The deal with seventh grade

I started school a year early: long story involving a November birthday and kindergarden in Michigan. I also developed late, a biological detail I won't go into. But because of these two thing (not having older siblings didn't help either), I was not the most mature seventh grader. I also had braces and glasses and dressed in whatever my mom told me looked cute on a girl my age. Disaster.

One way to deal with this is to try to become invisible, which to me was the obvious and best choice. It basically worked through the early part of grade school, so I thought I'd stick with the plan. And we all know about the best-laid plans.

In the sixth grade, Mr. French had a nervous breakdown. The kids figured out that they had the numbers in their favor and it became a free-for-all. I just remember a lot of things being thrown around. Paper wads, spit balls, books. For months, it was chaos, then he was gone, and we got a long-term substitute teacher. My seventh grade teacher was not going to let that happen.

Mrs. Steves was one of those awful, bitter, old teachers who was marking time until retirement. She  didn't know what was wrong with the kids today, but she sure as hell wasn't haven't any of it. Oh, and she had the worst breath in America. I am not just saying this to be mean. It was nasty.

Mrs. Steves got her share of the bad boys (we only had tow classes for my grade) and sat them all right in front of her. But she needed someone to break up that group. I was the obvious choice. A "good" kid. Quiet. I wasn't cute or pretty enough for distraction. So, while the kids I could tolerate were in the back, minding their own business, I got to be in front with the kids who genuinely weren't interested in any education beyond the sixth grade level.

They picked on me constantly. Every day. If Mrs. Steves hadn't put me there, they would've gone all "3 Stooges" on each other, but this was so much easier. And all I did was sit there and wait for it to be over. I kept waiting for Mrs. Steves to notice and get them to stop or move me away but it never happened. (I'm sure she knew what was happening. It kills me that she did nothing.)

No, it wasn't "I'll bet they thought you were cute" teasing. It was mean. It was "let's make the quiet girl cry" type of teasing. It was hurtful and constant. And not one of those bastards has ever apologized.

Seventh grade was a prison sentence. It taught me that life is not fair, playing by the rules doesn't help you, people are mean. You have to rescue yourself.