The Making of a Memoir--Eighth Grade in the 1970's

I don’t know why fitting in has always been so hard for me. You would think that after moving around from one region to another, consistently being thrust into new areas, forced to find new friends or acquaintances, in unfamiliar surroundings that I could just merge into foreign oncoming traffic without hesitation. I was a seasoned driver in life by the time my family made our last move to [named place withheld]. Junior High school should have been an easy merge; however, it was like every move before – only more painful.

During the summer between seventh and eighth grade I “blossomed.” Not in a beautiful way as described in the tween movies. I did not walk onto the campus of my Junior High school with the wind blowing through my hair, eyes alive and dancing with a sultry come hither look, hips flowing in rhythm from side to side like a supermodel glide; no, I walked onto the campus just like I did every year of my young fourteen years, in shorts of a conservative length, tennis shoes, an oversized tee-shirt and a pony tail. The difference, I had small protruding egg shaped bubbles, on my chest.

On the first day of class I went to my pre-assigned locker and attached my paddle lock onto the metal slider, and proceeded to home room. The busy halls were filled with laughter, voices, friendly pushing, and the occasional girl watchers loitering around the classroom doorways. Some girls entered quietly, while others entered with the accessory of a comment or two, “Hey Julie, you are looking hot this year.”, or “Hey, I’m sitting next to you!” and the voice quickly followed behind the slender, look-at-me outfit as she moved with presence into the room. Then, it was my turn.

I put my head down, as it was my usual custom, and tried to enter the room in silence. I had found this technique to be almost full proof, it had never let me down before and I didn’t see why it should this year. I mean come on; I had egg-shaped bubbles; while the other girls had oranges. But I soon found out that you didn’t need oranges, egg-shaped bubbles were enough.

“Hey, how are you? I’m Bob.”

I stopped and looked up at this strange, deep voice. He stood about 5’9”, brown hair and brown eyes, with a dangerous smile. Dangerous, because I could read his face, this guy was trouble. He was cute. He did have a nice voice. But he was trouble.

As I looked at him I could feel my face becoming very hot. I hated this feeling. I knew what was going to come next, there would be laughter, the point would be well made that I was embarrassed and comments like, “Oh my God! Look at how red her face is!” would be announced to the room. Even those who weren’t paying attention at the time would be now. I haven’t even fully entered the room yet, and it’s already starting.

I didn’t have a panic attack. I felt the heat on my face grow with an intensity even I wasn’t use to. But instead of the words that I normally heard, he just smiled and laughed, then followed me into the room. I still thought he was trouble, yet I let my guard down just a little, maybe he’s not so bad after all, was the thought at the time.

Bob situated himself directly behind me. On the first day of class I always liked the middle of the room, about the third row back. The teachers always reassigned the seats anyway, usually in alphabetic order, and since my last name began with the letter “R,” I was usually pretty close to the middle of the room anyway.

My teacher was already standing there at her desk. She was the typical looking teacher, about forty-five years of age, and wore a simple dress. There was nothing exciting about anything she was saying, “Good morning class, and welcome to eighth-grade English. We will be working on our writing techniques. First though let’s go through attendance.”

There were approximately thirty kids in the class, which usually meant I had to hear about ten to fifteen names before mine. I hated roll call. It meant that I was being singled out, put on the spot, even for a brief second felt like an eternity in hell. Out of my seven years of school, I had yet to encounter a teacher who could successfully pronounce my four letter last name. I didn’t know which was worst, waiting to hear them butcher it, or the actual slaughter itself. With the passing of each letter, my face would become warmer, and then, there it was. “Susie Right? Reet? I’m sorry, how do you say your last name?”

My face is beet red, my voice is soft. Everyone looks at me. Even those in the front turn around to see who the teacher is talking to. Bob leans forward and whispers, “So it’s Susie huh?” and I can hear him smiling. I can still feel his warm breath on the back of my neck, and now I feel my neck changing from a lightly sun-toasted tan, to the matching shade of beet red.

After two tries, and the help of my diaphragm I’m able to reach an audible level, “It’s Susie Rite. Rite, like right or wrong.

“Oh, okay. Sorry.” And she moves on to the next person. I quickly glanced around the room, there is snickering, a few whispers, but at least the eyes of others have positioned themselves someplace else.

“I think it’s Susie Right-On.” teased Bob, once again with a grin I could hear, and hot breath I could feel. I held my breath and prayed my face would resume its natural color, as I heard Bob slide his back into the chair.

I will continously post each section throughout the week. So it's going to move pretty quick. Please provide me with your suggestions on what is working, what isn't -- the flow of the words -- the speed, etc.
In advance... thank you :-)