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We moved to town when I was in the third grade and I couldn’t read. Not a word. My old school wasn’t terrible, it was me. I was slow. But I was a good listener and most kids didn’t catch on so I was only made fun of for being new, not illiterate. The only person who figured it out was Sasha Abraham because she put notes on my desk and waited for a response, which of course never came. After a few weeks she cornered me in the cloak room and said, “Well?” I should stipulate that it wasn’t just her that cornered me, but her younger sister Frieda too, who looked like she could bite. The only thing I knew about notes was that they were usually flirtations, so I said, “Yes, I like you too.” Sasha face slowly turned from sweet to sad and she half whispered, “Good luck to you Johannes Graf. You will need it,” before walking away. Frieda just told me I was a fucking moron, which was a shock coming from the mouth of a second grader. I didn’t keep the notes so I never found out what she wanted.
By the fifth grade I am caught up with reading, but I’m still not very popular. Every boy in the class plays dodgeball at lunch and takes it very seriously. Sasha and Frieda are the only girls who play and they are good at it. They’re small, quick, and very difficult to hit. Sasha wins more games than anyone, partly because Frieda runs interference for her and also distracts the boys by shouting creative, vulgar insults whenever they miss or are knocked out of the game. We don’t call it dodgeball, but Escape from Stalag 13, from Hogan’s Heroes. Sasha and Frieda object to that name for reasons I don’t understand. I try my best because it is the quickest route to respect and status among the boys, but I have terrible peripheral vision and always get put out quickly. Head shots are supposed to be out of bounds, but the rules aren’t enforced for the weaker players and I have my share of bell ringers. On the last day of school the game is particularly intense because everyone wants summer bragging rights. As usual I am knocked out early and stand to the side, looking down, hoping no one notices me feeling sorry for myself, which is why I don’t see the ball screaming toward my head. When my eyes open again my face is in a girl’s lap and all I see are long, skinny legs sticking out of lavender culottes with white high top Joe Lapchicks attached at the end. I feel dizzy and nauseous but don’t want to disturb the moment because the girl, who is of course Sasha, holds one hand on my cheek while the other slowly brushes my hair. Frieda’s shadow looms over us and she shrieks at passing boys, “Cheap Shot!, You’re all cheap shot artists, you motherfuckers!!” It may be the only time she ever stood up for me. Sasha lowers her head to my ear and whispers, “You have got to get tougher Johannes Graf, that’s all I ever wanted to tell you. Toughen up,” which she says with such kindness that it takes hours for me to understand the words. Maybe that’s why I answer, “I like you too. I like you a lot.” This time she doesn’t wish me luck and doesn’t walk away, although Frieda does call me a dumb son of a bitch, which is oddly reassuring and makes me believe there will be a happy ending, whether I deserve one or not.
About Jeff Goll
JWGoll is a writer and artist working as a Patient Advocate at a large hospital in North Carolina. His stories and poems are informed by experiences as a photographer in Chicago, the Dakotas, and Central Europe. He has published work in The Vestal Review, Fiction Kitchen Berlin, The Museum of Americana, Microfiction Monday, Right Hand Pointing, New World Writing, and Storm Cellar, among others.
