6
Oct

My Sucker Story from High School

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Perhaps the most pivotal time period in my life as a teen was that transition from middle to high school. The summer before freshmen year was punctuated at the end by a sudden increase in girth. Translated: I got fat. Which, fair or not, is WORSE than already being fat or wearing a headgear to school.

As I began this hideous first year of high school (wearing a tent dress on the first day), I decided that the only way to redeem myself was to…run for class president. Did I mention that I now had social status issues? Did I also mention that I had a boyfriend during all this? This boyfriend was my first MAJOR love (it was a whole good girl/ bad boy affair)…who wondered as the summer went on what happened to his once cute, skinny girlfriend? While he did make a pot shot or two about my fuller figure, he didn’t dump me. So I considered myself lucky (and in love).

How sad.

So I figured with The Loving Boyfriend by my side, I had a good chance at winning…Then Loving Boyfriend decided to run against me. While I don’t remember his campaign platform, I know his anti-school spirit and affinity for purposefully pissing people off meant that he didn’t really want to be president; he wanted to piss me off–perhaps get me back for becoming The Fat Girl.

The thing is.…he won.

Worse…he dumped me shortly after…then resigned. So I became freshmen class president by default.

And that was just the first month of high school.

Do you have a “sucker” moment from high school that has inspired your YA writing? Share it below in a comment.

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2 comments on “My Sucker Story from High School

  1. He Who Sucks Last, Sucks Best

    By the time we entered high school, I had pegged my brother as a harmless nicompoop.

    It wasn’t an arbitrary assessment. I run diagnostics on him with magic tricks. I would put a small ball of cotton in one of my ears and, mysteriously, pull it out of the other – a twin ball of cotton hidden there in advance. He never thought to check. I swallowed nails, too – down the oesophagus of my sleeve. And screws, thumbtacks, pins and needles. And my brother swallowed everything I threw at him.

    After his surprising high-school graduation, I was about to upgrade him. That is before the pain started. My right ear throbbed ferociously for days before giving up its little burning parcel. With a skilfully whittled fingernail I went in and fished out a solid ball of earwax the size of a pea. I got a positive ID by slicing it in half. The core was 100% cotton. It was the forgotten cotton ball twin of my magical swan song, four years earlier.

    I told my brother.

    “You’ve been lying to me all this time?” He said, heartbroken.

    “Seriously,” I said, “you thought I had a tunnel running from ear to ear and right through my brain and you didn’t call anyone?”

    “You think you are so clever, don’t you?” He said scornfully, and stormed out of the room.

    And then, he came right back.

    “I suppose you never really swallowed a single nail either, did you?”

    I rest my case.

    Or can I?

    My brother went on to University and got himself an Economics degree; he is now teaching others.

    I never finished anything, but I think I’m about to pull an ace out of my sleeve with my young readers’ novel.

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