Written Portrait of Mallory Fritz

fake name, real girl

I went to school with a girl named Mallory Fritz, we first met in 2nd grade and had most classes together until she switched schools junior year. I have no reason to think about her as much as I do, she's up in the ranks with my immediate family members and close friends, but we weren’t ever close. Our last names are on opposite ends of the alphabet so our desks were never near each other, a critical element for the context of how I observed her. She was always across the room, always on a stage.

Mallory rarely spoke, her timid personality was just one of her accessories. She wore PINK by Victoria’s Secret everyday and her earbuds played Maroon5 exclusively. Mallory was the most accident prone person in my grade. Throughout the years I watched paper cuts and skinned knees evolve into twisting her ankle while walking the mile, and a deep slice across her hand in art class after cutting with an X-acto knife the exact way the teacher specifically told us not to. On the drop off lane for school in the mornings, there was a chain fence several feet from where a mini van’s door would open, Mallory somehow managed to get out of the car and step directly onto the chain, dropping her binders and shattering her knee cap in the process. Her mom witnessed this, but ultimately told her daughter to “walk it off” as I’m sure she was exhausted at Mallory’s easy tears and clumsiness over the years, and the injuries were never as severe as the crying let on. By second period she was in the hospital getting an X-ray and her knee was in fact severely broken. 

Mallory also dated a boy the year above us, who was famously a stoner, but that was a fact to everyone but lost on Mallory. Somehow she was in the dark about it, and I’m not exaggerating when I say the entire student body knew he chiefed it regularly. He swore she would break up with him if she found out, and their ritual of making out behind the locker rooms everyday would come to an end. The day always comes, and when the news about her stoner boyfriend came to light, she cried, hard. She ended it and their spot behind the locker rooms became vacant. 

I understand that when I speak of Mallory, I’m effectively going over this girl’s blooper reel, but I think of her so often. This has all been a prologue for the real story I want to touch on, the day in 7th grade I went to her house after school. I don’t remember what the exact circumstances were, but my mom needed to hand over the responsibility of picking me up to someone else for a day, so she arranged a playdate with Mallory’s mom. We were 12. I can’t tell you what Mallory’s room looked like, or what after school snacks I ate because I don’t remember. This story takes place in her backyard. She lowered her tone and asked, “Do you want to see what’s in our shed?” YES MALLORY I DO. I THOUGHT YOU’D NEVER ASK. TAKE ME TO THE FRITZ FAMILY SHED. I played it cool and followed her across the grass. She flicked on the lights, and in this large shed, lining the walls, were vintage pinball machines. “This is my dad’s ‘thing’ you know, he collects them. My mom says he can’t have any in the house.” We proceeded to play on them for hours. There were easily 20 machines in this shed, and as part of research for this piece I went on eBay to look up how much they cost. They range from 3-10 thousand dollars. I wish I had asked what her dad did for a living, but like I said I was 12. Our contact after that day was just as it was before, minimal. We both babysat for the same two children, and once when it was my turn to watch them I even asked them to tell me who they liked better. They smiled and screamed “you”, but that was nothing against Mallory, I was probably bending rules I wasn't aware were in place. Mallory Fritz will remain on my mind, but maybe taking the opportunity to finally write about this will smooth it over and leave it in storage for now.