Sakruti

My dad left for good when I was ten. My mom kicked him out. "Fine!" he yelled. "I've had it with you, your family, and all that screwy New Age goddess crap! I should have left years ago! Now watch—you'll turn my own daughter against me!" He grabbed his bag and walked out. He didn't notice I was standing right there.I should have said something. Instead I stared at my whatever-many-great-grandmother's portrait. Pass 4 Sure It hung in front of where my dad had been standing. There was Whatever-grandma in Victorian clothes, laced in tight, with that crescent moon tiara on her head. He was so clueless he didn't even see Mom's family was into the goddess stuff back then, before anyone ever said "New Age" with capital letters. But that was my dad. After the divorce, he found a girlfriend. They got married and had a kid. Kevin was sweet, but I stopped visiting. They were always joking, asking if Mom and my aunts had sacrificed any cats lately, or did I brew up some potion to get a boyfriend. I told Dad it wasn't funny, and then that he was boring my socks off. Finally I just told him I couldn't come to visit because I had practice. He bought it. Clueless, like I said.But when it came to Mom's family portraits, and her religion, he wasn't the only one who thought it was just too weird. By the time I was in sixth grade, the friends Pass4sure I brought home were noticing the crescent tiaras and full moon pendants. They'd notice, and they'd ask, and I'd try to explain. I'd make them nervous. Then the jokes and whispers began. In seventh grade, the witch stuff blended in with whispers that I was too weird, even stuck-up, maybe a slut. I didn't even know where that had come from, but sixth grade had taught me I couldn't fight any of it. I acted like I couldn't hear. I would read for lunch and recess, by myself in a corner of some room. I kept my head down. I didn't even try to make friends. I didn't see the point. Sooner or later I would have to take them home. There they'd see the portraits, and the jewelry. They'd ask their questions. Back to square one.The only good thing about school was Test King track. I'd found out I was good at it in grade school. With a summer of practice and middle-school coaches, no one on our team could catch me by the time the seventh-grade spring meets rolled around. I came in second in the district in all my events but one, and that one I won. Winning was like a taste in my mouth. Everyone I raced against was a possible source of whispers, but I couldn't hear them if they ran behind me. They'd have to catch me to make their words hurt.