Everyone was excited because we, having reached the grand stage of 7th grade, were not only taking a bus to another school but we were going to eat at a fast food restaurant as well! The only thing keeping my day from perfection was Ryan.
The harassment had been escalating all day. He had been following me around school while we waited for the bus, on the bus he sat behind me and teased me, at McDonald’s he began by spitting spit-balls at me from across the restaurant. I was starting to get pissed off. My first band trip ever and some punk-ass blonde kid, from orchestra no less, was making a fool of me. My blood was beginning to boil.
Ryan was cheerfully oblivious to the monstrosity awakening inside my chest and decided to jump it up a notch. Taking a salt packet from his table he casually walked over and dumped it in my hair. I was in shock for a moment, but then my well-bred side kicked in. “Please stop!” I don’t remember what he replied, but it must have been along the lines of “Why should I?” or “No” because a few minutes later he walked over again with yet another salt package.
I was seething as I shook the salt out of my hair. As the last grain fell to the floor I felt something hit me in the back of my head. I picked up yet another spit-ball and turned around to see Ryan grinning from ear to ear. I’d had enough. This was ending now.
I marched over to Ryan’s table. “Stop now or I’ll hurt you.”
“You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”
“Oh yeah? I’ve got nails. Don’t underestimate what they can do.” Yeah, I was really mature in 7th grade. The poor, unsuspecting boy did, however, make that awful mistake. He didn’t believe me. He underestimated my anger.
“Go ahead! You won’t do anything.” At this he held out his arm, exposing the soft white underbelly of flesh.
I reached out and pinched him as hard as I could with my nails. His arm began to bleed. I wasn’t satisfied with his blood. I needed true compensation for a day of humiliation. As everyone around the table stood in shock, looking at the red ooze from his wound, I grabbed a salt package. Ripping the top off the package I then proceeded to dump the contents on his newly acquired cut.
“I told you I could hurt you.” I turned to walk, no flounce, away from my victim. It would have worked, too, had Ryan not been writhing in pain. Unfortunately, the teacher saw him.
The teacher came running and, unable to decipher the multitude of tiny voices, placed both Ryan and I at his table for the rest of the lunch period.
I was mortified. I was on display with my first nemesis. Not only did I have to sit with the teacher, but my entire middle school class filed by on their way to the garbage can and whispered, “You two make such a great couple!” and “Aww, how cute! You guys are perfect for each other!” as they passed. I still insist that had Ryan been willing to listen to me when I warned him, none of this would have happened.
***
Seven years later I met Ryan again. I was in a movie theater with a large group of my friend's friends. He was one of the various group members and sat down next to me. We looked at each other for a moment, bewildered. "I know you," he said after a moment.
I blushed, embarrassed for my twelve-year-old self. "Yeah... middle school."
Sudden recognition flashed across his eyes. "Oh! You're the girl who scarred me!" He stuck out the tender underbelly of his arm once again, to expose a small, puckered scar. "McDonalds."
I look slightly abashed. "It actually left a scar?" I laugh a little, not maliciously though, just incredulously.
"Yeah, you did." He laughs too.
Despite the fact that Ryan is a much different person now, I feel a swell of pride that I was able to leave such a permanent sign of retribution back in seventh grade. I can do anything.
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