Velociworld

A Bad Day

When I was in seventh grade I wore a new pair of houndstooth britches to school. This was before the days of blue jean chic. Jeans were still called dungarees, and it was a sign of your hayseed quotient to wear them, especially in a hayseed environment like Effingham County was at the time. But everyone wore jeans anyway, because that's all they had. Except for me and my brothers, of course. My mother insisted on dressing us up like the city slickers we were, lest there be any possibility of, you know, fucking assimilating.

So anyway, on this day, in the yard by the gym, this girl jumped me from behind, and kicked my ass. Well, she was bigger than me, 9th grader, and she got the jump. But I'm pretty sure she would have taken me anyway. I was 11, she was probably 15, a serial repeater. I tore my trousers in the tumble. I'm pretty sure she wanted me. After she'd softened me up a bit. But she smelled of body odor and tobacco and tooth decay, and I wanted no part of it.

Of course I was whipped that night. By my mother for tearing those new britches, and by my dad for getting my ass kicked by a girl, and not even getting a kiss on the fat lip she gave me. It was a tough day, a tough year.