7th grade

it was an awful year for me, probably the worst of my life thus far. only two or three people in all of existence know why that year was so bad, and i think that "three" is possibly too generous a number. it's something i don't ever speak of. i certainly will not write about it, although i will say that it was one of those things that left its mark like a brick dropped from a plane right onto a square of fresh, wet concrete.

let me tell you about other things, who i was. i had glasses that i wore only in class; the rest of the world was a smudge that i couldn't make out. i had to lean down to see the lock on my locker, my nose only three inches from the numbers. i was poor vision and unruly hair. as i had no earning income of my own, i wore the clothes my mother bought me: namely pants that were always a little too short for my longish legs and tent-like sweaters that look ridiculous on my too skinny torso. 7th grade was when i started wearing make-up. i painted on bright red lips and drew eyeliner with a heavy hand. i didn't wear foundation; my mother gave me a bottle of goo once that i tried at home, only to enter a state of shock when i saw my garishly orange face staring back at me in the mirror. "no thanks, freak," i told her. "i'll just stick to the raccoon eyes and clown mouth."

i only had a handful of friends. samantha and i had sleepovers nearly every week; it was always more fun at her house. i loved the smell of her basement; even my little sister, who would sometimes come with me, would later comment on it. marcia would remark, while we were at home watching tv, "you know, samantha's basement sure does smell nice." neither of us could figure out what it was. in samantha's basement, we watched "blazing saddles" and "my blue heaven" and ate little caesar's pizza and laughed for hours about farts. we were two classy young ladies, and we were going to be friends until the end of time. the end of time, apparently, came four years later. by that time, i had contact lenses and was able to see all the way down the hallway as opposed to half an arms length away.

i remember little things about seventh grade. i got into my first and only physical fight. it was with a deaf girl, and she just about kicked my ass. i don't even remember what it was about; i think that she just wanted to start a fight, and i was the only one that was weak enough to take it. i couldn't have possibly insulted her; even if i had, she wouldn't have been able to hear me, right? i had a boyfriend in 7th grade for about three days until he passed me a crumpled note in science class that read, "i think we should see other people." "good, i was thinking the same thing," i wrote back, and the proceeded to call in sick the next few days. i called in sick a lot in seventh grade, again for reasons i won't discuss. i had ridiculous excuses. once, i called in sick because the toilet had flooded, and i thought i should stay home to watch it.

i remember a cute boy flirting with me, which was unheard of, as i wasn't that cute myself. that's a crystal clear memory; gee, i wonder why. 7th grade, i started reading v.c. andrew books, dog-earing all the dirty parts. i didn't listen to a lot of music in 7th grade, as i didn't get my own c.d. player until 8th grade. my very first c.d. was, of all things, meatloaf's "bat out of hell 2." i still will argue that it was a fabulous c.d. later, i would enjoy the cranberries, counting crows, bon jovi, and sheryl crow. i had a friend who wasn't allowed to listen to sheryl crow because there was talk that she was a lesbian. this friend of mine showed tendencies towards lesbianism herself; i always felt bad for her because i knew that there was no way she could tell her weird, ugly parents without having them pull out a gun on her.

i had two great english teachers in 7th grade, and they had such confidence in me. i still have what one of them wrote in my yearbook, even though i threw the rest of the yearbook out. "jackie, you will go far in this world.... you're an extremely talented writer and an asset to the world." actually, instead of "world," she said, "class." but i'm allowed to embellish, right?

i had a crush on the boy who lived behind me. he was the son of a major league baseball player, and so my daydreams focused on him being a major league baseball player as well, and me being the wife of a major league baseball player. i had a lot of excuses to go outside whenever he was outside, too. i had to pet the dog. i had to take out the trash, one item at a time. i had to read on the deck or inspect the lawn. i had to gaze adoringly in his direction, insane with the lust of a 12 year old. thinking back, i sure did make a lot of stupid excuses. also, i would position myself by the kitchen window with a pair of binoculars as to get a close-up. i'm sure that wasn't incredibly obvious, me with window blinds up pressing binoculars against the glass while i crouched on the countertop and tried not to fall in the sink.

he probably heard my parents fighting all the time. that's why he didn't ask me out- also, the unruly hair, short pants, and squinting.

i wore my first bra that a year, which was only necessary due to changing in gym class. being a flat girl in a class full of busty barbies wasn't the best thing for my self-esteem; but, then again, let's once again recall that since my vision was so poor, i suppose i didn't notice all THAT much.

i wrote a lot of bad, junior high poetry, which was the prelude to my bad high school poetry. i wanted to be a writer even then in seventh grade; i told people that i wanted to major in english or journalism. i don't think i was quite sure what journalism was. i also considered being a therapist or actress. i did a lot of acting in front of the living room mirror, producing my own episodes of "clarissa explains it all," except, of course, that it was "jackie explains it all." i didn't have all that much to explain.

i walked up and down stairs. i sat next to kevin vahl in spanish class, and he'd crack me up every day. i sat next to some other dude whose name i can't remember in computer class, and he too would crack me up every day. this was only because he'd open the paint program and create completely pornographic images. "oh, look," i'd say upon sitting down, "another vagina. that's a nice one, too."

i wrote for the literary magazine that year, which is how i met my friend chrissy. she wrote stories about italian boys and gave them last names like mazzola and crisco; i wrote a story about a girl getting killed by a volleyball. i didn't much care for volleyball. i wish i had a copy of that literary magazine; i can't remember what else i wrote. i'm sure it was pulitzer worthy.