The View From Down There
By Katelyn Bagwill
The cold seeps through your pants and deep into your bottom. The button on your back pocket digs into your skin and you sit back on it more, comforted by the pain in a way you realize is strange but not why it’s strange. Arms wrapped tightly around your knees, you stare out at the world in front of you like it’s an upside down children’s drawing. Harsh landscape on top and fading horizon lines on the bottom.
The world does not seem so big down here. It is dark. It is quiet. You are safe.
You pull at the legs of the chair so that they rest directly against your calves. The seat is a nice height to rest your forehead on and the rough bumps along the surface provide another source of pressure as they indent into your skin. You’re breathing is slower now, you count down from ten like Mrs. Robyn told you to and focus on the things around you. 10. You wonder if you should try ‘grounding’ yourself like Mrs. Robyn said to do too. 9. Or to splash cold water on your face. 8. You aren’t sure. 7. So you do nothing. 6. Just breath. 5. Breath. 4. Breath. 3. In. 2. Out.
An eternity later the door creaks beside you. The muffled sounds of laughter and screams magnify in your ears and you can feel the heat in your head from too many people. When the door closes, the hallway is silent again and you are left with nothing but pressure on your forehead, the coolness in your legs, and the burning in your throat. And an ugly pair of sneakers standing next to the table.
The texture of the chair is not as nice when it is ripped away from you, dragging against your skin like the sandpaper from Art class. A claw grabs at your leg and yanks you from your cave, brandishing you as prey and blinding you all in one swoop. The sob escapes you before you can even think to stay calm.
The claw grabs again for your forearm and pulls you to your feet. The world feels like it is suddenly too big and too small, walls squeezing you from the outside in but air spread too thin to breath. Your nose burns with the scent of neon leg warmers, flower print, and poofed hair Dolly Parton would be proud of. The buzzing in your ears sounds vaguely like when your grandpa lets the evening news run for hours. Familiar but foreign at the same time, demanding your attention while losing it in the same breath. Between the blurriness of your eyes and the warmth in your face you make out three words.
“How dare you.”
The words slam into your face with such vitriol you are surprised when you don’t go flying back. The assailant, the vulture, the substitute turns away and begins marching down the hall dragging you with her like a balloon. Your vision is blurry as you rapidly shake your head and tears leak out of your eyes. The muscles around your mouth contract but if you say something or scream you don’t hear it. The woman doesn’t react.
Somehow being dragged to your classroom feels shorter than walking there normally and the wave of relief and shame when you see your homeroom teacher’s face almost makes you vomit. Almost.
Mrs. Brennan shoos away the claw at your wrist and gestures for you to sit down at a desk. The nearest desk belongs to a boy who thinks he’s spider man and you don’t think ever learned how to wash his hands but your own desk is in the far corner of the classroom, tucked up against the cubbies and reading center. A sinking feeling in your gut tells you not to stray too far from Mrs. Brennan, so you sit at Hannah’s desk, next to spider-boys and squish the hot pink pyramid eraser in your hands that Hannah had laying in her desk. The classroom has never seemed as bare as it does, with the adults standing huddled against an open door and the rest of the room barren of people or noise. The sun peaks through the open window, starting its daily path and you realize how much time has actually passed. The busses will be here soon.
You hear, rather than see, the vulture’s departure. The buzzing slows down and it no longer feels like you’ve stuck your head in a beehive. Mrs. Brennan approaches and squats down. Both of her hands are placed firmly on the desk in front of you and she tilts her head to look you directly in the eye.
“Is that okay? Can you come with me, Lindsay?”
A thick fog sits in your mind, blocking your brain from your mouth so you can’t respond. You nod your head slowly. You aren’t sure what’s okay or where you would be going but you’ve caused enough trouble for today. Sinking into the shadows by your desk simply isn’t an option right now, so you stand and follow Mrs. Brennan out of the classroom. You keep your gaze trained on her black Mary Janes as you march down the hallway and, as each door passes, you realize where you are going. The walk this time feels like a funeral procession and drags on forever, an infinite number of universes spanning between each step. You’re ninja stepping. Rolling through your steps like your brother showed you and yet every heel strike is a gong ringing through the hallways.
