"Amelia Bedilia"

Meeka Jones is in my eighth period English class. Her long legs wrap comfortably around each other while mine manage to jut against my desk. She has one of those spines that make me think of a dancer and unlike the rest of the students who fidget in their seats, Meeka stares at Mr. Johnson with the calmness of a cat. She doesn’t belong here. She belongs on the cover of Vogue, looking all beautiful and perfect. But pictures are silent. They don’t tell the insides of a person.



Mr. Johnson asks us to write down our parents’ work numbers and Meeka is still writing long after everyone else has finished. Mrs. Blum says that Meeka has it tough but there is nothing tragic about a girl with manicured hands who has a zillion loved ones to call. I can still remember my dad’s work number. I write it down and put a delicate line through it. Writing it makes me feel better and then worse. If anyone has the tragic life, it’s me.


The bell rings and Mr. Johnson asks us to bring the contact information to him. He hasn’t stood up once and I wonder if he even has legs. “Amelia Bedilia Fluchter?” Mr. Johnson asks and the students who are still in the classroom chuckle. Meeka smiles but I can tell that she doesn’t understand what is so funny. They probably don’t know what an Amelia Bedilia is where she comes from—perhaps the only good thing about her.


“That’s me,” I say and walk over to Mr. Johnson’s desk.


“Your mother can’t pick you up. You need to take the bus,” he says and sips his coffee.


“Are you sure you have the right student? My mother never lets me take the bus,” I say.


“Amelia Bedilia Fluchter?”


“Just Amelia, thank you,” I smile and study the few hairs of his mustache that are wet with coffee.


“You’re the one who has detention?” He slurps from his mug.


“Yup,” I say.


“Your mother says to take the bus.” He is no longer looking at me and that’s okay because I am no longer listening to him. I am too busy trying to figure out my mother.