I'm the One That I Want Read Online Free PDF

and chairs pushed together to avoid the five bunks that surrounded mine. I got a top bunk, which I was happy about, but slept with one eye open for three days, fearing attack and ready to fight to the death.
    My cootie quarantine was actually more painful than the outright battles. Everybody around me was experiencing the exhilaration of being away from home and around other kids and swinging from ropes and forging friendships that would last a lifetime, while I sat inside, alone in the shadowy cabins, and made God’s Eyes out of yarn and chopsticks.
    I got home, and my mother was cold and my dad was gone. She never explained where he was; she just stayed in their bedroom with the door shut.
    I vowed never to return to that church, and Sunday mornings there would be a near riot with my mother begging, pleading, threatening, denying, bargaining, then finally accepting that I wasn’t going with her. There was no way I was going to face those horrible kids again. I’d had enough. I was hated, so I had to hate.
    My mother lied about me week after week. I think she went as far as to tell people that I was in boarding school. (“She write me every day!”) The abject horror at my refusal to attend church combined with my father’s absence made her go insane. She went on a crash diet and got down to 114 pounds and then got a perm to celebrate.
    Daddy came home eventually, like he always did, but he was different. He was mean, cold, confusing. He kept a suitcase packed with Gold Toe socks and underwear, ready and waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
    May Cha told my mother to tell me that she was sorry about how they had all treated me at camp. She hoped that I would come back someday. She said she wanted to apologize in person. I don’t know why, but that embarrassed me tremendously and made me hate the kids even more.
    I did agree to go to a church function when I was around seventeen. I wore a flowery dress of my mother’s and dyed my hair back to black from the sick pink-orange it had been. My mother was so happy she nearly cried and kept her arm around me the entire time, partly out of love but also to keep me from running away. Lotte and Connie were there, and when they saw me, their faces got red with joy, and I wanted to punch in their hot smiles from the side.
    Lotte said, “Oh my God, MORON’S here!” I sat by my parents, seething inside. Went home later. Never let it go.
    I went on with the rest of my life. I made some good friends in high school, and it constantly surprised me that I was never betrayed in the same way again. Yet, I didn’t let myself get as close to my friends as I would have liked.
    My experience with Lotte and Connie taught me to keep people at a distance, and not to worry about what they thought of me. In a sense, it gave me some of the impetus I needed to go out into the world and follow my dreams. It seemed like the worst was over. I could get on with the business of enjoying my life, living it as fully as possible. No matter where I was, I could be happy, since I was no longer stuck at that summer camp, sitting on a log by myself, wishing I had a pair of cutoffs and some friends. Loneliness became familiar and easy. I played “Chopsticks” alone on the piano, and learned to love every solitary note.
    Not too long ago, Ronny came to a show of mine at the Punchline in San Francisco. She came backstage after the show with a group of her friends. She was thrilled to see me and wanted to talk about the days when we had known each other growing up. “Hi—remember me?” I took one look at her and said, “No, I don’t. I have no idea who you are.” Then I walked away.
    My brother remained friendly with Lotte and Connie for years afterward. It makes me feel betrayed that he is close to them, but at least it gives me an opportunity to find out how they are doing. In some way, I suppose I miss them, because I can’t seem to let go of their memory. I wish our friendship could have been