from the labrys writing workshop

writing exercise by A. Smithie  

prompt: write about any name

            Lilly was my favorite name. I wish she hadn’t claimed it. It wasn’t her fault necessarily. I guess if we really want to blame someone, we should go back to her parents. What were they thinking?

            I know what they were thinking. It’s a pretty name. That’s what I thought until I met her. Until I met Lilly. She was in my freshman year english class, which seems strange to say now. Because I can’t believe even at fifteen years old she scared me that much.

            Would I make myself worth her while? Could I prove I was good enough to be her friend? I tried at first, which, now, feels like the worst part of it. But Lilly is such a good name. Such a sweet name. Lillipad. Lilliputians. Well, I guess the Lilliputians weren’t so nice. But still, I wasn’t willing to admit that Lilly couldn’t be good. That’s probably why for so long I put up with her evil antics.

            It was worse when spring came. And crew started. That’s also when I learned what crew was, and why it’s so significant. It’s significant because they said so, everyone who did it, the faculty who went and watched—the headmaster who gave them special jackets to wear to school events. Well, when crew started it got worse. She got to walk around campus in her special coat and sit with the seniors. In the spring when she laughed at me, there was a bigger audience. She was more important. She was in season.

            The point is I can never name my daughter Lilly. I have to pick another, and sure there are a million names. And maybe I’ll name her after a character from my favorite book—Lyra, but it doesn’t change the fact that she ruined that name. I wonder if I’ve ruined my name for anyone. It doesn’t seem likely. I think maybe if I met her again, I could fix this. Lilly will have evolved. She’ll be good, just like her name, and I can pick it out again from a baby name book without twinging guilt or caution. 

            For now, we will say Lyra and I will continue to wonder who I’ve ruined my own name for. It probably would’ve happened in sixth grade or seventh grade. I was a real bitch back then.