When they were bad

I gave it a month. I promised my daughter that the clique would wear itself out by Thanksgiving. I was wrong. Fueled by e-mail and instant messages, the campaign intensified and the fall semester crept by in excrutiating real time. My daughter's transgressions were never completely defined. She'd beg for explanations: "Am I mean? Am I ugly? Did I say or do something wrong?" But there was never an answer. Her tormentors would roll their eyes and sigh as if to say: "If you don't know, then you are more dense than we thought."

Even the fringe girls, those not quite in the clique, started avoiding my daughter. Under strict orders from the reigning queens to not speak to, look at or, God help you, sit near the victim, they complied until finally, the cheese stood alone.

I find myself in a group of can-do moms, who tend to make things happen -- and stop happening. I've watched them storm into the principal's office demanding different teachers and disputing grades. I've had mothers try to enlist me in various fix-it campaigns, from banning science projects to changing reading programs. I have declined to participate, mostly because I've always been afraid to tempt the fates. So I don't interfere. I never call other mothers or make appointments with principals. I try to stay out of my children's quarrels and petty grievances. I don't believe in fixing science projects any more than I believe in fixing problems. And, while I would have tried anything during this debacle, I didn't want to make things worse.

My husband, meanwhile, couldn't get over it: "Why do they do this?" he demanded again and again. "Because it gives them power, sickening, glorious, intoxicating power over another human being," I would say. "They don't think she's really suffering. They don't imagine her pain. They are just damn glad it's not them and so they participate. They instigate. They fuel the fire, fan the flames and all of it bonds them closer. Sometimes they are sickened by it, their conscience aches and they put themselves in the victim's Nikes. Eventually, they convince themselves she deserves it. And ultimately, they are terrified of becoming the next victim. So, they do what they have to."

I couldn't determine who was the queen. I'd pick one and then it would be another one who was uncommonly cruel that day. I kept thinking it would end. It didn't. I lectured constantly: "When you come out of this, you won't be the same. You will never participate in this kind of thing. You will be stronger, you will be tougher, you will be nicer to those less smart, pretty and talented than you." She'd nod but I know she didn't believe me. Heck, I didn't believe me.

I read up on warning signals of teenage depression. I went into chat rooms where teens poured out their angst and suggested ways to kill themselves. I locked up the booze, threw out prescription medications, made sure she ate, watched to see if she swallowed, followed her to the bathroom. I slowly lost myself. I avoided friends, didn't go to parties and suffered along with her. How long could it last? How long could welast?

I bargained with God. I told him I'd go to church more, pray harder and keep more commandments if he'd take this from her. I blamed myself. I hadn't hosted enough sleepovers. I didn't play tennis with the other mothers. I didn't go out to lunch with the ladies. I worked too much. I wasn't a popular mother.

Next Page: She stayed close to my side, rarely venturing out

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