Sugarhigh or My

Seventh Grade Blues

            by Gabby Hernandez-McKig

 

In seventh grade, I was miserable. Not only had my

depression hit an all-time low, but I had a valid

reason: most everyone hated me. Now, I'm not talking

about your common teen-angst "everyone hates me!"

thing. I was truly hated, and they made it known. My

proof lay in the monthly outpour in near-perfect

regularity from every girl in my Phys. Ed. class at

Pacoima Middle School-Theatre Fine Arts Magnet (TFA,

for short) about every little bit of minutia that in

some way bothered them or their friends about my

actions, words, or even presence. The whole fiasco

triggered by a minor disagreement in something as

trivial as what game of jump rope to play or the rules

of handball. I had once found myself sitting alone on

a hill, ticked off but calming down, when I'd be

approached by one of my friends, Lori.

               "Are you alright?"

               "Yeah, just a little ticked off, that's all."

               "It's okay."

Someone from the game comes over.

               "Are you mad?"

I looked away and said nothing.

               "Are you kidding me? You're seriously mad?" 

Someone else came over.

               "What's up?"

               "She's mad."

               "You're mad? For what?"

               "I'm not mad. I just don't feel like playing."

Two more joined.

               "Oh my god..."

               "Are you fucking kidding me!"

               "What the fuck?"

               "God, you're so stupid!"

Three more walked over.

               "You're not even passing all your classes." I had

asked her not to say anything.

               "I don't even like her."

               "Nobody does," a tear rolled down my cheek, "Did you

hear that? Nobody does."

               "Most of us only talk to you cause we feel sorry for

you." The tears lost their singularity and joined

together in a stream as my breath became short and

fragmented.

               "Ashlee and Rainey think you're really annoying. They

can barely stand talking to you."

               "Why are you saying—," looking up through salty pools

at her obscured figure. 

               "Don't fucking talk to me, you dumb bitch!"

               I looked around and noticed Lori had moved away along

the hill. She sat there watching, without a suggestion

of speaking up for the friend she at first so readily

consoled. And now, nothing. The look on her face so

clearly spelled out agreement with the crowd, just not

enough courage to so easily contradict herself from

moment to moment. I had friends, but unfortunately,

most of these "friends" would take part in putting the

verbal excrement in front of the fan aimed directly at

me. My self-esteem and heart would take the brunt of

the attack, the former never quite getting the chance

to establish a foundation for itself and the latter

would be in a constant struggle to rebuild itself

after having crumbled to dust every month. Most likely

due to my own mind's defenses, the whole year is a bit

blurred, but the emotional aspect of it is still with

me, not likely to fade away too quickly. And yet,

there were two people who didn't join in

Make-Gabby-Feel-The-Worst-She's-Ever-Felt-In-Her-Life

time, who I recognized as my real friends, Tatiana and

Brittany.

                Tatiana and I had spent the biggest joke of an

Algebra class together. It was seventh grade during

fifth period, right after lunch, with a teacher who

was new to the school. The year had originally started

out with substitutes while the administration tried to

find someone to fill the position. But about a month

into the year, my mom and I took a week and a half

long trip to France for the memorial of her

late-fiancé, who had recently passed on from melanoma.

When I returned, a teacher, Mr. Giles, had already

been chosen, and when he heard about where I had been,

he made rude remarks, day after day, about my being

out of the country while school was going on. Finally,

I snapped and very flustered explained to him I was

there for a memorial and how I'd rather him stop

making rude comments as if I was there for pleasure,

thank you very much. After that little incident, we

hardly exchanged a word. That is, until my friends,

Chris and Tatiana, were engaged in an all-out spitball

battle in the back of class. Someone freaked out

because she believed one had landed on her backpack

and told the teacher, who had been looking for

something to nail me on for the past few months. He

instructed me to leave and pay a visit to the dean. I

sat there in shock, followed promptly by a mildly

protest explaining I was not partaking in the spitball

exchange, and yet the command stood. I packed my

stuff, stormed out and went to the dean, who I was on

very good terms with. She welcomed me into her office

saying how she just "couldn't understand why such a

sweet girl would be sent to her" whilst offering me

some chocolate, which I happily ate while working on

some history homework. I later found out that as I

left, they both had stood up and defended me, saying I

indeed wasn't involved and that it was them. The

teacher didn't very much care, and said that it was

because I'd always had a bad attitude, despite the

fact that I never spoke to the man (excluding regular

classroom chit-chat) since that first encounter. After

that day, Tatiana and I spent the majority of the

class from then on doing nothing but homework for

other classes, plotting world domination,  drawing our

teacher in compromising situations, and an occasional

sniper spitball (we didn't really learn our lesson).

