When I was six years old and getting too old to sit on my mother's lap, we read "Bridge To Terabithia" together.
It’s a book about a terribly boring boy named Jess and a very special girl named Leslie Burke who does funny things like race the wind and read long books.
If Leslie lived in the '80s she would have roller skated and smoked, '90s she would have marked up copies of the secret history in ballpoint pen, in 2000 she would have rebelled with high-waisted jeans.
My mother held me close as we read chapter two, and we met this Leslie Burke who was not like other girls and she whispered in my ear, “You are my Leslie. You are my special girl.”
Eight chapters later, Leslie is found dead, bloated in a river creek, head smashed in. She never made it to Terabithia. My mother couldn’t take what she said back.
“You are not my special girl. You are my normal. You are my Emma Mae. You are average, sweetie.” Nope, I was branded. I was a special girl.
Special girls always die. In books, they sweep into small town lives like tumbleweeds. They awaken the boring boy and they fix the mediocre boy and they love the 5/10 boy, and then they die. They’re hit by a semi-truck full of bouncy balls, they get cancer and fade away in the hospital, they’re slammed by a drunk driver or their stepfather shoots them or they run away and freeze to death or they choke during lunchtime or they get poisoned by a surprise asbestos leak or they fall into a river and hit their heads.
And the boy is finally interesting, he is finally whole, only after she dies.
Special girls are not the main characters. If the book is a galaxy, we are the shooting stars. We gleam and we glimmer and then we crash and burn. We don’t melt away. It’s loud and it's brutal so that the moon has something to look melancholy over. We are meant only for moons.
Special girls are not their own people. We are the accessories that draws the eye to the outfit. We are boas and crazy print bow ties and bedazzled earrings and chunky gold hoops, but we are not sweaters or jeans or t-shirts.
When I was six years old I was a special girl, and like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White or Little Red Riding Hood, the other special girls, I was destined to die.
Only there isn’t a prince for special girls. What we have to look forward to is a marveolus funeral service. A librarian crying for us. A bench dedicated in our names, a tiny constellation named after us by a boy who is now interesting.
A brand new rope swing.
I grew up knowing that I am not supposed to make it to Terabithia. I don’t exist when I’m not around a mediocre boy. When he has faced his demons, when he yells at his grandfather or beats up those bullies or isn’t afraid of the dark anymore, there is nothing more for me to do.
I am not supposed to make it to Terabithia. Scribbled into the margins of his story, it says I am supposed to hit my head and drown. It doesn’t matter if I’m twelve or if I’m twenty.
I’m supposed to whirl into his life with a purple streak dyed in my hair and quote obscure Shakespeare and eat tofu and have no mom and wear white dresses just a bit too short and then weight down the rope and I am supposed to drown.
I am just like Leslie Burke.
I am special like Leslie Burke.
It’s a book about a terribly boring boy named Jess and a very special girl named Leslie Burke who does funny things like race the wind and read long books.
If Leslie lived in the '80s she would have roller skated and smoked, '90s she would have marked up copies of the secret history in ballpoint pen, in 2000 she would have rebelled with high-waisted jeans.
My mother held me close as we read chapter two, and we met this Leslie Burke who was not like other girls and she whispered in my ear, “You are my Leslie. You are my special girl.”
Eight chapters later, Leslie is found dead, bloated in a river creek, head smashed in. She never made it to Terabithia. My mother couldn’t take what she said back.
“You are not my special girl. You are my normal. You are my Emma Mae. You are average, sweetie.” Nope, I was branded. I was a special girl.
Special girls always die. In books, they sweep into small town lives like tumbleweeds. They awaken the boring boy and they fix the mediocre boy and they love the 5/10 boy, and then they die. They’re hit by a semi-truck full of bouncy balls, they get cancer and fade away in the hospital, they’re slammed by a drunk driver or their stepfather shoots them or they run away and freeze to death or they choke during lunchtime or they get poisoned by a surprise asbestos leak or they fall into a river and hit their heads.
And the boy is finally interesting, he is finally whole, only after she dies.
Special girls are not the main characters. If the book is a galaxy, we are the shooting stars. We gleam and we glimmer and then we crash and burn. We don’t melt away. It’s loud and it's brutal so that the moon has something to look melancholy over. We are meant only for moons.
Special girls are not their own people. We are the accessories that draws the eye to the outfit. We are boas and crazy print bow ties and bedazzled earrings and chunky gold hoops, but we are not sweaters or jeans or t-shirts.
When I was six years old I was a special girl, and like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White or Little Red Riding Hood, the other special girls, I was destined to die.
Only there isn’t a prince for special girls. What we have to look forward to is a marveolus funeral service. A librarian crying for us. A bench dedicated in our names, a tiny constellation named after us by a boy who is now interesting.
A brand new rope swing.
I grew up knowing that I am not supposed to make it to Terabithia. I don’t exist when I’m not around a mediocre boy. When he has faced his demons, when he yells at his grandfather or beats up those bullies or isn’t afraid of the dark anymore, there is nothing more for me to do.
I am not supposed to make it to Terabithia. Scribbled into the margins of his story, it says I am supposed to hit my head and drown. It doesn’t matter if I’m twelve or if I’m twenty.
I’m supposed to whirl into his life with a purple streak dyed in my hair and quote obscure Shakespeare and eat tofu and have no mom and wear white dresses just a bit too short and then weight down the rope and I am supposed to drown.
I am just like Leslie Burke.
I am special like Leslie Burke.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.