this boy is stupid: a memory of my first intrusive thought

The thought flits through my mind like a bug, lodging itself in the space between my eyes. Blue frosting churns in my stomach as panic rises in my chest.

The following is a brief excerpt from the latest draft of my memoir-in-progress, unless a seed, the story of how God used something small to heal my heart in a big way.

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photo source

2001

Second grade, Dustin’s birthday party. His mom just announced it’s cake time, so I sprint to the porch and join the chorus of seven-year-olds singing the happy birthday song, then wait eagerly in the dessert line alongside my giggling classmates.

When my turn finally comes, I pick out my cake and ice cream flavors (always chocolate if it’s an option), then carefully maneuver my plate to a plastic kids table in the corner of the porch. Taking a seat on the yellow bench, I reach up to touch my cheek and find that the tear marks are finally dry.

I’m still not sure why that boy in the inflatable maze thought punching me through the plastic window I was peeking in wouldn’t actually hurt, but we both learned that lesson the hard way. My chin doesn’t hurt that bad anymore, so I can start to enjoy the party again soon.

I’m in the middle of scooping a chunk of birthday cake into my mouth when a small boy with dark hair and brown skin plops himself into the seat across from me. We don’t know each other, but apparently he has decided to be my friend. He begins babbling away about something I’m not that interested in but am too nice to tell him so, and I try to keep from staring at the bright blue frosting frothing behind his teeth while he talks.

A thought flits through my mind like a bug.

This boy is stupid.

It lodges itself in the space between my eyes, caught in a spiderweb I didn’t know was there. Blue frosting churns in my stomach as panic rises in my chest.

I’ve never thought the word “stupid” before. It’s a bad word. Whenever someone on Nickelodeon or Cartoon Network uses it, our mom makes us change the channel.

I would never say that word out loud, so I don’t know why I’m suddenly thinking it.

Besides, this boy has done nothing to deserve such a mean thought. He may be talking to me a little more than I feel comfortable with — please let me eat my cake and ice cream in peace so I can get back to the maze — but it’s not like he said or did anything that should brand him as being the s-word.

But now that the bug is stuck in its web, it just keeps buzzing.

Bigger. Louder. Meaner.

Stupid. Stupid. This boy is stupid. What a stupid little boy.

Stop! I scream inside my brain, squeezing my plastic fork until my knuckles turn white. Stop saying that! It’s not true!

But I can’t stop it. Unlike my mom, I can’t press a button to change the channel in my mind. So I switch tactics.

Jesus, please forgive me. I’ll never think that again.

This boy is stupid.

Oh, I’m sorry! Please forgive me again. I didn’t mean to.

This boy is stupid.

This continues the entire time we sit at that little table, the boy innocently chattering away while the girl across from him tries her best to get her brain to be quiet. By the time there are only soggy crumbs left on our plates, I’m on the verge of tears again.

Finally I stand up from the table to throw my trash away, and the boy leaves to find another kid to bother. There’s still plenty of party left, but it’s ruined by the heavy, twisty feeling I carry in my chest for the rest of the day — especially when I’m near my parents. It feels like they can see right through me, right to that thought still buzzing in the squishy folds of my brain.

I want to tell them what I did, but I’m terrified of how they’ll react. How disappointed they’ll be in me for thinking such an unkind thing about a boy I don’t even know.

When we leave Dustin’s house, everyone gets to take home a piece of candy as a party favor. I choose a Nerds rope and eat it later that night, ignoring the pit in my stomach as I debate whether or not to confess my sin to Mommy and Daddy.

I decide not to, justifying my silence by the fact that I didn’t really want to think the thing I kept thinking. The bug frees itself from the spiderweb and flits around inside my head for a couple more days, its frantic buzzing growing fainter and fainter. Eventually, to my relief, I can’t hear it at all anymore.

It must have flown away to bother someone else.