The most virulent mixture of maturity levels, it seems to me, must be found in the eighth grade. Some are near adults, especially in the skills of snark-ism, and some are almost as naïve as six year-olds.
Trapped between childhood and adulthood, I found very few clues about how to break through to what I assumed would be a finished product − an adult who knew all the rules, looked good, never made mistakes and had learned all there was to know about life.
Equally remote were some of the finer points in human relationships, but my classmates Janie and Margaret were around to point the way. And in their case the way led through swamps of humiliation inhabited by snakes of castigation.
Margaret was what today would be called a nerd personified. It wasn’t easy to be one in 1946. By today’s standards we all were nerds. Margaret was physically awkward, had a squeaky voice and a puppy-like desire to be liked that combined to be off-putting in the extreme.
Janie had attributes that gave her at least the appearance of being like those put-together girls in Seventeen magazine. Cashmere twinset. Shoulder-length hair that did what she wanted it to. A bra that filled without benefit of Kleenex. Clear skin. Lipstick that never smeared. Boys talking to her. She was securely at the top of the pecking order. Margaret didn’t know that there was one, and I was mostly bewildered.
When school started in September Janie taped a mirror on the inside of her locker door. Within days a large percentage of eighth grade females had mirrors taped in their lockers. But not Margaret. She hadn’t picked up on the trend. To her shame, I thought.
One fateful day I approached Janie. I wish I could remember my exact words, but they are lost. Probably I said something like, “Did you see what Margaret wore yesterday? Can you imagine?”
This from me, a girl who had to be a boy in dance class because I was tall and there was a shortage of boys; a girl who wore brown lace-up shoes because the fashionable saddle shoes didn’t come in size10; a girl whose hair was always on the fly and for whom a real bra was very much in the future. Whatever it was that I confided to Janie that day apparently gave her an opportunity to feel even more superior, and to prove it to me.
That evening she appeared at my door. We lived in the same block, but on different planets. I was flattered and delighted to learn that she actually knew where I lived. Would I like to go for a bike ride? Certainly. Absolutely.
The route, as it turned out, led directly to Margaret’s house, a block or two away. There stood Margaret. A sinking feeling pervaded my midsection. My feet became two sizes larger, body two feet wider, face paralyzed. Not a doubt in the world about what was coming. Janie was about to have her moment.
She said to me, “Did you say Margaret looked horrible?”
“Not exactly, but . . . .”
“Do you think that was kind?”
“No, but . . . .”
“Don’t you think you owe her an apology?” Janie was loving it.
It went downhill from there. A promise never to talk again behind anybody’s back. A very lonely bike trip home. My humiliation was total, devastating; my social life canceled forever. I was lower in the pecking order than Margaret.
Finally I turned 15, then 16, and so forth. I was somewhat amazed that I survived the fiasco to make good friends, go steady and no longer have to be a boy when dancing. I matured, and, while cringing still at the memory of my humiliation, I felt I had gained some perspective. Janie had lost her power as a role model over those intervening years.
Fifty-two years later our 50th high school class reunion was being planned and since I lived in town, much of the arranging fell to me and a few other classmates. Some out-of-towners volunteered to make phone calls to work up interest in the reunion. One of them reported to me later, “I talked to Margaret. Boy, is she ever weird!”
I suddenly recalled that ghastly day. I almost wanted to channel Janie and say, “Really? I find her quite delightful.”
Instead I said, “Hmm. Well, about the menu . . .”