Needless to say, we had an excellent time despite the

fact that we both failed, not including a second trip

to the dean on my part, where I ate more chocolate

during homework. To our credit, we weren't the only

ones who failed, and those who passed had to be

re-taught algebra in their geometry classes, we

discovered when my favorite math teacher decided to

vent her frustration to us the next year. Our hatred

for that man wasn't eased by the end of the year. Oh

no, since then, between the two of us, we've sent

about 5 pizzas from Pizza Hut to his house and a few

nasty emails. They were good times.

               As for Brittany, I had known her since the sixth

grade. She and I had four classes together in a row,

but with the friends we hung out with, we didn't like

each other very much. Not until seventh grade, when

we'd spend the mornings huddled together, grasping our

cocoas for warmth, that through chattering teeth, we

began talking. During those mornings, we realized how

much we really had in common, other than insanity,

which was a frequent affliction amongst the students

in TFA. We shared stories and adventures, complained

about and praised teachers, guzzled cocoa after cocoa,

and run around like the madmen that we were in a

futile attempt of getting warm, or just expelling a

sudden burst of energy. We  fast friends, working in

class together, probably talking more than working,

and spending our nutritions (LAUSD's fancy word for

recess) and lunches in the film room playing Konji

(KON-gee), or Korean jacks, a game that consumed most

of the female population of TFA, some even after we

graduated. The weekends became decorated by the time I

spent with one or the other. Between the two of them,

in particular, are the reason I was able to make it

through seventh grade. 

               There was only one hitch in our friendships: Brittany

and Tatiana were in completely different worlds. It

was the kind of relationship that reached to about the

door of the classroom. For example, if they were to

find themselves partners in a project, they'd work

cooperatively together, not talking more than

necessary, and when the project would come to a close,

would resume ignoring each other as usual. The

relationship between the two of them made spending

time with them tricky because of the small matter that

they wouldn't exactly enjoy each other's company

basically killed any chance of having them together at

once. But, all in all, it didn't bother me much

because, by the end of the year, I had two great

friends who stood by me during my worst of times. And

then there was eighth grade.

               Eighth grade was awesome. Not only was I now at the

top of the food chain, but my classes were excellent,

and people began to be less critical of me, mainly due

to the realization that I didn't very much care, an

attitude I had slowly adopted but finally executed

during the summer. My demeanor became much more

relaxed and going-with-the-flow like, and quickly

everyone got off my back. I was able to focus on my

studies instead of what others thought of me,

achieving a 3.0 GPA for the first time. My improved

attitude brought with it redefining of some

friendships and some new ones as well. Despite my

broadening social circle, my  core was always Tatiana

and Brittany. They were with me through the thick and

thin of middle school, for lack of a better word,

bullshit. Even though I always thought of them as

separate entities, there was always this subconscious

desire to bring them together and have a ridiculously

awesome time. And on Halloween of our freshmen year of

high school, my dream was realized.

               For high school, thanks to our lovely magnet system

to help diversify Los Angeles public high schools, we

each went our different ways. Tatiana went off to

North Hollywood High School-Zoo Magnet—king of the

slacker schools, Brittany started up at Birmingham

High School-Communications Magnet mainly due her mild

obsession with film, and I began at Canoga Park High

School-Environmental/Agricultural/Veterinarian Magnet

under some ridiculous idea of wanting to be

veterinarian (one pig castration later, art school was

the way to go). I stayed in touch with both of them,

hanging out on weekends and random calls in the week,

making sure that somehow we would stay friends at

least until we graduate, despite the hurdle of not

seeing either of them everyday at school.

