Fiction:

Tall

by Anya C. Bateman

When I was in eighth grade and stood six feet tall, Aunt Ruth, who was visiting us from Baltimore, said one evening, “Well, dear, perhaps you’ll be a high-fashion model. They’re all tall.” Then she looked at my bony knees and elbows that jutted out. “And extremely thin,” she added. That night my mother tried to comfort me.

“There are worse things than being tall,” she said. “If only you’d stand up straight. You’ve just got to stop slumping. You’d look so much better with good posture.” The look on her face added, “Please, please stop growing.”

“If only I could be as short as you are,” I often said to Angie, my older sister. Angie had only grown to be five feet nine inches, and she did look like a model. She was leading a normal life in college and had lots of dates. I was sure if I could only be her height, all my problems would be solved.

“Be proud of your height,” Angie would say. “It’s great to be tall!” But I didn’t listen.

By the time I started at Jackson High School, I stood six feet one inch. Everyday I walked to seventh period with Mary Beth Johnson who was under five feet tall. We caused stares and smiles. I slumped even more when I walked with her, but I didn’t think our height difference was a good reason to tell her I couldn’t walk with her anymore. That sounded so adolescent.

My only comfort at Jackson was that there were several tall basketball players I’d see in the hall once in a while. Whenever I’d see one, I’d try to move as close to him as possible without being conspicuous. It felt wonderful to be small for a change. Bret Price (six feet six inches) had a fourth period class right next to mine, and I often had the chance to walk right behind him to class. I didn’t really have a crush on him, it just made me feel great to walk behind him. One day I guess I was walking a little too closely, because when he stopped I almost bumped into him. In fact, I couldn’t have stopped much closer. Another two inches and there would have been a crash.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“S’okay,” he said.

The rest of the way to my history class, I walked several yards behind him. But, I wasn’t far enough behind him because I heard his friend Bill Wallops, the senior vice-president of the school, say, “That jolly green giant is still following you, Bret.”

“Yeah,” Scott Williams said, “you’d better watch out. She’s your size.” Bret turned to look at me, and I ducked my head and walked into history.

“Watch it, guys!” I heard him say. “She heard you.”

I slid into my seat in the back of the room and slumped down. Jolly green giant. My dark green outfit had always been my favorite. I thought it looked good with my light hair and brown eyes. Now I hated it. I hated myself. I hated being a giant, a jolly green giant. I’ll never wear this awful thing again, I thought. No, never! All my old inadequacies came back—not that they had ever left. I thought of all the names I’d been called in elementary school: Shorty, Shrimp, Skyscraper Susan. They all seemed to flood my mind at once, and I could feel my face getting warm. But, I wouldn’t cry. No, I wouldn’t.

It was a miserable 40 minutes, and I was sure that if Mr. Randolf called on me, my voice would sound choked, and then everyone would know I felt miserable. I tried to hide behind Will Smith, the boy who sat in front of me. That was hard to do because he was only five feet eight.

If the class saw me cry, I was sure it would be passed around the school. “The Jolly Green Giant cried in history class,” they’d say. Then the school clown would be an even bigger joke. I sat in class a few minutes after the bell, partly to copy down the assignment, but mostly to make sure I wouldn’t run into Bret and his friends again. After I was sure they would be way down the hall, I picked up my books and walked toward the back door of the classroom. I hurried faster when I saw Bret looking in the front door.

“Hey,” he called, “wait!” Had he been looking for me? “A little green man asked me to give this to you,” he said as he caught up with me.

“What is it?”

“Read it,” he said, his dark eyes smiling. He tucked a folded piece of paper into my hand. His large, warm hand that had shot all those winning baskets touched mine.

“Okay.” I must have looked puzzled. He hurried down the hall, and I stood staring after him, stunned. He had spoken to me.

What would the note say? Some other cruel joke about my height? Maybe I should throw it in the trash before I read it. I had, after all, been hurt enough. But curiosity made me take the note to the restroom where I opened it.

There were just three words scrawled on the paper in an easy masculine handwriting. I looked up into the mirror. Girls, all shorter than I, were around me, primping, humming, giggling, gossiping, and making faces as they combed their hair and applied their makeup. I looked back at the note and read it again. “Tall is terrific.”

“Tall is terrific,” I whispered. “Terrific, oh sure.” I looked in the mirror again. Me, terrific? The image smiling back at me was not really as bad as I had expected.

Had I perhaps filled out a little? Was I really a little prettier? I held my shoulders back. I did look better when I stood up straight. And yes, I was rather pretty. It was true I stood many inches taller than the rest of the chattering, giggling girls, but if tall was terrific, that didn’t matter.

I kept my shoulders pulled back and my back straight as I walked into the cafeteria to my regular lunch table where I always ate with my friend Cindy. Before I got to the table, however, I saw Bret Price sitting three tables away with all the “big men” of the school. He was looking right at me and smiling. Bret Price, star basketball player of Jackson, was smiling at me as if to say, “We have a secret. We know you’re terrific!”

Illustrated by Ann Gallacher