The Art of Sucking at Dodgeball

My school has a wall plastered with a sticker. The large font of black letters splashed against the white brick wall. I see it every time I pass through the corridors, coming from my classes. It says that “some people might be smarter than you, some people might be prettier than you- IT DOESN’T MATTER” I often laugh at it, seeing the sun bat against my eyelashes whenever I come from the football ground. My skin is nearly always hot and tanned, my skin a deeper color than it was before. I started noticing it at the beginning of my junior year. I would compare my skin color to the one of the girl beside me. It was weird, being in a racially diverse country and yet being alienated from the rest of the population. My friends called me ‘kaali’ as a joke. Now, whenever I look in the mirror. That’s what I see myself as. Emerged out of the darkness and its shadows clinging to my skin as the sweat that clings to my brow when I return from the wet grass.

I would often wait and hope for PE. I would sit in boring classes as the teachers lectured my eyelids into sleep. I would wait- wait until I could escape the confines of the bleary gray walls. As I would wait, with my arms crossed over my chest and my back, clack against the plastic chair, I would stare at the walls. In the creases and peeling paint, little notes written from the classes before me. They would write their couples names, their favorite teacher. One of them read- “whoever reads this will die today in their deathbed” I never really understood the need to specify- their deathbed. They were dying. Their bed became their deathbed. Nevertheless, the idiotic classes that came before me never failed to amuse me much more than listening to how John Watson managed to change the world with his groundbreaking theories of functionalism.
When the bell finally rang for PE, the boys in my class would grin. It would be as if they would finally come alive, the excitement flooding their gloomy faces. It would make me feel alive too.
The whistle would blow from the hallway and everyone would clamber towards the door. The boys lined up while the girls took their time, puffing their hair and applying SPF protectant lip gloss. I would wait leisurely. I was the tallest amongst the girls. I would have to stand at the end of the line.

When we finally started moving towards the grounds, the hallways would be eerily quiet. I would peek into the other classrooms and watch the blank faces stare at the blackboard, trying to understand the quadratic formula.
The hallways would be dark, the fluorescent lights flickering above. I could see the trapped flies in them, their shadows fluttering in the light. The steps were quiet. We would duck our heads and place our hands behind our back, heading in procession for a funeral rite. The moment the glass door swung open, the boys would rush out, one of them hooting. He would grin at me, my stomach doing a backflip even though I barely knew him. He would grin at everyone, his teeth glinting in the broad sunlight.

My eyes would often be blinded, my hand taking up its residence against my forehead as I tried to shield my face from the sun. I would walk slowly, my body lazed down by the sun.
When I was young, there was a commercial that would come on between cartoons. It would show a field of children playing football in dirty jerseys. The sun would come out with an evil grin stretched across the expanse of his orange evilness. He would pull out a striped orange and white straw and poke into a kid’s head. He would then proceed to suck the energy out of the kid. The kid would feel faint.

That was how I felt on the football field. The adverse effects of the lockdown and the pandemic could be seen in the stiffness of my limbs and how my body refused to cooperate. I would follow the trails of students as we made our way towards the shade. One of my friends, the one who called me ‘kaali’ would sling her arm through mine and laugh at herself. The sun bat against my eyelashes again and my cheeks started to heat. Not out of an idea of romance or infatuation. Not even out of embarrassment. The sun would make me red. It’s something I would be often insecure about. Being this dark, you weren’t allowed to seem flushed. And yet my body seemed to have other thoughts. My cheeks would flush so bad, out of retaliation I would slather foundation on my face- even though it seemed as if I’d decided to paint myself- and go outside.

I refused to go anywhere without it. The boys in my church would make fun of me. They would see my red cheeks and accuse me of putting on blush. They would laugh their faces off and smirk at each other like I couldn’t be more pathetic while I sat in that seat, squirming under the hot cruel sun.
So when my cheeks started to heat, I quickly ran to the shade, hoping for some solace that the shadows would allow me. We would all gather in a circle and one of the boys would get a football. The football, basketball and tennis fields were almost always occupied. So, we would improvise. And we would play dodgeball.

If you’re unaware of the game, good. Save yourself. It’s a real pain in the behind, not being athletic. The girls would chatter as the boys came back with the ball as I would stand there, with a frown on my face and my hands propped up on my hips, my thumbs slipping through my belt hoops.
My skirt would swish against my knees and I would be perversely aware of how long/short it was. The navy blue against my dark skin seemed to make me even darker.

The boys would play catch, throwing the ball at each other, testing to see if anyone could get hurt by it. Once the ball was decided, we would start playing. The ball would be swung back and forth, while the person in the middle of the circle would try to, well, dodge it. The boys would try not to be aggressive, the girls would try to be. Throwing the ball with as much force as one could, only to seem strong. I wasn’t. Strong that is.

Everytime the ball would come to me, I would miss and it would roll against my ankles and onto the grass. I would often run after it, aware of my skirt even more and feeling the dissatisfaction of my peers.
I was bad at it. That was an understatement.
One of the boys would snicker, their hand flying in front of their face as if to hide his amusement. I wanted to punch him. Instead I would throw the ball with as much might as I could. It would weakly fall against the ground. More snickers.

I am again reminded of the sticker splayed on the wall of my school’s corridor. “some people are smarter than you- some people are prettier than you- IT DOESN’T MATTER” It does matter. It mattered so much that my cheeks heated again. Not from the sun though. There was a truth splashed across the confines of my mind. Just like the bold black letters on the school wall- it was there. I sucked at dodgeball. It was an undeniable truth.

And as I stood there, I felt shame wash over me. I was below average. It showed on my report cards- the could do better written in bright red letters. I wasn’t athletic. I wasn’t musically or artistically talented. I was good at nothing. The feeling was similar to the one I had felt earlier that morning. When I saw the state of my oily hair and disheveled, haggard face- I made the decision to put on dry shampoo. That failed. Like the rest of my life. Instead of refining my hair with a sleek shine as promised on the pink label, specks of white stuff stuck to my hair, making it seem as though I had dandruff. That morning, nearly a dozen girls and twice more boys pointed it out. So the feeling of shame was an old friend. It had been my constant companion the sixteen years of my life.

And I sucked at dogeball. It was such a stupid game. A game for five year olds. And I sucked at it.
I sucked at life too.
The philosophers and theorists would likely say that making a distinct comparison between the art of life and dodgeball would be a disgrace to their field. But I think they are quite similar. I sucked at both of them, firstly.
And afterall, wasn’t life just a game of dodgeball? Waiting in the middle, surrounded by sneers and people throwing things in the hopes that they would oust you. Then you would succumb to defeat, and someone else would take your place. Death. Life.
Dodgeball.
I sucked at them all.

 My name is Sharon Michelle Upputuru. I am a junior in high school, living in India. I am an avid writer and reader.