Free My Sister's Ex by Cydney Rax Page A

finish the fight that Marlene (and Loretta before her) was stupid enough to start.

— 5 —
M ARLENE
    The Best Woman Will Always Win
    One memory I have that’ll never be erased is the time I got jumped by five girls. We all attended the same elementary school. I was in fifth grade, the new and different, yet intriguing, chick. At first this close-knit group of girls would gather around me, eager to befriend the new kid on the block—they’d chat me up, scoot their desks close to mine so we could giggle and talk in class; they’d save a special seat for me in the lunchroom; and I’d get dragged by the arm so we all could hang together on the playground. It felt great to be accepted, to be “in” for a change. I am not sure why they took to me. All I knew was I loved having lots of friends, girls who laughed and high-fived me when I cracked a good joke, and girls who hated the same teachers I came to hate.
    But then the good times changed. About four weeks after I began attending the new school, a stuffy nose, harsh cough, and watery eyes kept me from going to classes three days in a row. School policy was if you’re sick stay your sick butt at home and don’t come back till you’re well. When my health improved my mother sent me back to school, which ended up being the very next Monday. My excitement about returning grew into puzzlement the minute my friends pretended like they didn’t see me when I waved hello. They wrinkledtheir noses and moved their desks far away from mine when I sat down. Instead of laughing with me, they laughed at me. Threw back their heads and giggled and slapped their knees at the girl with the flabby arms and thick waist. I stared straight ahead when I realized the girls that I learned to like plain ole didn’t like me anymore. I ate lunch by myself at a long, dirty lunch table, and during recess, when we congregated on the playground, the playing turned ugly.
    “You think you something, don’t you, Marlene?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m talking about the fact that you an uppity girl—you think you better than us.”
    “That’s not true. No, I don’t.”
    “Stop lying. You think you the shit but you ain’t all that. You’re too stupid to know that no one likes you for real.”
    “Why are you talking to me like this? I thought you were my friend!”
    “No one gave you permission to talk.”
    “But I just—.”
    “Shut up, bitch.” Whop! One girl repeatedly smacked me in the face with her open hand. Another jumped and twisted my arm behind my back, yelling “Get her!” Another kicked me in the stomach like my belly was a soccer ball. She laughed hysterically the second I started wheezing. Then a slew of hands all came at my face, fists balled up, socking me in the jaw. I felt like a piñata. I closed my eyes, yanked my arm, and swung my fists, trying my best to defend myself. I wanted to swing hard enough so I could make contact with a nose, a jaw, an eye. I wanted so bad to inflict pain on those girls. And I also wanted to win the fight. I intended to show them they couldn’t love me one day and hate me the next and think I’d go along with their games. Even though it was one against five and the odds were against me, I still had to win. I desperatelyyearned to come out on top even though my future looked dismal.
    Later I learned that what the girls did to me they did to every new girl who came to our school. Stupid, silly immature mind games. Girls bullying girls. Kind of like the Lindsay Lohan movie Mean Girls , except in my case, the meanness started at an earlier age.
    Fast forward to now: the new kind of playground fight.
    It’s several minutes after Rachel delivered a blow to my head.
    After Rachel and her mama leave the kitchen, Jeff carefully examines my wound. I wince when he brushes his finger across the swelling. He opens the freezer door and shakes some ice cubes out of the tray. He grabs a napkin off the counter and wraps it around the