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ANOTHER HOUR, ANOTHER HUMILIATION
Next class: American lit.
Only a slight improvement.
Terror Level: Downgraded to Orange. Mild-to-moderate fag bashing expected.
The breakdown: No football players, thank God. In fact, almost no boys at all. Just the Ladies Who Lynch.
The marauding cheerleaders were here, looking like grim assassins (Are they at least cheery on the field?), as well as a sizable presence of the Muffy Mafia (DEATH WEARS DUCK BOOTS!), and a small-but-poisonous clutch of DebuTAUNTERS.
The biggest turnout, however, seemed to be of Bible Belles, those overly scrubbed Christian girls whose headbands are purposely a bit tight (“Pain is the cleanser! Pain is the cleanser!”), and who obviously picked this class for its Puritan studies. Well, of course. Hester Prynne, Cotton Mather, “Sinners at the Hands of an Angry God”—nothing like a bit of hellfire to chase away those impure thoughts. But don’t be fooled by the crosses around their necks; these girls are the coldest of all the cold-blooded killers here today. The worst of the bunch. Because when they’re being hateful, they’re being hateful for God.
That means there would be no foot-in-the-back attacks or barrage of booger balls here. Instead, this Estrogen Block intends to systematically wear me down with an aggressive campaign of withering looks, hissing whispers, and echoes of “ew.”
Ah, but I was an hour wiser now.
There would be no shrieking, double-day-Glo fag attack this time. No wild-eyed theatrical outbursts to give them ammunition. I’ve learned my lesson. Save the ra-sha-sha “Life is a banquet” crap for a more swish-indulgent crowd. . . . From now on, I keep my mouth SHUT.
I chose a quiet corner desk and tried to become one with the potted ferns. Now, if I only dress in brick-patterned clothing for the rest of the year . . .
It started almost immediately.
I could see much squirming and making of faces and pointing at me and shrieking in disgust.
“Well, it’s just so groooooooooooooooss!”
“I knoooooooooooooow!”
“Would you ever?”
“Ewwwwwwwwwww!”
“Mumble mumble . . . anal sex . . .”
ALL: “EWWWWWWWWWWWW!”
“Mumble mumble . . . poo . . .”
ALL: “GROOOOOOOOOOSSS!”
A pretty blond cheerleader, the first I’ve seen smiling, came over to me, shyly. “I’m Tiff,” she said.
“I’m Billy,” I said warily.
“We were all just wondering”—giggle, giggle—“do you eat poo?” And every girl SHRIEKED with laughter as Tiff raced back to her seat, clearly having accomplished her dare.
I was too shocked to answer, but I blushed as though I had just been caught eating some, in fact, at that very moment.
They ROARED and repeated and replayed the scenario over and over. “She asked HIM!” “She asked if he eats poo!” “He didn’t say no!” “Tiff, you are so BAD!” “You are BAD, Tiff Tarbell!” “Oh my Gaaaaaad!”
I should have told them off. I should have said something witty or wicked or clever or assertive. I should have done something. Anything. Instead, I did nothing.
I sometimes think I’m too delicate for this world.
And then just to make sure I didn’t confuse our little conversation as a genuine overture toward friendship, Tiff called me a fag as she walked to the pencil sharpener.
Sweet.
Oh, I am learning to dislike these cheerleaders (or as I think of them, Future Former Cheerleaders). I know they’re just stupid swamp girls with dirty minds and hate-filled hearts, and they aren’t worth the effort, but GODDAMN, do I dislike them.
I closed my eyes and quietly seethed.
Cheer now, Miss Perkybottom, I thought, with your pom-poms and panties on parade.
Cheer now Miss Life-of-every-party, Miss Girl-with-the-most-cake.
Because I have seen the ghost of your Christmas future, and it’s in a housedress, watching Passions with a cat named Touchdown. You are in for quite a comedown, my leggy tormenters.
For you I see:
Early marriage, early motherhood.
Lost dreams, and a lost midriff.
Boobs drooping with your spirits.
Yes, yes. It’s all saddlebags and sweat pants, for all you pretty girls.
Yes, yes, I hope all you mad cows are enjoying yourselves, because time will take my vengeance for me. . . .
