When I was in the fifth grade, I got invited to a cool girl’s birthday slumber party. I had been a fringe friend of hers and she made the sweet effort to invite me to her party with all of the other school’s cool girls. I do not remember how I felt going into this party but based on my feelings towards sleepovers as a whole, I was probably dreading it. We were graduating to middle school the next year, which was basically real life so it was important to consider putting effort into my status. Also, I was a fan of a Disney Channel series called Lizzie McGuire, which falsely portrayed middle school as a place full of independence and options and heaps of time between classes to have dramatic encounters near the lockers. The group of girls at this party all planned to join the cheerleading team and even I had the glimmer of interest in being a cool, pretty cheerleader with a heart of gold.
At the slumber party, I took on the role of an observational scientist researching monkeys in the wild. I was aware of how quiet I was and the fact that I was always a few paces behind the group. I’m sure I was a bit intimidated but also I was the kind of kid that never lost track of time anywhere outside of her home. At any given sleepover, I knew exactly how much time was left before Mom would pick me up and take me back home to my sanctuary of solitude.
In the early evening we went for a walk around the cool girl’s neighborhood because someone wanted to be seen by some boy that lived down the street. It was a type of reverse Sting Operation calculated by the minds of ten-year-old girls. Once we got to the cute boy’s house, she would fall down or throw up or something that might merit a White Knight. I was embarrassed for us. I didn’t associate with the kinds of people who cause scenes. But the entrapment didn’t go to plan. The cute boy was having a pre-pubescent gathering of his own so we were greeted by a gang of boys on bikes before we even got close to his house. I didn’t recognize any of the gangly boys shouting to us from their bicycles with high-pitched, screechy voices.
I found them all off-putting.
Though a cute face wasn’t lost on me, I never really had crushes on the boys in school. They were, after all, boys, which is gross. Men, sure. Boys, nope. My teenage crushes were reserved for men in their mid-tewnties at least. I recall an occasion in high school when fifteen-year-old Elizabeth broke up with sixteen-year-old Adam and she was devastated. Everyone consoled Elizabeth but I wondered what could have possibly been appealing about a teenage boy in the first place. If the stupidity wasn’t reason enough to avoid encounters with them, perhaps being larger and sturdier than him might do it. Or the lack of conversational ability. Or the general over-eagerness of a boy that age. I could have never stomached being kissed by a youth. I told Elizabeth she could move on to larger, manlier things and everyone glared at me. I was alone in my repulsion and also apparently, wrong.
I digress.
The group of spirited juveniles were on a Sting Op. of their own. One designated bully would upset a specific girl and the cute boy would come in and save her. A solid plan I thought. Though there was no telling who the cute one was. Things got murky for both sides when the two groups met in the middle of the street. While the girls were working out an impromptu Plan-B, the bully boy squirted an unexpectedly combative girl with a bottle of ink and all hell broke loose. She screamed and lunged at him and he fell off of his bike. One girl immediately started crying. Two boys laughed and one looked startled and fled the scene. Most of the girls stood with wide eyes while the ink victim shouted kid-caliber obscenities to the bully. A verbal fight carried on for a long time before all the boys ran away and the ink girl started to cry. I had removed myself from the situation when the first crier busted loose but also, I was a younger sibling. I knew all about harmless bullying and proudly owned my own bottle of disappearing ink.
I gently pushed through the swarm of girls around the victim and politely informed her that it’s disappearing ink.
“I saw the bottle. I have the same one. It goes away as it dries.” And it was true. The stain was already shrinking. “There’s no reason to be upset.” I told her, so kindly. I was so happy to find that her shirt wasn’t ruined and her happiness could return. But no one said anything and I found myself being pushed to the outside of the blob as the group consolation continued. Eventually, when she mustered the strength, we walked back to the house for cupcakes.
They talked about “the fight” all night long. Twelve hours until Mom gets here. The majority of my learning opportunities came post-fight as the story was retold over and over. More details emerged as the horror of the inkblot was brought to life again and again. Fixation. Assumptions… I scribbled mental notes of their kind. Late that night, the cool girl’s older sister came home from a party. She was a high school cheerleader and once she arrived the conversation focused on her life and realities. I watched her eat an entire sleeve of Oreos while she told us about boys and classes and SAT prep courses. She had a car and boyfriend and was looking at colleges. They asked her endless questions. I wondered if I’d be allowed to eat a whole sleeve of Oreos when I was in high school.
Then she put on a movie she wanted to see and everyone gathered around to watch. It was a movie about a forlorn pregnant woman on the run from her abusive boyfriend. She gives birth to her baby in a Wal-Mart and then has to figure out what to do with her life. I was transfixed on and traumatized by the movie. As someone who existed most frequently in her fantastical inner world, I was suddenly horrified by the possible realities of my future. The movie ended and everyone scattered for snacks and bathroom breaks and then refocused on current matters. I stared at the credit reel in horror. How could I care about middle school when real life was out there being so real and awful? I didn’t say much after that. I think I went to sleep, though I was careful not to be the first one to fall asleep for fear of being ridiculed.
I woke up at six the next morning. Three hours until Mom gets here. I have no recollection of the next morning. It was a countdown. Survival. Just get to 9:00. I realized I had nothing in common with these girls. I realized I could never share a cheerleading team with a group of girls who could get so much mileage out of the ink blot story. I certainly did not have school spirit, or a loud voice for that matter, and perhaps being popular meant I would be the victim of a reverse engineered Sting Operation. The Wal-Mart birth made me realize that the world had bigger problems than the things that went on on James Island. I suddenly knew that the world was a big, complex place and that I knew nothing about it. I realized being around boring people that you hope to impress is just the worst.
Mom was four minutes late.
I did not go on to join the middle school cheerleading team. Actually, I did not go on to remain friends with any of the girls from that night, though the initial cool girl and I were always genuinely polite passersby in the hallway. She goes on to marry a military fella after high school and they now live in Germany. Three girls, including the inkblot girl, will transfer schools a few years later and disappear into the scary, complex world. One goes on to a brief and embarrassing stint in the adult entertainment world before bearing three children by different men, entering rehab, and moving to Florida.
I go on to think about that dern Wal-Mart birth at least twice each year.
I do not go on to become cool.
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