The carpet in the office immediately muffles your steps and its soft give is nice beneath your shoes. Mrs. Brennan waves you into the first door on the right and sits you in front of the Principal before explaining what happened. You refuse to look at the man. Instead, you stare at the photograph behind his head to pretend you are looking at him. There are two young children, faces pressed against a purple hyacinth and toothy grins splitting their cheeks. You imagine the feeling of the warm summer sun glittering off your face and the sharp scent of your grandma’s flowers filling your nostrils. In your musings, you begin to kick your legs and hit the bead-lizard dangling off your backpack.
And then you remember the cardboard house.
It took you a full week to figure out how to build a multi-story house while still being able to reach every room. You brought scraps of fabric from your sewing box at home to make a rug and made a couch out of popsicle sticks and cardboard. Magazine clippings served as a TV and you made the door hinge open with string.
But your project was too large.
Only the crafts that could together fit on a cafeteria tray could be kept over the weekend. One of the helpers had promised promised promised promised that if you put it in the cubby with a note they wouldn’t throw it away. They lied.
But you, you are the worst. The fog in your mind is no longer like the fog outside on brisk mornings. It is black sludge pulling at your brain and pooling in your lungs. Small holes burn into your alveoli and the acid drips into your blood, filling your body with ooze and dead weight. You are nothing but trouble. You didn’t finish the building in time. You couldn’t just sit at the table like you were asked. You had to be under the table. You had to take too long to calm down. You had to calm down. You had to be you.
You couldn’t just be normal.
When the principal finally speaks to you, you’re a dam in a hurricane and the cracks are forming all over your body.
“Stay here, Miss Lindsay.” He leaves without saying anything else.
In an office chair with your backpack at your feet and a homeless bead-lizard on the floor, it’s too cold and too hot and too much. There you will sit for hours. Alone in the worst room in the school building. They do not need to say anything when an adult pops their head in to make sure you haven’t budged. They are just checking to see that you haven’t climbed under a table again, or injured yourself in some way. There is no formal acknowledgement for someone like you.
They know your type. Smart. Goody-two-shoes. People-pleaser.
You will do all the punishing for them.
That night, you hand your mother the yellow form from Mrs. Brennan. You don’t know if she received a call from the principal, but all the other adults knew what you did and it only makes sense for her to know too. She does not ask you why you misbehaved or what happened, only sends you to your room. You wonder briefly as you pull at the smooth wooden railing on your ascent up the stairs if she knows about the now homeless lizard on your backpack. Or if she can feel the fear that stirs in your stomach at the thought of going back to Adventure Club tomorrow morning. As you enter your room you decide it doesn’t matter. You have been enough trouble for one day.
Barely a year later and you find yourself under another table. This table is long and curves around the room so that the area is shared by the other children and this time you are at the Gifted School. The school for the best of the best, for the smartest students, and you. And now you’re under the table. You promised you wouldn’t do it again. You promised. You promised. But the self-reflection on your desk felt like it was written in twenty different languages and you’re a failure but if you don’t admit you’re a failure are you still a failure but then you are even worse because you are a liar and that makes you a human failure and you really shouldn’t be here and how does everyone else know what to do but you don’t and--
And your new teacher sits on the ground beside you. She is not under the table like you are, but she is truly at your level.
“Does it make you feel better to be down here?” You nod and wait for the yelling. It doesn’t come. “Well alrighty then. Will you let me know if you need anything?” Another nod.
The teacher does not reach out to touch you, nor does she say anything else. She just stands and returns to her desk and you are left alone with the echoes of scratches above you and air that is much easier to breath.
It only takes you fifteen minutes to calm down before you return to your seat and finish the reflection. The teacher doesn’t make a fuss about your excursion under the table so none of the students do either. You appreciate that.
You think you will like it here at the Gifted School, and the next time you crawl under the table you leave your teacher a note to let her know you’ll be back soon and the pit in your stomach doesn’t feel so endless anymore. The teacher walks a lap around the classroom and smiles when she catches your eye from under the table. You lift your hand from where it’s pulling on your hair and wave.
