My name’s Brianna but mom fed me too many carrots as a baby and for a week I was a glorious shade of pumpkin. The nickname stuck. We live in an upperclass neighborhood in Philadelphia. My mom’s a divorce lawyer. My dad’s a janitor. He works at my school slopping his mop bucket up and down the halls, whistling glam rock songs. I love him. He never misses a party or a guitar recital. He’s the kind of dad that sneaks you cookies when you’re grounded. He gives the best hugs. I’m so proud of him at home. He helped my little brother Joey learn to ride a bike yesterday and then I helped him fix mom’s car. He’s so good at everything. And at his job, I have to watch the kids torment him.
My heart breaks every time a person throws something to the ground in front of him. The kids call him ‘trash panda’ but not in a cute way. He wears gray overalls with these black protective glasses that make him look like a raccoon. It’s worse when someone like Kerry shortens it to, ‘Trash.’ People spill to watch him clean. They leave their garbage on the ground because they know he’ll get it. They treat him so terribly.
He knows it hurts me. He stopped driving me to school when it was obvious kids were going to bully me because of him. I never asked. It hurt, sure. They called me ‘baby panda’ and throw crumbled up balls of paper at my head when the teachers weren’t looking. Yeah, I was mad but mostly because of how they treated my dad. He chose to stop talking to me at school. We developed a nod, smile, pointing thing to acknowledge one another at school. Gradually as kids moved around and got older, they forgot we were related. I became popular. I joined a band and as a senior, I got invited to play all the best parties. My grades were decent. The boys were trying to get my number. The girls were copying my style. I wore jeans. I was no fashion plate. At least copying me meant the girls got to dress comfortably for once. And the entire time they were playing up to me, they were crapping on my dad for being a janitor.
Study Hall let out early one day and a couple of us were going to get candy bars from the vending machine. We’d need them to make it through Spanish III. My dad was pouring sawdust over a puddle of something nasty. A sick kid stood nearby, green and shaken. My dad was comforting him, telling him not to worry, and to go to the nurse. The kid just kept apologizing for being sick. Dad gave him a friendly smile and Jason, this sophomore started, “Gross, Greg, don’t let him touch you. He’s got his hands in crap all day!”
Bristling, I moved forward. My friend Casey grabbed my arm. “What’s wrong Brianna?”
“Isn’t that right? You like picking up after people, don’t you?” Jason asked, tone nasty.
Dad shrugged. “Someone has to keep this place clean. It’s a good job to keep a school healthy, Jason. Tell your dad I was asking after him.”
Jason’s face turned red. “How would a trashy panda like you know my dad!? Did you wipe the tables up at his house? Do you moonlight as a maid? They get better outfits. How come you never went to college? Is that why you push a broom?!”
I took another step forward. My dad tried to warn me off. I didn’t listen. I walked up to Jason and glared up at him. “Leave him alone.”
“Why? He’s a janitor. He’s dumb that’s why he can’t get a real job.”
Another kid snickered. “My dad says people who do service jobs are teens or idiots and that’s why they get bad paychecks. This guy’s got no skills.”
“He’s just the janitor, Brianna, why are you getting involved?”
“Because he’s my dad,” I shouted.
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