Jill's Whipping Girl
Jill had not aged well. She looked years older than me.
My arch-nemesis from second grade, my tormenter.
Her mean looks, her nasty ways,
Not forgotten.
Remembering the hurt, the shame.
A class action mean-girl.
Although it had been over fifty years, I recognized her in a hot minute.
My heart practically stopped, when we met in the milk aisle of my hometown grocery.
I had been her whipping girl, and I remembered.
But the socialized part of me could not forget who I am, so I smiled. She did not.
Jill? I asked. She paused, but did not stop, kept going. Picked up a quart of milk, and walked on.
Jill may have been the first mean-girl in history, and I believe the only mean girl in our small town in the 50’s. Girls were not mean back then, they were clean.
My mother gave me the scoop on Jill when I returned to her home, with the donuts. Donuts she would not eat as my mother is thin, and persnickety. Fruits and vegetables for that woman.
Jill’s mother had died in childbirth, and Jill had grown up with a mean brother and a meaner father, an alcoholic who would choose liquor over his children any day.
Her life was hard, as she was the whipping girl there.
A big bully raising a little bully.
I understood now, and I could forgive.
But to forget would be impossible.
I had been Jill’s whipping girl.
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