You are free to enjoy the view from down here.
The cold seeps through your pants and deep into your bottom. The button on your back pocket digs into your skin and you sit back on it more, comforted by the pain in a way you realize is strange but not why it’s strange. Arms wrapped tightly around your knees, you stare out at the world in front of you like it’s an upside down children’s drawing. Harsh landscape on top and fading horizon lines on the bottom.
The world does not seem so big down here. It is dark. It is quiet. You are safe.
You pull at the legs of the chair so that they rest directly against your calves. The seat is a nice height to rest your forehead on and the rough bumps along the surface provide another source of pressure as they indent into your skin. You’re breathing is slower now, you count down from ten like Mrs. Robyn told you to and focus on the things around you. 10. You wonder if you should try ‘grounding’ yourself like Mrs. Robyn said to do too. 9. Or to splash cold water on your face. 8. You aren’t sure. 7. So you do nothing. 6. Just breath. 5. Breath. 4. Breath. 3. In. 2. Out.
An eternity later the door creaks beside you. The muffled sounds of laughter and screams magnify in your ears and you can feel the heat in your head from too many people. When the door closes, the hallway is silent again and you are left with nothing but pressure on your forehead, the coolness in your legs, and the burning in your throat. And an ugly pair of sneakers standing next to the table.
The texture of the chair is not as nice when it is ripped away from you, dragging against your skin like the sandpaper from Art class. A claw grabs at your leg and yanks you from your cave, brandishing you as prey and blinding you all in one swoop. The sob escapes you before you can even think to stay calm.
The claw grabs again for your forearm and pulls you to your feet. The world feels like it is suddenly too big and too small, walls squeezing you from the outside in but air spread too thin to breath. Your nose burns with the scent of neon leg warmers, flower print, and poofed hair Dolly Parton would be proud of. The buzzing in your ears sounds vaguely like when your grandpa lets the evening news run for hours. Familiar but foreign at the same time, demanding your attention while losing it in the same breath. Between the blurriness of your eyes and the warmth in your face you make out three words.
“How dare you.”
The words slam into your face with such vitriol you are surprised when you don’t go flying back. The assailant, the vulture, the substitute turns away and begins marching down the hall dragging you with her like a balloon. Your vision is blurry as you rapidly shake your head and tears leak out of your eyes. The muscles around your mouth contract but if you say something or scream you don’t hear it. The woman doesn’t react.
Somehow being dragged to your classroom feels shorter than walking there normally and the wave of relief and shame when you see your homeroom teacher’s face almost makes you vomit. Almost.
Mrs. Brennan shoos away the claw at your wrist and gestures for you to sit down at a desk. The nearest desk belongs to a boy who thinks he’s spider man and you don’t think ever learned how to wash his hands but your own desk is in the far corner of the classroom, tucked up against the cubbies and reading center. A sinking feeling in your gut tells you not to stray too far from Mrs. Brennan, so you sit at Hannah’s desk, next to spider-boys and squish the hot pink pyramid eraser in your hands that Hannah had laying in her desk. The classroom has never seemed as bare as it does, with the adults standing huddled against an open door and the rest of the room barren of people or noise. The sun peaks through the open window, starting its daily path and you realize how much time has actually passed. The busses will be here soon.
You hear, rather than see, the vulture’s departure. The buzzing slows down and it no longer feels like you’ve stuck your head in a beehive. Mrs. Brennan approaches and squats down. Both of her hands are placed firmly on the desk in front of you and she tilts her head to look you directly in the eye.
“Is that okay? Can you come with me, Lindsay?”
A thick fog sits in your mind, blocking your brain from your mouth so you can’t respond. You nod your head slowly. You aren’t sure what’s okay or where you would be going but you’ve caused enough trouble for today. Sinking into the shadows by your desk simply isn’t an option right now, so you stand and follow Mrs. Brennan out of the classroom. You keep your gaze trained on her black Mary Janes as you march down the hallway and, as each door passes, you realize where you are going. The walk this time feels like a funeral procession and drags on forever, an infinite number of universes spanning between each step. You’re ninja stepping. Rolling through your steps like your brother showed you and yet every heel strike is a gong ringing through the hallways.
