The Next Best Thing

Why would an eleven-year-old girl step out of her home on a fine Sunday morning with a suicide letter in her pocket?

Stumped? No answer? Flabbergasted?

Thought so.

It was a breezy sort of day—one of those when you just want to cuddle into a corner with some coffee and a really good book. Or lie down spread-eagled in a meadow, listening to the distant twittering of the birds.

Clad in a grey sweatshirt and ripped jeans, I made my way to that lonely bridge out of town where I wanted to end it all. It was a serious, grim decision I had taken. After all, I had enough of the nonsense the world had to offer.

Jump off the bridge and end it all. It was the best…no, the only thing I could do.

My family wasn’t stinking rich, nor really poor. It belonged to that privileged clique where money flowed with merry abandon but still could roam around in the streets without the paparazzi madly clicking pictures. But my family did stink in the literal sense.

I think the first word I could make sense of since I was born was a cuss-word. Not the traditional “Mama” or “Papa” thing. My nanny almost fainted with mortification when she heard the f-word from my one-year-old mouth. That’s how messed up my life has been till date.

I never figured out why my parents fought in the first place. And the ending was usually the same—the cuss-words, the screams and torn clothing.

I always lied through my teeth about their absence during the PTA meetings.

“Mom had a cold…”

“Dad had this incredibly important meeting…”

“She said she would come…maybe a flat-tire…”

Maybe the teachers knew. I could only smile although I seethed internally at their pitying looks. I didn’t need any pity from anyone.

I was the champion skater of my school, bagging the shield in every tournament. It was hard seeing my friends’ parents cheer for them, console them when they couldn’t make it to the top. I always stood at the sidelines. Alone. With a shield almost half my size.

I remember the last month’s competition. The kid, a guy bigger than me, came up and almost spat on my face.

“You have no one to cheer you…why do you always win? I want that shield!!”

I shrugged nonchalantly, walking away. I knew he was bitter on losing the competition, but the words were true.

Why did I always want to win?

Did I think that maybe bringing trophies back home will make my parents have a little interest in me?

I shuffled slowly back home, lugging the shield with me. I opened the door…only to be narrowly missed by a trophy.

My trophy.

I bent down and picked it up, looking around warily for any other projectile.

Then I heard my mother screaming.

“WHY DO YOU INSIST IN KEEPING THAT BRAT HERE? FILLING UP THE HOUSE WITH THIS USELESS CRAP…”

Another trophy hit the wall and broke.

I subconsciously recognized it as the one I won last year at the regionals.

“THEN FILE A DIVORCE AND GET DONE ALREADY!” Father yelled back.

“OH REALLY? SO THAT YOU KEEP THE HOUSE AND THE MONEY?”

I was afraid and confused at the same time? Was I the brat they were talking about?

I clutched my shield tightly, as if trying to rein in my sanity.

“YOU WANTED A KID! AND YOU GOT ONE…” Father was still yelling at the top of his voice.

“BUT I DID NOT WANT A KID NOW!” Mother shouted in retaliation.

“I CANNOT DIVORCE YOU, I CANNOT LIVE WITH YOU…MY LIFE IS A FREAKING HELL!”

I slid down the wall as the shouts continued.

I was unneeded.

Mother and Father were never the model parents the people talked about. But I never realized I was unwanted.

And my trophies, which I thought would earn me some place in their eyes, were just useless crap.

Subsequent eavesdropping over the month opened my eyes to the reality which I didn’t want to accept—I was the reason my parents couldn’t divorce. Apparently, the Social Services feel that an eleven-year-old kid needs both her parents to live a fulfilling life.

Those stupid people have inadvertently made my life a living hell.

I walked down the street, looking at the people enjoying the weekend. Other kids whose only worry was a scraped knee. I saw a mom huddled over one such knee.

I snorted.

How could anyone cry over such a stupid thing?

The bridge was close.

“You know kid, you look too depressed to be an eleven-year-old,” said a voice next to me. I jumped slightly, a frown on my face.

A man, middle-aged I guess, stood next to me. He was selling balloons.

“You look so sad, you can have a balloon for free,” he said, grinning as he handed me a yellow balloon. A cartoonish smiley face was drawn upon it.

“Why do you care?” I huffed. I couldn’t think of anything to say. No one had ever bought me a balloon before.

“It’s a Sunday, kiddo. You shorties are supposed to be happy on Sundays. Where are your parents?” he asked, not unkindly. He was clad in a blue raggedy shirt and jeans, a faded white cap perched jauntily on his white-streaked brown hair. His hazel eyes had a merry twinkle.

“I am alone.”

He scratched his head, puzzled.

“You sure? I mean its okay, kids are always embarrassed about their parents…besides, you shouldn’t be moving about alone—might get lost.”

I looked up at him, squinting in the sunlight.

“I am sure I am alone.” I said coldly.

I must have looked ridiculous—a tiny, scrawny eleven-year-old girl in a black t-shirt and shorts with a yellow balloon and sounding very grown-up.

No wonder he didn’t believe me.

But as he looked into my eyes, his weather-beaten face softened into a smile.

“You shouldn’t be sad, kid. You are too young to be sad.”

His soft, caring voice took me by surprise. His face…no, it wasn’t pity.

I felt a sudden pricking behind my eyes.

“You wouldn’t know,” I said, more coldly than I would have liked.

“I wouldn’t,” he agreed, looking up at the sky.

“I just know one thing—that look on your face…it’s not a good look. What you are thinking…there is always another way.”

I looked at him, surprised. How did he know?

My hand involuntarily went to my back pocket.

The letter was safely inside.

So how…

“I am just a balloon-seller…I don’t have enough money to buy a house for my family. But I am still happy, you know. Giving up is never the only option.”

I knew that.

Teachers, books…they were filled with that sermon.

“Sometimes,” I said, looking at the bridge. The letter suddenly felt very heavy in my pocket.

“Sometimes it is the best thing left.”

He looked at me strangely before asking me a question.

“What’s your favourite food?” he asked suddenly.

“Fried chicken,” I replied, taken aback at the weird question.

“What do you do when fried chicken is not available at the restaurant?” he asked.

“Umm…I order hamburger and fries. That’s the next best thing in my favourites list.” I replied, slightly bewildered.

“You don’t give up?” he pressed on.

“Why would I? There’s always something I can eat,” I replied, now irritated. What was this man up to?

“Remember that reply of yours, kid,” he said, before walking away.

Remember…I was about to call him back when a gust of wind blew a poster in my face.

It was the regional qualification announcement of the skating competition next week.

Damn it, I still need to get the wheels repaired, I cursed mentally before being reminded of the scrap of paper in my pocket.

I won’t be here next week.

I knew what I had planned to do was the best thing to do after all.

Remember that reply of yours, kid…

The reply…

Why would I? There’s always something I can eat…

For the first time in my little life, I breathed in deeply and laughed.

My life was indeed a tragic comedy.

I folder the poster neatly into a square and placed it into my other pocket. I took out the letter I had painstakingly written the night before.

This is the best thing I could do for you…and this was the best thing I could do for myself.

I stared at the paper for a few more seconds before tearing it up, letting the breeze carry the pieces away.

The best thing was not the option.

I would participate in the regionals…let my parents bicker all they want. I don’t care.

It’s my life…my way.

The balloon looked happy as it bobbed merrily.

It was the next best thing in my list…and quite surprisingly, it will do.

__END__