New Killer In Town

Zana Patterson

Zana is in the picture above

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In elementary school, I never had many friends. In fact I've really only had one, which I didn't meet until the fourth grade. Every other person refused to talk to me because I was fat.

I wasn't skinny, I wasn't cute, I was too tall, and I was too poor. Nobody wanted any part of that. And because of their judgements, I started to hate my parents. I couldn't help but thinking bad things about them. Blaming every name I called on them.

The part of elementary school that stood out the most was my fifth grade year. My teacher's name was Mrs. Maybelle. My friend, Blair, told me that Mrs. Maybelle was her aunt.

She was really nice. She treated everyone kindly and always resolved problems between students without hurting anyone's feelings.

One day, when Blair was home sick, I tried to sit with some other kids at lunch. But their response to my attempts was too say that they could never associate with someone my size. So, I ended up sitting alone. I had pushed my food away and put my head down as my eyes started to water.

But then Mrs. Maybelle walked over and asked me what was wrong. I told her about what the kids had told me, and she rubbed my back gently. She asked me about life at home. I didn't really understand why she wanted to know, but I told her. I told her how rare it was for my parents to be home.

She then told me that my parents could be the reason for my weight. She said that when a child does not have the right contact with their parents, they end up turning to someone or something else to make up for it. Food and sleep being two examples of it.

I did a lot of both when I got home after school.

She then told me that she would schedule a parent-teacher conference. I told her not to bother. That they wouldn't show up. She just patted my head and told me not to worry. That everything will be fine.

I didn't argue any further. Saw no point since I could tell she wouldn't listen.

On the day of the conference I sat in Mrs. Maybelle's classroom and played with Blair as we waited for my parents. Mrs. Maybelle seemed to grow angry the longer we waited. I remember never seeing anyone as mad as Mrs. Maybelle looked that day.

She drove me home since I had no other way to return. My house was average in size. But the overgrown grass and the moss covered walls of the house showed its days of neglect. She then gave me a slip of paper with a number on it. She told me to call her if anything happens. She then drove away.

I walked up to my house and walked in. My parents don't trust me to not lose a key, so I'm stuck with leaving the door unlocked all day, everyday.

A few days later, after school I had gotten home to see the door wide open. My first thought was that my parents were home. But those thoughts when away when I walked in. The furniture were all ripped and flipped over, everything was thrown everywhere. I didn't understand. So I walked over to the house phone and called the number.

Mrs. Maybelle answered after three rings, asking who it was. I told her it was me then about my home. She sounded panicked when she told me to wait on the porch. She said she would be there in a few minutes and that she'll call the police.

After she hung up, I did what she asked me too. She arrived soon after with a lot of men in loud flashing cars. Those men walked into my house while Mrs. Maybelle rushed over and hugged me. Blair was with her. She spent a while making sure I was OK. But honestly I didn't understand what was happening.