The carpet in the office immediately muffles your steps and its soft give is nice beneath your shoes. Mrs. Brennan waves you into the first door on the right and sits you in front of the Principal before explaining what happened. You refuse to look at the man. Instead, you stare at the photograph behind his head to pretend you are looking at him. There are two young children, faces pressed against a purple hyacinth and toothy grins splitting their cheeks. You imagine the feeling of the warm summer sun glittering off your face and the sharp scent of your grandma’s flowers filling your nostrils. In your musings, you begin to kick your legs and hit the bead-lizard dangling off your backpack.
And then you remember the cardboard house.
It took you a full week to figure out how to build a multi-story house while still being able to reach every room. You brought scraps of fabric from your sewing box at home to make a rug and made a couch out of popsicle sticks and cardboard. Magazine clippings served as a TV and you made the door hinge open with string.
But your project was too large.
Only the crafts that could together fit on a cafeteria tray could be kept over the weekend. One of the helpers had promised promised promised promised that if you put it in the cubby with a note they wouldn’t throw it away. They lied.
But you, you are the worst. The fog in your mind is no longer like the fog outside on brisk mornings. It is black sludge pulling at your brain and pooling in your lungs. Small holes burn into your alveoli and the acid drips into your blood, filling your body with ooze and dead weight. You are nothing but trouble. You didn’t finish the building in time. You couldn’t just sit at the table like you were asked. You had to be under the table. You had to take too long to calm down. You had to calm down. You had to be you.
You couldn’t just be normal.
When the principal finally speaks to you, you’re a dam in a hurricane and the cracks are forming all over your body.
“Stay here, Miss Lindsay.” He leaves without saying anything else.
In an office chair with your backpack at your feet and a homeless bead-lizard on the floor, it’s too cold and too hot and too much. There you will sit for hours. Alone in the worst room in the school building. They do not need to say anything when an adult pops their head in to make sure you haven’t budged. They are just checking to see that you haven’t climbed under a table again, or injured yourself in some way. There is no formal acknowledgement for someone like you.
They know your type. Smart. Goody-two-shoes. People-pleaser.
You will do all the punishing for them.
That night, you hand your mother the yellow form from Mrs. Brennan. You don’t know if she received a call from the principal, but all the other adults knew what you did and it only makes sense for her to know too. She does not ask you why you misbehaved or what happened, only sends you to your room. You wonder briefly as you pull at the smooth wooden railing on your ascent up the stairs if she knows about the now homeless lizard on your backpack. Or if she can feel the fear that stirs in your stomach at the thought of going back to Adventure Club tomorrow morning. As you enter your room you decide it doesn’t matter. You have been enough trouble for one day.
Barely a year later and you find yourself under another table. This table is long and curves around the room so that the area is shared by the other children and this time you are at the Gifted School. The school for the best of the best, for the smartest students, and you. And now you’re under the table. You promised you wouldn’t do it again. You promised. You promised. But the self-reflection on your desk felt like it was written in twenty different languages and you’re a failure but if you don’t admit you’re a failure are you still a failure but then you are even worse because you are a liar and that makes you a human failure and you really shouldn’t be here and how does everyone else know what to do but you don’t and--
And your new teacher sits on the ground beside you. She is not under the table like you are, but she is truly at your level.
“Does it make you feel better to be down here?” You nod and wait for the yelling. It doesn’t come. “Well alrighty then. Will you let me know if you need anything?” Another nod.
The teacher does not reach out to touch you, nor does she say anything else. She just stands and returns to her desk and you are left alone with the echoes of scratches above you and air that is much easier to breath.
It only takes you fifteen minutes to calm down before you return to your seat and finish the reflection. The teacher doesn’t make a fuss about your excursion under the table so none of the students do either. You appreciate that.
You think you will like it here at the Gifted School, and the next time you crawl under the table you leave your teacher a note to let her know you’ll be back soon and the pit in your stomach doesn’t feel so endless anymore. The teacher walks a lap around the classroom and smiles when she catches your eye from under the table. You lift your hand from where it’s pulling on your hair and wave.
You are free to enjoy the view from down here.