Value Of Me

• Philomena Richards, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2020

Value of Me

Here I am standing in front of a class full of pupils, my story papers in hand and my mouth dry.
“Well, Christina?” Mrs. Pip says, annoyed, “Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Pip,” I say. “But I must admit that I am not the best at reading.”
“Well, just do your best,” she says, “and be snappy about it.”
While I am reading it, I make several mistakes. I see the pupils giggle and poke fun at me, and watch the criticizing stare of Mrs. Pip. She has a look of disgust on her face, and I am glad when I am sitting back at my desk. When the other students read out their stories, they make mine sound atrocious, because they are so well written.
As soon as the bell rings marking the end of the last period, I grab my bag and run home, trying not to think of Mrs. Pip, the jeering students, or school. When I am home I go to my room, tears in my eyes. I then take the story from my bag, before I rip it to pieces, throwing it in my bin. I will never be a writer, no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I wish to be. I lay on my bed, tears streaming down my face; I feel worthless.
I hear a knock on the door, but I don’t answer it. Perhaps if they don’t hear me they will go away?
Whoever knocked opens the door anyway. It is Maria, my older sister.
“Christina, you have been crying!” She says, “What’s wrong?”
“I recited my story in class,” I say. “Mrs. Pip screwed her nose and the others laughed; I feel worthless.”
“Worthless?” Maria says, “You're not worthless- everyone has value.”
“You weren’t there today,” I say. “You don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand,” she says, pulling a dollar note out of her pocket. “How much is this worth?”
“One hundred dollars- wow!”
“How much is it worth if I do this?” She says as she crumples it.
“One hundred dollars?”
“How much is it worth if I spit on it- though I’m not going to do that?”
“One hundred dollars.”
“What if I stamp on it and say it is no longer worth one hundred dollars?” She says, “How much is it worth?”
“One hundred dollars,” I say, beginning to wonder where this is leading.
“If this money has the same value, no matter what happens to it,” Maria says seriously, “why can’t it be the same about you?”
********************************************************
It is years later now, but throughout my life I have remembered this. Your value isn’t what people think of you, and it never changes no matter what happens to you; it is always the same. It is your value as a human being.