When you turn it, the world rearranges.
The carefully folded brown paper lunch bag contained a necklace, handmade by her mother. Gold-spun elastic held an alternating pattern of ice-pink plastic pieces. The gem beads, shaped like stars, sparkled when held against the morning sun.
**
At ten years old, while the rest of the girls in the class were still in pigtails and braids, the new girl, Georgia, wore her blonde hair short and styled, bangs flipped. In her slight Southern accent, she regaled her classmates with stories of her mother’s Hollywood career. She was an actress, Georgia said. A real one. Her mother’s legs were actually in a movie, she told them, filmed as closeups for the aging Betty Grable.
**
Tucked inside a pale pink stall in the girls’ bathroom, Janet sat on the toilet, pointing and flexing her feet, legs too short to touch the floor. Suddenly she heard Georgia’s voice. Georgia, this girl in her class who had the name of an entire state, loud whispered to another girl. The gift she’d received earlier during grab bag party, Georgia said, it was a necklace. It was, she said, awful.
Janet’s stomach fell, and a hot wall of heat rose over her, flushing her cheeks. The necklace. Her gift.
Her vision blurred. She held her breath, afraid to move at all inside the stall, and waited.
**
Even though they'd just moved there, Georgia always talked about leaving. The town where factories churned out industrial pumps, office furniture, and processed grain by-products. “Soon,” she’d say, “we’ll go back to California. Hollywood most likely.”
She painted a world sophisticated with statues, stars, and celebrities. A world miles away from the small rough river town.
**
“It was so tacky,” Georgia hissed to the other girl. Then she spat out the word trashy, meaning surely the gift and likely also the anonymous giver.
**
The two girls pulled then dried their hands on the long cotton towel loop. The bathroom door yawned open, and their voices disappeared in the brief rush of hallway clamor.
The bathroom door slowly whooshed closed.
Inside, it remained silent except for Janet’s small breathing.
The shifting nature of the truth
What was the truth of Georgia’s bitterness? That she never considered the giver of the gift or the beauty of the offer itself, only her own deep disappointment? What else was there?
What was the truth of Janet’s shame? That she never considered this wasn’t hers to carry? That she never thought to think that Georgia’s braggadocio was nothing more than self-seeking, the new girl clinging tightly to a shaky raft of superiority?
And what was the truth of the girl Georgia confided in? Did she agree? Was she too polite to voice disagreement? Was she a wannabe, hovering close to curry favor, in a desperate attempt of belonging herself?
And what was the truth of the teacher? And the mother? What about the librarian? The janitor? The siblings?
We can ask endlessly and never quite be sure.
When you turn the things that seem to be true, the world rearranges.
What is the thing that feels the most true, yet most constricting, to you right now?
What happens when you turn it slightly, like a kaleidoscope? Does it rearrange itself into something completely different? What does it invite you to do?