I Lied
Ellen M. Taylor
In the spring of third grade we were assigned
seats on the bus. Passing Bobby Guptail,
I had to watch my step to see he didn’t
stick out his foot or pinch me when I passed
to my place. Bully with the tether ball,
hog with the pencil sharpener, lunch thief,
he was bad, evil maybe, the way some
people are, who aren’t baptized, or who lie,
according to Sister Maria Claire.
On spelling bee Friday, after I missed
“contemplate,” I missed my step and tumbled
down the bus aisle, Misty of Chincoteague
falling face down on the muddy floor, piled
with dirty math homework. Before I could
reach it, Guptail kicked the book – with a smile --
while I crawled under the torn saggy seats
to get it back, with its cover ripped and black.
And it was a Hampton Library Book.
I waited until we were on his road,
when I pushed him, Hard, against the metal
bar of the seat. His front tooth cut into
his top lip and he sat up bloody-faced,
bawling. “There was a big bump in the road,”
I told my mother, and the insurance
man who later came to my house, “and I
got knocked into him. I didn’t mean it.”
Only I knew, (and maybe God), I lied.
In the spring of third grade we were assigned
seats on the bus. Passing Bobby Guptail,
I had to watch my step to see he didn’t
stick out his foot or pinch me when I passed
to my place. Bully with the tether ball,
hog with the pencil sharpener, lunch thief,
he was bad, evil maybe, the way some
people are, who aren’t baptized, or who lie,
according to Sister Maria Claire.
On spelling bee Friday, after I missed
“contemplate,” I missed my step and tumbled
down the bus aisle, Misty of Chincoteague
falling face down on the muddy floor, piled
with dirty math homework. Before I could
reach it, Guptail kicked the book – with a smile --
while I crawled under the torn saggy seats
to get it back, with its cover ripped and black.
And it was a Hampton Library Book.
I waited until we were on his road,
when I pushed him, Hard, against the metal
bar of the seat. His front tooth cut into
his top lip and he sat up bloody-faced,
bawling. “There was a big bump in the road,”
I told my mother, and the insurance
man who later came to my house, “and I
got knocked into him. I didn’t mean it.”
Only I knew, (and maybe God), I lied.
Working notes
I agree with Flannery O’Connor’s comment that surviving childhood gives us enough material for the rest of our lives as writers. This anecdote resurfaced during a workshop on preventing bullying, and a discussion of types of bullies we encounter. I was a bit of a bully myself here – provoked yes – but guilty, nonetheless. I’m drawn to poems with a narrative arc.
About the author
Ellen M. Taylor’s work has been published in a number of local and national journals including TRIVIA, North American Review, Passages North, Connecticut River Review, New England Review, Off the Coast, and others. She teaches literature, writing, and women’s studies at the University of Maine at Augusta. She lives in mid-coast Maine with her partner, golden retriever, and Morgan filly.
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.