Standing Up In Geometry Class
The story that I remember most clearly from junior high, and that I’ve shared the most, is about my geometry class. I usually sat at a table with Alicia and Wallace. Alicia and this other kid in the class, Gene, were in eighth grade; Wallace and I were in seventh. Alicia liked to embarrass Wallace because it made his ears turn bright red. Gene wasn’t physically intimidating but he was sharp, confident, and tenacious. Wallace lived in my neighborhood and had been a friend since childhood, but I was in the process of becoming a skater: spot-bleaching Converse All Stars and jean jackets, too close to being cool to wear an argyle vest or risk having a friend like Wallace. Someone whose ears didn’t turn red. Someone that perhaps Alicia could like as more than a friend. As I remember it, Gene always gave me a hard time. I seemed to really annoy him, though I wasn’t trying to: I hadn’t leaned into aggravating people as a defense mechanism just yet.
But one day, I had had enough of his abuse. I stood my ground.
Gene said, “Yeah? Let’s fight. Out back. After school. Tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll be there.”
However, that particular tomorrow was a snow day.
The day after, when school re-opened, Gene got in my face and said, “Where were you yesterday? I rode my bike all the way here to fight you!” But he couldn’t keep a straight face for very long. Of course he hadn’t ridden his bike to school in the snow.
It was a joke. Maybe always had been.
This is the part in the story where I point out that just by saying that I would fight him, I had passed the test and earned his respect. I can see him saying something like “You’re okay, kid” and giving me a pat on the back, a playful punch on the shoulder, or a hearty handshake congratulating me on my ascent into the world of young manhood.
HVWP COMMONPLACE 35
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