Love Your Enemies: A Short Story Written by my Wife

Note:  All  the short stories I post will be fiction, the products of an active imagination.  For example, I was never bullied or harassed in school.  Any resemblance to real people or real places will always be coincidental unless otherwise specified.  However, I did have teachers named Mrs. Yamamoto, Mr. Kurtz, and Mr. Waters.

<sup>Love Your Enemies

It is often difficult to feel compassion for a bully.  Especially one that has harassed and tormented you since the fifth grade.  Yet, that is what I have been taught to do: to "pray for those who despitefully use" me.*  I know I should try to understand what pains Darcy is going through that cause her to lash out.  Yet, because I am her main target, it makes it harder to care about what she's going through and so I focus only on what I have to deal with.

Darcy moved to our town of Remington seven years ago.  From the first day we met in Mrs. Yamamoto's class, she made up her mind she did not like me.  I had been asked by our teacher to help the new girl feel welcome and help Darcy get acquainted.  One look at Darcy and one look at me quickly made our classmates wonder why Mrs. Yamamoto had paired us together.  Darcy only wears dark colors often decorated with skulls.  She dyes her naturally blonde hair black and reeks of sour body odor.  I may not outwardly wear my faith in God by sporting crosses on my clothes, but everyone knows my father is a preacher.  I am childishly known as a goody-goody-two-shoes.

As far as I know, I have never done anything to cause Darcy to dislike me.  She has judged me solely based on my appearance.  Well, that and probably also because of my father's occupation.  We are usually products of our environment, after all. Yet after many long years of tripping me so I spilled my lunch tray, refusing to let me into the girls' bathroom, and following me down the hallways shouting, "Smelly Belly is a Jesus Freak," I ceased the to need know her reason.  And, no, my name is not Belly, of course, but Belinda.

You may wonder why the school never intervened.  Simple, I never complained.  Darcy never caused me any physical harm, just a lot of immature pranks at my expense.  Humiliation I could somewhat tolerate, but being labeled as a snitch would make things unbearable.

Oh, how I longed to be homeschooled, but my parents had five growing children to feed.  My father was a full time minister and part time nursing home janitor, so my mother needed to work outside the home as well.

It was the end of our senior year, but it was not graduation I looked forward to the most, it was leaving Darcy behind forever.  Just one week to go, and I would be free.  But not yet.  God would make sure I learned a lesson that had never taught in any secular school room.

I had Mr. Kurtz for sixth hour psychology.  Our final assignment would be worth 30% of our grade.  According to Mr. Kurtz, it would cause us to think outside our own selfish little worlds.  We would be forced to look at another person we typically never talked to, and see him or her in a whole new light.  I should have sensed danger from the word go, but I had foolishly assumed Mr. Kurtz was being his typical melodramatic self .  It was not until he started naming off the students he had chosen as teams that I realized he paid attention.  He knew which kid had which reputation, and had meticulously matched students based on polar opposites.  The rich cheerleader who lived in a mansion was paired with the poor homeless girl who lived with her mother in their car.  The football captain was placed with the captain of the chess club.  The gothic girl was teamed with the preacher's kid.  Wait!  What?

He then distributed a set of seven questions we were to ask our partner.  After we had each answered all the questions, we had to write an essay on what our preconceptions had been, and how our opinions had changed.  I noticed he did not say if our opinions had changed. 

Mr. Kurtz wisely understood that if we took this assignment out of the classroom, they would never be completed.   He knew his students would either make up the answers, or just refuse to do the assignment.  No stuck-up privileged child would ever allow someone living in a trailer park into his or her home.  Therefore, we were to spend the time interviewing each other in the classroom.  We were to volley questions back and forth rather than individually go through the entire set. We would ask and answer every question to his satisfaction.  If he looked over our papers and felt our answers were in anyway lacking, we would be sent back to our partner.  We were not limited to the seven questions and could add any of our own at will.

Our desks nosily scraped across the floor as we rearranged ourselves into groups of two.  I felt my stomach twist into a roller coaster of knots as I approached Darcy at her desk at the back of the classroom.

I had not expected any pleasant small talk, or any greeting of any sort, so when she began asking the first question before I had even finished sitting down, I was not surprised at her cold tone.

"'What is your full name?  Include any nicknames.'"

"Belinda April Carston.  My parents and sisters call me either Bel or Lindy," I replied, noticing the smirk on her face as she wrote down my answer.  I knew she was thinking of her rude nickname for me as well.  I then repeated the first question for her to answer.

"Darcy Suzanne Jenkins.  I don't have any nicknames, and you can't include what my dad calls me."

"Why not?"  I wondered.

"Because your delicate ears aren't conditioned for swear words," she explained with an abrasive laugh.  She moved on to the second question,  "'Who do you share your home with?'"

I did not know if we were supposed to be specific, so I vaguely answered, "My two parents and four younger siblings."

"Technically I live with my dad, but he spends more time at the bar than at home," Darcy revealed with a mixture of bitterness and sadness in her tone.  She shook it off and read,"'What are your hobbies?'"

"Reading, singing, hiking with my dog, and..."

"Praying?" she completed my sentence with a sneer.

"No, well, yes, but I was going to say baking and swimming," I replied, taking a slow deep breath.  Three questions down.  It was too early to get angry yet.

"My hobbies are smoking and listening to heavy metal music."

I started to write down her response, but she stopped me.

"Wait," she insisted,  "Don't write that.  My real hobbies are playing the trumpet, learning foreign languages, drawing, and I also like to read and go for walks with my dog."

Okay, so I had not expected those answers, and half-wondered if she was telling the truth.

"What kind of dog do you have?"  I ventured.

"White trash hound.  And you?"

