Lane Murphy
600 Bagby 8A Waco, TX 76706
LEGS
by
Lane Murphy
My legs are
too skinny, and everyone knows it. My parents call me Bonita, but I’m ugly to
everyone else. I tell myself I am ugly and so do they. My parents are from
Mexico; I tell everyone I was born here. They can’t really speak gringo like
me, so they don’t understand everything about this Texas, not like I do. We
moved here when I was eleven, so I have had plenty of time to learn everything
I need to about how things are in Texas.
My parents
are proud to be from Chihuahua, but I am not. How can I be proud of a place
named after the world’s smallest dog? They shiver and cry tears more than
babies. We now live in the Little Mexico section of town where all the other
wetbacks live. My Papa hates that word, but I tell him it is true. We came
across to find a better life, and I guess we did. At least these white people
have jobs to give us.
But my teeth
are crooked. That is one big thing here in Texas; almost everyone has straight,
white teeth, even most of the gringos who shop at the garage sales like my mama
get braces when they are young. Have you seen those people who have two or
three sets of fangs growing out of their gums? I mean the ones with stacked
teeth, with teeth you only see when something is really funny and they can’t
help it and sometimes smile too big. When they remember, their lips come back
together and they hope you didn’t notice that they just might be vampires. I am
one of those people. That is why I laugh with my lips pulled tight over my
stained teeth. I know it is obvious that I am covering them, but at least the
others will realize that I know I have this problem. Hopefully, they will be nice
and not talk about it in the locker room later when I am not around.
I run long
distance races and cross-country for my school.
I like running practice since I am faster than the rest of my team.
Sometimes I like to get really far ahead of everyone else. Coach likes this; he
says I will run at state before I know it if I practice hard every day. But
mostly, I just like being out in front of my teammates. This way, I can be
alone and think about things and be better than them at the same time. They
cannot see my teeth or make fun of me when they are behind me, eating my dust.
I love this about running.
Sometimes we
run along the farm-to-market roads that run between the endless cotton fields
of the panhandle. Papa works with others who live near us in Little Mexico
almost every day of the summer in one of these fields. He’s there during track
season, spraying the Johnson grass that grows between the baby cotton plants.
He’s still there in late August and early September, chopping weeds out in the gringo
cotton fields, his sharpened hoe knocking down the one-legged careless weeds,
jerking their shallow roots from the red dirt. Sometimes we run by the fields
where he is working. He always waves to me; I see him out of the corner of my
eye. If I am far enough ahead of the other girls, I will wave back and smile at
him.
“Corre
rápido, mi Bonita pequeña,” he yells to me as I pass. If the other girls can
see me, I will ignore him and tell him I didn’t hear him when I get home for
supper. They do not know my Papa, and they will not judge him for working in
the fields for their fathers. He is a good father, and I will protect him from
them, even though he does not understand why I do not wave back sometimes.
I do not
like to wear the little running shorts, but sometimes the sweatpants are too
hot to run in since summer lasts for nine months in this part of Texas. I
always put my sweatpants back on before I go inside because we have a rule
against wearing shorts in the building, especially since I am an aide in the
principal’s office in fifth period right after practice. I think it is a good
rule. Mr. Wright, the principal, says I can take off my sweatpants if I want
since he knows I just came from practice and we don’t have time to take a
shower. His secretary, Mrs. Hackett, is at lunch this period, so sometimes, it
is just me and him in the office. Mr. Wright is a nice man. He personally
requested that I work for him this year even though I had never really talked
to him. When I asked him, why me, he said he saw me run last year and knew I
was I hard worker. I know he does not judge my legs, so I will usually take off
my sweatpants for the period, or at least until the sweating stops. I try my
best to please Mr. Wright because he is so nice to me. I answer the phone, make
copies, type up teacher memos, and get his mail for him.
“Can I have
your email address?” he asks me one day when we are alone.
“Yes sir,” I
say, wondering why Mr. Wright would want my email address.
