The Romanian Girl

A short story

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Fifth grade in Buffalo, this new girl came to class. She was tall, very skinny but not emaciated, bright pale skin, long, jet black hair, deep, dark eyes underneath heavy eyebrows, a prominent nose that was just a little too big for her face, and she wore a burgundy dress with frills around the collar. She didn’t just look different, she looked like she came from another time.

“We have a new student with us,” the teacher said, feigning enthusiasm the best she could. “Her name is Cree-nuh - I think I’m saying that right. And she’s from Romania. Isn’t that interesting. Take a seat over there, please, Cree-nuh.”

Over there was next to me near the back corner of the class. As she walked towards her new seat, I saw the smirks from the other girls and the confused looks from the boys, unsure if the new girl was hot or not. I had been the new kid myself enough times to know that when you come in at a disadvantage like this, it could be a difficult road to respectability.

For me, it was usually either a fight or a joke, both of which are easy to screw up, and sets you back even further if you do. But I usually figured it out. This girl, however, wasn’t going to have those options.

Crina had too many things working against her. She spoke English, but slowly and with a thick accent, so lots of What? and Huh? whenever she spoke. She was smart, which is never good if you’re new. She was too tall for a girl, and kids made fun of her by saying she’s probably really 30 or something.

And then there was the way she dressed - always in those one-piece, one-color frilly dresses that didn’t have anywhere near the sophistication of the common fashion of jeans and t-shirts with words and pictures, preferably Buffalo Bills insignia.

I was nice to her, of course, because I have always been a nice guy and, as mentioned before, I knew what it was like to be the new kid. But whenever I tried to be nice - like a simple hello or good morning - she gave me a tight, forced smile and then quickly looked away.

Trying to change up my approach, I decided to ask her a question about her home country, the gifted conversationalist I was. Before class started, with all the kids shouting, laughing and running amok before the teacher came in and ended the fun, l tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Hey, Crima - what language do they speak in Romania?”

She let out a deep, bass drum of a laugh. But it wasn’t of glee - it was of mockery. I asked a stupid question and she couldn’t help herself from telling me that through laughter. This laugh, though, was loud and strong and apparently unlike anything anyone heard before because everyone turned to look at her with wide eyes and mouths agape.

She stopped laughing once she realized everyone was looking at her, and just as the terror set in her deep, dark eyes, the whole class erupted in laughter at her.

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?

SHE GOT A CAT IN HER THROAT OR SOMETHING!

NAH - SOUNDED LIKE A BEAR!

BITCH IS A BEAR!

Laughs, laughs, laughs.

Crina looked at me with the hardest hate I had ever seen, and then she never looked at me again. And for the rest of the year, nobody looked at her unless it was to make fun of her laugh.

Her nickname became “Bear,” and kids would walk by her and do a bear-itone “HUH HUH HUH!” One day, Crina had enough and when a girl did it to her, she grabbed that girl by the hair and threw her down to the ground. But fights never help new girls, and so now kids made fun of her for being a dangerous bear. She had to stop going to the cafeteria because kids would throw food at her since that’s what you do with bears - throw food at them. I sometimes skipped the cafeteria to go to the library to read the sports history stuff, but once I saw her in there, I stopped going during lunch. That was the least I could do.

The next year, she either moved or went to a private school, because I didn’t see her at my middle school. But I sometimes thought of her. Other than the guilt I felt (which I knew wasn’t deserved, but I still felt it), I don’t know why. Maybe just because she was so different. And kinda hot, I thought.

But time went by, my family eventually moved far from Buffalo, and I didn’t think about her for 20 years, which was last week.

I was back in town visiting some relatives. After dinner, my cousin took me out for a drink. We went to a sports bar in West Buffalo, just a few blocks from where I used to live. We sat at the bar, ordered our beers, and my attention got yanked over to a table full of people talking loudly and laughing. Two couples, just some regular Buffalonians - a little hefty, t-shirts and jeans, at least five beers in each of them. But one of them seemed different: A woman with jet black hair and deep, dark eyes.

I took a closer look, not caring if I was caught staring. And yes - that was Crina. She was thicker now, a little fat but not obese, her rounder face took away some of her nose’s prominence, and she was still bright pale. When she talked, that eastern European accent had been replaced by the Buffalo sound, with its almost nasally pronunciation of vowels. The frilly dresses were replaced by a Bills sweatshirt and jeans. And when she laughed - there was nothing strange about it. Just a laugh.

But I had to make sure. I went to the table, said I was sorry, but just had to ask. Crina laughed, oh my god, wow, so long ago.

“But it’s Crissy now,” she said.

I wish she at least kept the name.