Isabelita

Children can be cruel. They were to Isabelita.

Isabelita was the tallest in my grade school class. And I was the second tallest girl.

So, whenever we lined up for the national anthem or for a group activity, she was always behind me and behind the entire class.

Isabelita was not only tall, but she had the prettiest face, thin nose, high cheekbones, the most remarkable pout. She also had a long curly hair that she tied loosely at the back. It’s as if she didn’t want anyone to see how curly her hair was.

She was often taunted by the girls. They laughed at her name.

“Isabelita, Isabelita, Isabelita!” They made a tune for her name.

She was asked by some mean girls to write her name on the blackboard a hundred times.

I didn’t know why she did. And in front of the whole class.

Once, when we were in line for the morning singing of the national anthem, the girls asked Isabelita to go and pick out the weeds from the nearby flower garden.

She looked at me then she looked at the other girls.

She asked, “Why don’t you ask her to do it?” She pointed at me.

The girls said, “Because she’s not Isabelita.”

And it went on and on and on.

Then, high school happened. We all went our separate lives, and I forgot all about her.

I moved to a big university where I didn’t know anyone. I was overwhelmed and I didn’t have my clique to protect me.

I remember one day I was walking by my lonesome. Then, I saw a girl, a familiar face.

I was delighted to see someone I knew.

I was going to call her name but then she turned around and saw me. She smiled. A wide one. She had her hair cut above her shoulders and the curls were wildly swaying with the wind it framed her shining, stunningly beautiful face.

She was tall and standing tall in her long jeans.

I smiled at her and was about to call her but then a group of girls came by and called her.

They said, “Belle!”

She smiled one last time at me and turned to join her friends.

Belle.

That was a good one. Belle.