Pinky Scar
By Deirdre Heavey, Spring 2021
I rub my thumb over the thick scar that lies in the middle of my right pinky to remind myself that I’m real. And loved. And here. I don’t actually remember getting it but I have been over the story so many times that I can see the image in my head as clearly as I can see the scar itself.
We’re in the back of the Expedition driving up the curvy hill of Highway 1 from Pacifica to San Francisco. Aidan, the mischievous fib-telling middle brother, pinches me as hard as he possibly can in the middle of my pinky. Apparently, I asked him to. I still don’t know whether that much is true. I remember the pain. I cried and wailed and made a scene. Maybe I was mad then, but for the next few years, I would actually pinch over the scar to maintain its raised shape and texture.
Ms. Courtright taught past the bell again on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. All of the kids were buzzing to get out of the classroom and play in the schoolyard before our moms and babysitters came to pick us up, but all I could think about was picking up a wet paper towel and wiping the dusty chalkboard clean in perfect overlapping lines from top to bottom. My class job for the week was erasing the chalkboard–my absolute favorite. Seriously, I would look at the chalkboard every single day as Ms. Courtright repeated over and over again, “What would Jesus do?” I was never sure what Jesus would do, but I knew if I was Jesus I would step right up and properly clean the board that still had the subtraction equations faded in the background from that morning’s Math class.
The line leaders led the other kids off to the schoolyard as Ms. Courtright trailed behind to greet the parents. Ms. Gibbons remained at her Teacher’s Assistant desk, and it was my time to shine. Jack R was also on chalkboard duty for the week. We both picked up our wet paper towels and stepped to our respective sides of the board to wipe that bad boy clean. I was about halfway through my masterpiece when suddenly, I feel a soft wet kiss on my right cheek.
“JACK R KISSED ME!”
Immediately, I dropped my wet paper towel to the ground, grabbed my pink backpack and my blue uniform sweater, and sprinted out of the classroom as fast as I could. There I went, through the busy schoolyard, down the stairs across the colorfully painted map of the United States on the pavement of the first-grade girl’s yard, past my old kindergarten stomping grounds, and out the gate of Extended Care to meet my mom behind the school at the entrance of the church. My mom double-parked the big green Expedition as she chatted with Tina Maguire, and Dermot, Aidan, Jack, Gerald, Antonia, and Danielle ran around the church’s courtyard. When I arrived, my mom asked why I was so late to get out of class today.
“JACK R KISSED ME!”
No context. No explanation. Nothing more needed to be said. Dermot and Aidan had been preparing for this moment the entire 9 and 7 years of their lives. Who did Jack R think he was? He messed with the wrong girl and was about to pay. That’s when Mom, knowing very well how older brothers react to any boy that goes near their little sister, jolted up to grab the back collars of their St. Gabriel polos and shoved them in the back of the Expedition. The car ride home was a noisy one–me crying hysterically in the backseat as Dermot and Aidan plotted their revenge.
I never really got mad as a kid, nor do I really get mad now. Just upset. My big brothers pretty much consumed all of the anger in the household. Except for this one time. Mom parked the Exhibition in the driveway. Dermot was in shotgun. I was stuffed in the back corner of the car–my own domain where I snapped selfies in an ugly green fedora and belted out the lyrics to “Look Through My Eyes” from the Brother Bear Soundtrack. Dermot said something rude to me, per usual. He was pretty much mad at the world the entirety of our childhood. But, this one time he pushed me too far–said something so infuriating to me that I snapped. I sat there pondering, thinking really really hard about the meanest thing I could possibly say to match my anger.
“I HATE YOU MORE THAN ROCKS!”
My mom and Derm laughed themselves to tears. I cried myself to sleep after slamming the car door and running into the house. Now, when I tell the story I laugh myself to tears too.
When I run my fingers over my pinky scar, I laugh. I smile. I cry. The memories come running back. My never-angry, frequently-upset, always-happy childhood following my big brothers around is somehow all roped into my little pinky scar.