               My favorite day of the year is Halloween was coming

up and I had plans to meet at Tatiana's for a few

trick-or-treating rounds around her neighborhood, when

I get a call from Brittany. She went on about how she

really wanted to go trick-or-treating with me, so I

told her I'd call her back in five. I hung-up, dialed

up Tatiana, and asked if it's alright if Brittany join

our two-person shindig. She didn't have any

objections, and I called Brittany back up and we were

good to go. We all met up and headed out about 7,

Tatiana dressed as a dominatrix, Brittany as a zombie,

and I as Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas. We

loaded our bags with candy from the neighboring

houses, but were nowhere near satisfied with our

year's haul. We decide to go to the area around my

house. One little hitch: we're all too young to drive

(legally) and my house is about two or three miles

away. So, us geniuses decide to walk. Going through

the shady part of town that sourced the police and

ambulance sirens I heard every night, I might add. 

               Now, we weren't completely brain-dead and did keep to

the larger streets, walking mainly down Woodman

Avenue, visiting any house we passed. After we had

gone about halfway, we saw a shopping cart half-parked

in a bush on the the side of the sidewalk. For the

sheer entertainment of it, I bounded to the shopping

cart and pushed it to my approaching comrades, and

instructed them to get in. They had the classic look

between each other before tossing their candy bags and

themselves inside.  I pushed them about half a block

before spotting an apartment structure with a

courtyard, containing the residents who were enjoying

a Halloween-inspired barbecue. I rolled my friend up

into the courtyard and asked them to direct us to the

candy, which was conveniently located at the far end.

Rolling by, we received quite a few classic looks,

which can only be expected when a person sees a hooker

and a dead chick in a shopping cart pushed by a doll,

Halloween or not. Spotting the bowl, we took our candy

and rolled on. 

               We passed the Ralph's market, which was our "only a

few more blocks" sign. We crossed the street and

stopped on the corner. All of us were staring at the

McDonald's, and jumped at the opportunity when

Brittany so boldly suggested Trick-Or Treating the

drive-thru window. So, push my friends past the

speaker box, and roll up behind a car. When they left

with whatever over-processed, chemical-tasting item

they ordered, we made our move, pulled right up to the

window in our shopping cart, and yelled "Trick or

treat!" at the window. The lady working drive-thru

that night, looked at us, laughed, and told us she

didn't have any candy to give us. I'm sure we would

have been let down if we weren't laughing so hard, I

even nearly let go of the cart going down the

driveway. 

               We headed down the rest of the block before making

the turn into my neighborhood when we spotted a house

on the corner, with kids walking away with bags of

chips. Now, initially, we attempted to cart our way to

her door, but her walkway was much too narrow, so

Tatiana hops out and holds the cart while I go and get

the chips for the three of us. I show up at the door,

the lady lets me choose which kinds for each of us, I

thanked her, and head back towards the sidewalk. I

look up just in time to see Tatiana stubble on her

heel and let go of the cart. Brittany goes rolling

down the slanted sidewalk and down the driveway, and

up onto the curb, culminating in the cart tipping over

spilling it's contents to the street, a very busy

street. Brittany clamors back up quick as she could

while Tatiana and I are staring in disbelief at our

own Jackass moment, something Johnny Knoxville himself

would be proud of. It took a second or two before the

three of us were laughing so hard we were on the

ground rolling. 

               Despite the spill, Brittany dared venturing back into

the cart with Tatiana, and we made our way to my

house. We drop of the cart in my driveway and most of

the candy we had collected so far and zigzagged around

the neighborhood getting more candy than expected and

enjoying ourselves just as much as our taste buds

enjoyed chocolate. When we finally turned our candy

bags in, we each had well over several pounds of candy

and we each swelled with pride. Our nights were ended

at the party my next-door-neighbors were holding,

until they each were picked up by their parents. In my

entire time with both of them, I don't think I ever

heard them laugh as much as we did that night. After

that night, they weren't all buddy-buddy, but for

future chilling together, just the three of us, was

never cause for a groan or hesitation again. Somewhere

deep down, one of my subconscious desire was put to

rest, a feat not easily met.