Seventh Grade

If only I could go back to those days with what I know now, with the confidence and filter-less mouth I have grown in 24 years. Oh, heavenly days!

I would call the eighth-grade bully's bluff and meet her after school. (She threatened one of us Every. Single. Day). I would not slam the door and yell at my mom, but open it and tell her I love her. I would learn to do a lay-up before basketball tryouts, so I didn't get cut from that sport, too. Or maybe not. That led to cheerleader Suzanne. :) Go team!

But I really wouldn't go back. (or would I?)

To explain more about my beloved "Twitch" friend, whom I mentioned in the last post, and who told me that my brief mention didn't paint her in the best light, I travel back to seventh grade, dusting off cobwebs to get there. . .

We had just moved to SJ a month earlier, and now it was the first day of school. I was, of course, ultra self-conscious, but that didn't stop me from picking the only purple-chaired desk (it was totally my fav. color!) in the VERY front row of the classroom, so that my new teacher would see his best student up close right away. The bell hadn't yet rung to begin the day, so students milled around and chatted in their cliques. I sat, staring straight ahead, butterflies bumping violently against each other in my stomach. I just wanted school to start, for I knew how to feel comfortable completing mindless worksheets and reading. A boy behind me loudly asked, to everyone within a mile of his voice, "Hey, is that new kid a boy or a girl?" Um, that would be not-even-close-to-developing me (I didn't acquire the ladies until college!), with my boy-short haircut, to whom he was referring. I gulped, fighting back tears. Another voice, female this time, retorted, just as loudly, "She has earrings on, stupid." I turned towards my rescuer, timidly but oh so grateful, who smiled and beckoned, "Come back here with us." I got up from my seat, walked to where she stood with her cool friends, and eagerly joined them.

Fast foward a few months. . .
Changing classes from homeroom to social studies, we discovered a new seating arrangement, with desks placed in groups of four. Because this teacher had no clue, he let us pick our seats. My rescuer and I both wanted to sit by the same girl (she's my BFF, no she's my BFF, are you my BFF? You know - so seventh grade). She sat by her, I called her the word that rhymes with ditch, the tenured teacher was still outside his door, unaware of any happenings in his classroom, and the encouraging words began. Fight! Fight! She slapped me (for which I don't fault her- I had called her that, after all); I slapped her back. The crowd began to gather round. She pushed me. I pushed her back. Teacher finally entered the room and broke it up. Sent us down the hall to "work it out" (really? can you say lawsuit?!). We went, we cried, hugged each other, apologized, and went back to class. So seventh grade! Not only was she the last person to whom I cussed (okay, maybe a couple more times in my life after that), she was my only physical fight (so far). Honored?

Fast forward many years. . .
One of my oldest and dearest friends, this not-even-a-bit-of-a-twitch sis of mine. We have a history, but more importantly, we have a present. She still has my back, and I hers. I cherish each part of who we are to each other. My cup runneth over.