“It’s this
darn block scheduling. Since you only come in a couple times a week, there are
things I need to tell you that I don’t always get to,” he says. I work for him
on Tuesday-Thursday only. He says he might need to get a hold of me on the days
I don’t work. Mr. Wright says he will need me to know things in case he is in a meeting during the period I
work, or if he is out of town and needs to tell me something important while he
is gone. These all sound like good reasons to me, so I give it to him. I would
have done it even if he did not have good reasons. He is the principal, and he
is handsome.
A couple of
weeks later, Mr. Wright sends me email. It is dated from Saturday, but I do not
have a computer at home, so I do not see it until Monday’s Word Processing
class when I check my emails from the weekend. He tells me something about a
meeting he will be in tomorrow, asks me how the track meet went this weekend;
other stuff like that. He says he used to be a coach, so track runners are
important to him.
I imagine
him sitting at his computer at home, typing this email. In my head, he looks a little like Antonio
Banderas in Interview with the Vampire that came on TBS this weekend.
All the girls think Mr. Wright is very handsome, especially to be over thirty.
I bet they would be jealous that I was getting email from a good man like him.
I decide to
show my best friend Adriana Mendoza, but not until Mr. Wright sends me a few
more emails, just in case he says something really nice about me. Adriana is a
cheerleader. All the boys drool over her, and I know I look even uglier when I
am standing next to her. But she is a good friend. Her mother is the
cheerleading sponsor and teaches English
to the kids who recently came from Mexico. Sometimes in the evenings, she helps
the kids’ parents who are not around English all the time like their kids are.
She teaches them the laws of the United States and how to keep from being sent
back to Mexico.
Mr. Wright
starts sending me emails once or twice a week. Most of the emails say things he
wants me to do or asks me questions about my homework or track. Mr. Wright
tells me it isn’t necessary to let anyone know that he emails me. I like to
keep secrets, but I like to share them even more. His emails are like precious
pearls to me; each one is a treasure. How can he expect me to hide my jewels in
a box? I would like to put them on a necklace and wear them around for the
whole world to see what this man gives me. I tell him I don’t show anyone, and
I don’t, except for Adriana. No other boy ever gives me attention except for
fat, stinky Pedro, and he is two years younger. All Pedro gives me are
Chup-a-Chups and little roses he draws for me in art class. These are nice
things, but Pedro is no Mr. Wright, and he doesn’t know English very well. I
tell him I will only speak to him if he talks to me in English. He is getting
better, but Pedro is not good enough quite yet.
Mr. Wright
always responds to my emails on the same day I send them. We are getting
closer, I can feel it. He never says anything about the emails when I am
working, not even when we are alone. I ask him one day why we can’t talk about
these things in real life.
“Check your
email,” is all he says, then flashes me that big, bright smile. I smile back,
showing him my teeth, even the extra ones. I only smile this way at him,
knowing he doesn’t care about my vampire teeth.
I check my
email in the library. Mr. Wright says it is better to talk through emails
instead of out loud since someone might hear us. He says if we can keep our
friendship a secret, it will last longer. I want to be friends with Mr. Wright,
so I try to honor his wishes. I do print out my emails and take them over to
Adriana’s though, because I have to tell someone, and she knows how to keep a
secret. I keep them in a notebook at Adriana’s because I can’t take them home.
Papa would be suspicious if he found out about the emails. Sometimes they get a
little spicy, or at least, I pretend they do.
I send Mr.
Wright an email about how I feel ugly today, how my legs are skinny, how I’m
taller than most of the boys even though the health teacher says they should
have caught up to me by now. He writes back, saying I have low self-esteem. He
says I am not ugly. He says my legs are long and slender, but very toned and
getting more muscular. He has watched them develop as the weeks go by. He says
I am a late bloomer, and in a couple of years, all the shorter girls will be
jealous because older boys will be after me. I write him back to say he is so
nice and send him a blushing smiley face.
