Blaise Allysen Kearsley | Longreads | November 2019 | 8 minutes (2,056 words)
I always wanted to be liked by everyone’s parents. So with my No. 2 pencil, I wrote a note that said:
Does your father like me?
I passed it to my friend as I walked by her desk — I’ll call her Margaret Bauer. In fourth grade we sat in small groups, clusters of three desks pushed together in the shape of a T. Margaret sat one cluster away from me. I could see her from my desk, with her bushy, light brown, shoulder-length hair in two ribbon-braided barrettes framing her pale pink cheeks, and I waited anxiously for her to write back. When she walked by and handed the note back to me, it read:
I don’t think my father likes you, but my mother does.
That Margaret said her mother liked me was a consolation, but not much. Mrs. Bauer was nice to me but she always seemed a little less friendly when her husband was around.