she's skinny like Miley Cyrus with a round face like hers.

“Maggie?” Miss Robinson calls on her and I already know what she's going to ask.

“Can I move my seat?” This question is followed by a very low rumble of giggles, like a tiny wave set into motion by a bug scooting across a pond.

Miss Robinson looks up from where she's sitting behind her desk, presumably to assess the situation.
Now, why would this girl want to move her seat?
We have all just put our heads down to start this vocabulary test. It's real quiet in the room (or at least it was) and for no apparent reason, out of the blue, Hannah Montana needs to change her seat.

“Not now, Maggie,” Miss Robinson says. She gives
her an austere (that is one of our vocabulary words this week) look and Maggie knows that I know that Miss Robinson knows exactly why she wants to move away from me. Maggie wants everyone to laugh.

“Now get back to your papers, everyone. Seventeen minutes left.” She says that, but Miss Robinson has never taken a test away from anyone who was still working. She's nice like that. She's kind of big and round but she's got the prettiest face and the nicest smile. She always asks me about Mork and Mindy, and about Lola because she took one of our kittens last year, before she got this job teaching sixth grade and she was still a student teacher in the elementary school.