A/N: While I haven't seen the reboot yet, I have heard about how Phoebe was straight up written out of the series. This fic came to me from learning that. Obviously, this is a different universe from my previous fics, all of which now are written as if the reboot didn't happen.
Surreal, that's what it was. I had just learned that word that very summer, and it perfectly described the feeling of coming back to my old school. Well, I guess it's not my old school anymore. Walkerville Elementary, Ms. Frizzle, Liz, my friends, the field trips? Those became memories the second I stepped back into my old school, er, current school.
The school looked the same. It was laid out the same. It even smelled the same, but something was off. The familiarity was gone. I recognized some of the other kids, but I didn't receive even a flicker of recognition in return. Of the teachers, Mr. Seedplot was happy to see me, but otherwise, there was no indication any of them remembered me either. One year was all it took to be forgotten. I probably shouldn't have been surprised. It's not like I had many friends there the first time around.
In those early weeks, as the boredom set in, I thought about how I ended up back here. I remember becoming notorious for always comparing what happened on Ms. Frizzle's field trips with my old school. Looking back, I certainly understand how that could get annoying. I was eight though! That was how I coped with the incredible things I was seeing and the incredible experiences I was having. All of us coped in some way.
Unfortunately some of the adults in my life heard those comparisons and thought I was in distress. My dad started talking to the principal, one thing led to another, and right before the school year ended I was told I was transferring back. I should've spoken up and made it clear that this was the best year of my life. I should've made it clear how badly I wanted to stay. If there's one thing I regret, it's that. I let my shyness get in the way of what I wanted.
I'll always remember the shock of my friends faces when I told them. They asked if I had tried to stop it, and I certainly felt the shame when I replied in the negative. I've never been called a weasley wimp more in such a short period of time. Ms. Frizzle insisted she wasn't mad at me, and that she understood. However, to this day, I swear there was a faint look of disappointment on her face, as if this was a test and I had failed.
As the year went on, I tried to write my old friends and tried to stay in their lives. A few did occasionally write back. I learned that they were all still together, only with Ms. Frizzle's sister as their teacher. The field trips were still happening. Liz was still them (God, did I miss Liz.). I learned about the new girl in the class, Jyoti, and how cool she was. I couldn't help but get the feeling I was being replaced. When the letters and phone calls and offers to play after school dwindled to nothing, it confirmed I had been.
The years went by and I hit middle school and high school, and thus was finally back in the same student pool as my old friends. Occasionally I would try to insert myself into their group, but it would just get more and more awkward. They never told me off (well, Wanda once), but it was also very clear I was not welcome. I knew my efforts had long since become futile, but I felt I had to keep trying. I had to let them know I still cared. Nothing changed. In their eyes, I had made my choice years ago and that was that. I didn't much blame them for that feeling. By our senior year, I gave up. It was finally time to move on. I haven't seen any of them since the day we graduated.
I'm much older now, living far away from Walkerville. I have a husband, two kids, a job in social work, and a book of poems that I still hold out hope will be published someday. It's all great and I wouldn't trade any of it for the world. Despite that though, there are times when I can't help but look back. In weaker moments, I've looked up each of my third grade classmates on social media. I've laid eyes on their Facebook pages with the cursor over the friend request button. I've come close to clicking that button, but so far I've always been able to stop myself. It would do no good, the request would certainly be ignored, and I'd feel even more like a creepy stalker than I already did. The thought made my skin crawl.
During these indulgences, I wonder why I still care. It was so far in the past. My prevailing theory is I can only keep the context to myself. The story is too intertwined with the field trips. It's too crazy to tell anyone else, not even my husband or therapist. I could open up after my regret and the loneliness, but it would be hard to explain why in a way that doesn't get me committed. The closest I've gotten was adapting the field trips as bedtime stories for my children. Luckily, my husband just thought I had an active imagination. Those stories really helped actually. That way that amazing year of my life lives on, even if I have to hide the painful aftermath.
There's a photo of the Friz and the entire class after one of the field trips. Ironically, it's after we visited my then old school. It's showing its age, but it's the one artifact of that year that I have left. I keep it hidden away. No one in my family has ever seen it; it would invite too many questions. When I'm alone and need a pick-me-up, I take it out of its hiding place. Seeing everyone together always makes me a smile, but in a very bittersweet way, as it always goes back to that fateful decision. My life is good overall, but could it have been better if I still had the seven best friends I've ever had? Maybe it's that question hanging over me is the reason I've never been able to fully let go.
Downstairs I can hear the kids rustling. I quickly rehid the picture and went back to my life.