Hormone Politics

 by Rixxy

            It’s February in the sixth grade, Mrs. Griffin’s class.  Curriculum goals and behavior plans crumble in the face of the power we hold.  Mrs. Griffin despite her age is new, and we have watched as her grandmotherly face and sweet voice have been sharpened by a block of frustration over our resistance to learn about Social Studies and English.  Instead, we have decided to give her a lesson in the profound yet ephemeral ways of our social networking.

            I say to Liz, “So, you went to the mall last night?”

            “Yeah.  I got these Guess jeans.”

            “You’re so lucky.”

            “They’re acid wash.”

            “Cool.”

            “You’re hair looks good today.”

            “I curled it.”

            “It looks good.”

            I am so glad she noticed.  After gazing for hours at my YM and Teen Beat magazines I had decided to try to curl my bangs so they’d feather to the side.  I read how if you sprayed them with hairspray while on the hot curling iron they’d stay.  It was an experiment, my hair had never held a curl for more than a few hours, but it worked.

            Since today is the debut of my new hair style, the occasion calls for wearing one of my best outfits.  My poker straight hair is pulled back by a clip with a blue faux satin bow glued on it.  Two plastic pastel colored Swatch watches adorn my right arm (one works, the other is just for fashion), and long silver dangly earrings hang from my ears.  The bulk of my oversized blue sweater almost makes me look like I have a chest as it comfortably covers my skinny butt whose shape would otherwise be revealed by my black stirrup pants.  I wear not one, but two pair of tube socks: one white, one to coordinate with my sweater.  Today that means blue.  So, this morning I fussed with elastic until the folds were even and symmetrical with the care of a clothing store employee tending to a display window. The final piece, my black Reebok high tops, not some imitation brand from K-Mart,  I slip on with a shove since my sock make them a touch tight and I finish this dressing ceremony with the fastening of Velcro, two strips across the front.  I feel that I am a bastion of style for my time, unfortunately it’s 1986. 

            Having recently transferred from a Catholic school I am new to public school this year and am only just starting to build confidence in my wardrobe.  My ego is stroked by the fact that I am becoming friends with Liz, the girl whose sharply stated opinions have earned her a position at the center of the social axis from which most motion revolves.  She is tight with all of the popular girls and has open lines of communication with the most important boys.  Naysayers who were filling me in before school started claimed that “she thinks she rules the world.”

            Our conversation inevitably moves on to boys.

            Liz starts, “Did you see Joey’s hair?”

            “I know.  Did he just roll out of bed or something? He could brush it.”
            “He thinks he’s too cool or something.”

            “What a poser.”

            “But Chad looks cute today.  I like his Izod,” she notices.

            “Chad always looks good, “ I innocently blurt.

            “Do you like Chad?”

            The question hangs in the air like a slow ripple, the harbinger of a pre-teen tsunami.

            “What?”

            “You two would look really good together.”

            Another larger wave.

            “Do you think so?”

            Then, she asks, “Would you go out with him?”

            This wave splashes me right up to my face.
            Just then school starts.  We are unable to continue our conversation out loud and need to transfer to writing notes.  Liz stealthfully handles a pad of pink lined paper and her purple pen.  She repeats the question.

            “Would you go out with Chad?”

            “I guess so, “ I reply in light blue ballpoint.

            “Well, do you think he’s cute?”

            My perception of Chad Gentry goes back to kindergarten.  We were in the same class.  His little blond-haired, blue-eyed good looks were so textbook that one day he brought in a Sears catalogue that included his image proudly smiling toward some off camera phantom with his collar up and one foot poised on a soccer ball.  Isn’t that what cute is defined to be?

            I reply, “Yeah, he’s cute.”

            The rest is completely beyond my control.  Liz sends a note to the boys’ side of the room.  I try to keep my cool and I don’t look over.  I try to focus on Mrs. Griffin’s social studies lesson, but I can’t stop thinking about what the boys might be thinking about.  Is their attention on me?  I blush without any prompting. I hope nobody is looking right now.  I hear drumbeats in my ears as the clock slowly turns toward lunch.

            Since it is February, lunch recess is inside.  Mrs. Griffin’s room contains two main congregating areas.  The boys have chosen their usual spot, a round table by the window that usually hosts the husker-du tournaments.  Us girls have set up camp at a table tucked in a recessed corner partially out of the teacher’s view with so many books on the shelves that I think it is supposed to be a reading area.   All of the talk is speculation about whether I like Chad or Chad likes me and if he will ask me out.  Communications are passed by emissaries and both conferences apparently agree.  I have been given the information that he wants to go out with me and Chad had been given the assurance that I will say yes.  It’s time to make it official.  We are both urged to meet at the neutral zone between the two camps.  I’m nervous. I’m not sure what to say to make small talk so I don’t say anything.  Eventually, I look at Chad as he utters,

            “Will you go out with me?”

            I reply, “Yeah,” and look away.

            The deal is made and we both return to our corners.  Everyone is relieved at the release of tension, but now a new excitement arises.  Speculation turns to another question, since we’re going out now, where will we go?

            Afternoon math and science classes are taught by Mr. Roshong who has more thoroughly put a ban on note passing, so there is a communication shut down.  I muster the courage to look over at Chad, my boyfriend.  He looks at me, and just before my eyes dart away I see a patch of red faintly appear on his cheek that is turned toward me.  We have this relationship, the closest possible relationship that can be between a girl and a boy who are 12 years old, but somehow he feels distant.  We’ve never talked.  Is this normal? I don’t know. This is my first relationship.

            The clock swings toward 3 o’clock.  I am suddenly anxious about class ending because I realize that after these classroom restrictions are lifted there are too many possibilities.  Will Chad come talk to me?  Should I go talk to him?  I couldn’t. I wouldn’t know what to say.  When will he take me out?  Where?  Will it be just the two of us?  Will he kiss me?  Were we meant to be? Julie Gentry. Hmmm. I don’t know if I like it.  I feel so powerless, but right now I am the only girl in the sixth grade with a boyfriend.  God, I hope he doesn’t dump me.

            The bell rings and I take refuge with my friends.  Chad sticks with his friends.  We gather our things and leave the building separately and hang by the playground.  Why doesn’t Chad come talk to me?  I sense that something is wrong.  I send Liz over to find out what’s going on.

            She returns with bad news.  He dumped me.  Why?  I’m too quiet.  Does he realize that he’s only said six words to me?  It doesn’t matter.  It’s over.  I feel like I’ve suffered an injustice and my friends support me.  He’s boring anyway.   Somehow, as I walk home, I feel glad.  Even if the date never materialized, I have “gone out” with someone.  In this crowd that follows your name like an Academy Award nomination.  Julie Way, the girl who went out with Chad Gentry.  This makes me datable.  And, as far as sixth grade is concerned, I have arrived.

 

 

Tags: Dating, Sixth Grade, Teen