The next day
is Thursday, so I go to Mr. Wright’s office. Mrs. Hackett is there, so I ask
her what I can do to help. She gives me papers to copy and put in all the
teacher’s boxes. The phone rings, and Mrs. Hackett turns around to answer the
phone. I am leaning on the counter and I glance back over my shoulder through
the door of Mr. Wright’s office. He pretends to whistle at me and gives me the
thumbs up. I have on my running shorts today. I flash him my big smile and
watch him as he scribbles something down on a sheet of paper, then holds it up
for me to see. “Check your email,” it says.
I stop by
the library to check it before I take the copies to the teacher’s lounge. The
email says Mr. Wright thinks I am adding muscle “at a tremendous rate,” and he
wants to measure around my calves and thighs to make sure. He says he wants to
do it on Tuesday because it is the last day of school for the year and he won’t
be able to track my progress during the break. He says he will want to measure
again when school starts next year to see how much progress I make over the
summer. Adriana is with me. I let her read it. Her eyes get big as she takes a
deep breathe and lets the air escape through her puffed out lips. “This is
getting spooky, Esperanza,” she says.
“You really
think so?” I ask. “Maybe he is joking. Maybe he is just being nice.”
“Maybe he
is a nasty pervert,” Adriana whispers.
“He can’t
be” I say. “Mr. Wright always smiles at me and tells me nice things.” Adriana
shakes her head.
“Mr. Wright
is married, and he should not want to touch you or anyone else. We should tell
my mom,” she says.
“No,” I say,
thinking Adriana might finally be jealous of me. “Besides, he probably doesn’t
mean anything by it. But just in case, I will tell him no, then we will see if
he gets mad.” Adriana still looks unconvinced.
“Okay, but
if he says anything else, I will see what my mom thinks,” she says. I think for
a minute, then tell Adriana this sounds good. Then I email him back to say I
don’t think it is a good idea for Mr. Wright to measure me. No one has ever
touched my legs and I am nervous. I hope he still likes me after this. I don’t
go back to the office that day.
After
school, I go over to Adriana’s and check my email again. I cannot wait until
Monday to check it because I have to see if Mr. Wright will be mad or not. The
little envelope has his name by it, so I click it open. The email scares me. It
says:
Bonita, you don’t
have to let me measure your legs, but I assure you it will only take a second.
You can even wear your sweatpants if you want. However, if you don’t cooperate,
I could tell someone about your parents. I could call the border patrol and
have them take your parents away. Whatever you decide, please do not tell
anyone about this email. You are beautiful.
Your friend,
Mr. Wright
I think
maybe Mr. Wright is bluffing, but Adriana thinks he is serious. “I will show my
mama the emails after supper and see what she thinks,” Adriana says. “Mom will
know what to do.” I walk the rest of the way home. I am still happy Mr. Wright
sees good things in me, but I cannot let him take away Mama and Papa. Adriana
is smarter than me, and I am glad she likes to help.
The phone
rings tonight at supper, and I answer it, hoping for Adriana’s voice. Mrs.
Mendoza is on the line, and asks for Papa. His face turns angry red; he knows.
He looks at me with a sadness in his wrinkles, but he says nothing as he hangs
up and walks out the door.
-v-
Now it is my
junior year. I don’t work in the principal’s office anymore. Mr. Wright is gone
now; he had to resign because of me. I have not heard from him since last May.
I tried out for cheerleader this year and made the varsity squad. I still run
every day; I did even during the summer, and my legs are not so skinny anymore.
I wave to Papa every day we run by the fields, whether I am winning or not.
Papa tells
me after a football game one night that someone saw Mr. Wright there, sitting
in the bleachers on the visitor side. Papa told Mr. Jones, the superintendent,
and he had my old principal escorted out of the stadium. Mr. Jones got the
police and the new principal Mr. Forehand to do it. Mr. Jones said he could not
do it since he and Mr. Wright had been such good friends. Mr. Wright told them
he just came to watch the football game, but I like to think he came to see me.
I imagine him, sitting in some sort of disguise, with binoculars in his hand,
focusing on me. I don’t think anyone goes to our games now to watch the team
since we lose every Friday. They come to see my legs.