taught. Yet I could not forget, entirely, the way things had been before, and I worried that the relief I felt was only temporary, a kind of false hope, because I knew the older kids who’d bullied me were going to be there when I got to junior high. The closer it got, the more I worried, making my first day of junior high school one of the most dreaded days of my life. Were things going to be different, now that my tormentors had all had a year to mature, or would they simply pick up where they’d left off? Would I be just another student, or would I find myself back at the bottom of the pecking order?
It’s the first day of seventh grade. My knees are weak and my legs are rubbery as I walk onto the school block. I’ve been dreading this moment for weeks, unable to think of anything else, and I am nearly shaking from fear. Some kids from my grade recognize me and laugh at my obvious discomfort. The bell hasn’t even rung, and it has begun. My anxiety is supplemented by the usual culture shock kids experience going from an old school to a new one, with lockers that have locks and combinations to learn and memorize (a lot of kids have anxiety about learning to open their lockers, but mine was particularly acute because I felt like if I failed, and the bell rang before I could get my locker open, everyone would notice and laugh at me), and seven different classes in seven different classrooms, and new alliances to form, or in my case, to fear. I’d held out a very small amount of hope that maybe things would be different, and that I’d make new friends who would take me in and protect me, and that I would find my way forward. . . . Instead, I am immediately identified as a loser. For all I know, word has spread about me before school even starts. Nobody volunteers to be my friend, and I’m hesitant to initiate friendships for fear of making a mistake and being rejected, or worse, tricked, like the girl who wrote me the fake love letter. Kids I don’t even know avoid me. I feel alone, and that’s terrible, but it’s still better than being belittled and humiliated. I try, at first, to keep to myself, keep my head down, hoping I’m invisible.
But of course, I’m not invisible, and in a way I can see now but couldn’t see then, keeping my head down and trying not to look anybody in the eye signals weakness and serves as an open invitation. My new seventh grade tormentor is a boy named Ben. Ben is the sort of kid who, if you lined up a dozen kids from that school and said, “Pick the biggest loser,” would get chosen every time, just from how he looks. He has long greasy hair; is at least twenty pounds overweight; favors black T-shirt, jeans, a black leather jacket; always has heavy-metal blasting in his headphones so loud you can hear it from ten feet away; and all he does, as far as I can tell, is hang out on a street corner, smoking cigarettes. He gets terrible grades and has no interesting personality quirks or characteristics that might redeem him, no sense of humor or way with words that makes him popular, and yet all I can think is that he has a group (The Burnouts, they are called) and I don’t, and he bullies me, so if he’s a complete loser, but he’s still above me, where do I rank? His strength is in numbers. I think I could probably kick his ass, one-on-one, but I know that if I ever take a swing at him, five other Burnouts would jump me and beat the hell out of me.
One day, though I’ve done nothing to provoke him, he comes after me after school with some of his friends, and I’m certain that everything I’ve been fearing could happen is about to happen. They see me and call my name and start running toward me, but fortunately I have a good lead on them. I don’t look back. For all I know, they took a few steps towards me and stopped, but I run all the way home in fear, and I cut classes for the next two days, and then it’s the weekend. I’m hoping that over the weekend, he’ll have
It’s the first day of seventh grade. My knees are weak and my legs are rubbery as I walk onto the school block. I’ve been dreading this moment for weeks, unable to think of anything else, and I am nearly shaking from fear. Some kids from my grade recognize me and laugh at my obvious discomfort. The bell hasn’t even rung, and it has begun. My anxiety is supplemented by the usual culture shock kids experience going from an old school to a new one, with lockers that have locks and combinations to learn and memorize (a lot of kids have anxiety about learning to open their lockers, but mine was particularly acute because I felt like if I failed, and the bell rang before I could get my locker open, everyone would notice and laugh at me), and seven different classes in seven different classrooms, and new alliances to form, or in my case, to fear. I’d held out a very small amount of hope that maybe things would be different, and that I’d make new friends who would take me in and protect me, and that I would find my way forward. . . . Instead, I am immediately identified as a loser. For all I know, word has spread about me before school even starts. Nobody volunteers to be my friend, and I’m hesitant to initiate friendships for fear of making a mistake and being rejected, or worse, tricked, like the girl who wrote me the fake love letter. Kids I don’t even know avoid me. I feel alone, and that’s terrible, but it’s still better than being belittled and humiliated. I try, at first, to keep to myself, keep my head down, hoping I’m invisible.
But of course, I’m not invisible, and in a way I can see now but couldn’t see then, keeping my head down and trying not to look anybody in the eye signals weakness and serves as an open invitation. My new seventh grade tormentor is a boy named Ben. Ben is the sort of kid who, if you lined up a dozen kids from that school and said, “Pick the biggest loser,” would get chosen every time, just from how he looks. He has long greasy hair; is at least twenty pounds overweight; favors black T-shirt, jeans, a black leather jacket; always has heavy-metal blasting in his headphones so loud you can hear it from ten feet away; and all he does, as far as I can tell, is hang out on a street corner, smoking cigarettes. He gets terrible grades and has no interesting personality quirks or characteristics that might redeem him, no sense of humor or way with words that makes him popular, and yet all I can think is that he has a group (The Burnouts, they are called) and I don’t, and he bullies me, so if he’s a complete loser, but he’s still above me, where do I rank? His strength is in numbers. I think I could probably kick his ass, one-on-one, but I know that if I ever take a swing at him, five other Burnouts would jump me and beat the hell out of me.
One day, though I’ve done nothing to provoke him, he comes after me after school with some of his friends, and I’m certain that everything I’ve been fearing could happen is about to happen. They see me and call my name and start running toward me, but fortunately I have a good lead on them. I don’t look back. For all I know, they took a few steps towards me and stopped, but I run all the way home in fear, and I cut classes for the next two days, and then it’s the weekend. I’m hoping that over the weekend, he’ll have
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