Tadpoles in My Jar

New York City

Betty

It's been six weeks and three days since I was uprooted from everything I knew. The morning I left Gallipolis is etched in my memory, sharp and painful. I packed my bags neatly, sealing away sixteen years of my life into the confines of my suitcase. I can still picture James standing there, his figure shrinking in the back window as the car carried me further away. 

As I stepped off the plane in New York City, "The City of Dreams," I felt more like a lost soul wandering in "The City of Rats and Overcrowding." 

Our apartment is in Greenwich Village, and it's small — my room barely larger than my closet back home, with walls that seem to close in on me at times, a constant reminder that I'm trapped in this new life. I wake up every day missing home — my real home. I miss the gentle chirping of birds outside my window, the way sunlight filtered through the leaves of the oak trees lining the street. 

Most of all, I miss James. On nights when homesickness settles in, I slip my arms into the cable-knit cardigan he gave me. I breathe in deeply, trying to capture the scent of him. I hold it close, a tangible reminder of everything I've left behind.

I even miss our school where I didn't have to wear a dumb uniform that feels like a straitjacket. I started my junior year at St. Cecilia School for Girls, and it has been anything but welcoming. The first day felt like stepping onto a battlefield, and I quickly realized that I had entered enemy territory. No one has tried to talk to me, except for a group of mean girls who take pleasure in making my life a living hell. 

Carrigan Montgomery, the ringleader, greets me every day with a scowl, her large eyes narrowed as if I'm an intruder in a place I don't belong. They mock my red hair, calling me "Carrot Head" and tugging at my ponytail in the hallway as if it's a game to them. It's painful to see how their jokes have spread throughout the school, so that all the other students only know me as Carrot Head, a name that feels like a brand burned into my skin.

As I walk into school today, I shove my hands into the pockets of my maroon blazer that is a few sizes too large for my frame. I spot Carrigan and her group of minions waiting for me by my locker. A lump forms in my throat.

"What's up, Carrot Head?" she sneers. "You're from Ohio right? What's that little town again—the one famous for Mothman sightings?"

I know I shouldn't pay them any heed, so I turn toward my locker, but before I can move, one of Carrigan's minions, steps in front of me, grinning.

"You know," Carrigan says with a snort, "I always thought Ohio was the kind of place where your prom date is your cousin—'cause, you know, slim pickings out there in the cornfields."

Laughter erupts around me, a chorus of mockery that feels like needles prickling my skin. 

I turn away, my face burning, wishing I could sink into the floor and disappear. I can feel the lump rising in my throat, and for a moment, I consider just walking away—keeping my head down like always. But something inside me snaps. Maybe it's the homesickness, the loneliness, or the constant gnawing feeling that I don't belong here. I've had enough.

"Why are you such a bitch?" I say, turning towards her.

A nearby locker slams shut. A few students stop and stare at me in disbelief. I take a step back, hands trembling, aware of the whispers.

My words hang in the air like a challenge, and for a second, Carrigan's eyes widen, shocked. The hallway grows quiet, like everyone's holding their breath, waiting for what's going to happen next. She steps forward, towering over me, her jaw clenched. 

'What did you just say?' she hisses. 

My legs tremble, but before she can do anything, the shrill ring of the bell breaks the tension. I flick my middle finger up and walk away, heart pounding in my chest.

As the days blur into weeks, I keep my head down and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. During lunch, I hide away in the library, drowning myself in books that transport me far from the mocking laughter of Carrigan. But sometimes, even the stories can't distract me from the reality.

Mom keeps telling me that things will get better eventually, while Dad insists I need to change my attitude. But they don't understand how isolating it feels to be the new girl dropped in a strange place. I just wish they'd let me call James more often. We haven't talked much — only two or three times since I got here — because long-distance calls cost a fortune, and Dad has been pretty strict about it. 

Writing letters feels more personal, though; each one is like a little piece of home that I can hold onto. Still, I miss hearing his voice, the sound of his laughter, and the way he could always make me feel better with just a few words. I want to tell him everything — the good, the bad, and the ugly. But for now, I keep the weight of my feelings tightly sealed inside.

October 11, 1988

Dear James,

It's 8pm, and New York feels like an entirely different planet. The lights never go out here; the noise never stops. I miss the quiet of Gallipolis—especially the way the fireflies would light up the yard after sunset. Do you remember that? We used to chase them for hours, laughing so hard we could barely breathe. 

Junior year at  St. Cecilia has been quite an adjustment so far. The workload is intense, but I'm doing my best to keep up. I've even managed to make a few friends along the way, though none of them can ever replace you.

But enough about me. How are you doing? How's school?

With all my love,

Betty

I clutch the cardigan tighter around my shoulders, allowing its warmth to seep into my bones as I face another day in a world that feels foreign and unwelcoming. Yet somewhere deep down, there's a tiny flicker of hope that refuses to be extinguished—a whisper that one day I'll find my place again. Until then, I'll keep writing, holding on to the pieces of my heart that are scattered across state lines, hoping they'll lead me home.