I ignored her sarcasm and said, "He's a mutt from the dog pound.  I think he's German shepherd mixed with yellow lab."

"Sounds like a dog with a lot of energy," Darcy remarked, her tone sounding civil for the first time in seven years, "My dog is a Rottweiler mixed with a pit bull."

Again, I did not know if she was being truthful or facetious, but we moved on to the fourth question.

"'What career do you want to have?'"

"I want to go to culinary school and eventually own my own bakery that also sells dog and cat treats," I offered.

She nodded her head as if she approved.  "I want to illustrate children's books."

"Who's your favorite author?"  I shot, trying to call her bluff.  I could not imagine her ever reading for pleasure and did not expect her to know the names of any authors.

"Kate DiCamillo.  I would love to illustrate one of her books."

"I love her stories.  My favorite is 'Because of Winn Dixie,'"  I said a little too enthusiastically.

"Of course it is; it's about a preacher's daughter."

"Yes, but it's also about reaching out to people who are lonely or considered outcasts," I countered.

Her blue eyes glared at me from behind the black eyeliner.  "That's why it's called fiction.  Real preacher's daughters don't make friends with anyone different from herself.  They just roll their eyes and wrinkle their noses at the smell when the teacher asks her to be the new girl's guide."

"Darcy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"I was a scared and lonely young girl who just needed a friend.  And instead you became my judge," she accused.

Her stark truth burned right into my heart.  All this time I felt like she had been the instigator of our opposition, but in fact, I had been the one who first rejected her.  True, it did not excuse her bad behavior, but she was acting out of hurt.  I was ashamed of myself.

"Who's your favorite author?" she suddenly blurted, choosing to change the subject back to the previous topic.

"Charles Dickens," I answered, my voice still shaky with remorse.

"He's pretty amazing too," she agreed, then looked back at the assignment to question five.  "'Do you think you will get to follow your dreams?'"

"Maybe someday, but not for a while," I said, forcing my mind to focus on the new issue, "The nearest culinary school to Remington is 300 miles away, and I promised my parents I would stay close to home until the younger kids are old enough to help do the cooking and cleaning.  The next oldest is only thirteen.  I help mama now because she doesn't get home from work until 7:00.  I'll make sure I get a job so I'm home when the kids are off school."
 
"Why don't you just do what you want to do and let your family hire a nanny?"  Darcy wondered.

"My family is my top priority, and they can't afford a nanny.  After all, they've paid for my upkeep for 18 years, it's the least I can do."

"Noble," she muttered rather sarcastically.

"Your turn to answer the question," I prompted.

"I've already submitted some of my artwork to a literary agent, and she believes I have real talent.  I have an appointment to meet with the children's editor at Elgin Publishing in New York City the week after graduation," she reported.

"That's exciting!  I bet your dad's proud of you," I said.

She made a noise something like a grunt and went on with the assignment.  "'What will you miss the most about high school and what will you miss the least?'"

"I pretty much hate school, so I can't say I'll miss anything.  As far as what I'll miss the least?"  I paused and locked eyes with her.  I wanted to say it was being bullied by her, but I think she got the idea.  "I won't miss lunch."

"Why?  We have good food here."

"I know, but I always end up sitting alone reading a book.  The time kinda drags.  I'd rather skip lunch and go home and hour earlier."

She studied me thoughtfully.  "I never thought of you as being lonely."

"No one wants to be friends with a square."

"I don't think anyone uses that word anymore."

I sighed.  "I guess not.  But at least I won't look back at my many years trapped in school with ay regrets."

I hit an unintentional nerve again, and she made another grunting sound.  "I will miss my art class.  Mr. Waters is the one who encouraged my talent and helped me find an agent," she paused as she thought over her next response, "I also will not miss lunch.  I have people to sit with, but the people who party with you are not the same ones who rejoice when you get a meeting in New York.  I know I'll never see any of them again."

"I guess I never thought of you as lonely either," I returned.

She nodded, but did not want to dwell on it.  "Question seven:  'Is there anything you would like to add?'"

I was uncertain if I wanted to approach the subject again, but figured it would most likely be my last opportunity to do so.  "I'm sorry for being so judgmental of you.  I hadn't realized until now what I snob I have been.  I always thought you didn't like me because I'm a Christian.  But that doesn't matter; I still should have been kinder to you.  We have a few things in common, we may have even become friends."

"I wouldn't go that far!"  she said with a mocking air, but sincerely added, "Maybe we could have."

"'Is there anything you would like to add?'"  I repeated.

I naively expected her to apologize to me as well, but instead she simply said, "No."

"Fair enough," I decided.

The bell then rang and Mr. Kurtz dismissed the class.  And just like that, the conversation with my enemy was over.  We never spoke again.

All the way home from school that day, all I could think of was that I had never once considered Darcy's home life or her hopes for the future.  I had never seen her as anything but my own personal bully.  It turned out she was an ambitious young woman about to achieve her dreams.  Yet, she was still just a sad and lonely little girl wanting someone to be her friend. 

Of all the years I spent in classrooms, the lesson Mr. Kurtz taught stuck with me more than any other.  I prayed for Darcy every day after that eye-opening assignment.  I also prayed for forgiveness for being so self-centered.   I prayed I would never again waste the opportunity to be a friend to someone in need, no matter what she looked like.  I never again wanted to squander the opportunity to share the love of Jesus.

I was certain there would be more bullies to face in my life, but I vowed after that day that I would see them through less critical eyes and reach out to them, even if they rejected me.  Perhaps next time God placed someone in my life to witness to, I would not drop the ball.  I would pray to make up for my past mistakes, and to be transformed into a woman God could use; a woman who could learn to love her enemies.   

 * "</sup>But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you."  Matthew 5:44