Elementary to Big Time

My parents wanted me to switch schools after fifth grade. Templeton had a middle school for the sixth, seventh, and eighth graders to attend. My dad taught in Atascadero, where sixth graders were still included in elementary school. In Atascadero, sixth graders were the big cheese: the sophisticated, oldest kids. In Templeton, sixth graders were puny eleven year olds walking around the same halls as fourteen year olds. That meant we were thrust into the same habitat as lanky, tall boys with funny voices and hulking girls with massive chests. I won the argument with my parents, despite their attempt to make me an elementary school baby for one more year. Who would I hang out with at Dad's school? Dad? No way! My real friends were in Templeton, and I needed to stay there.

Luckily most of my closest friends were in my core class. Even though we were in middle school, unlike the seventh and eighth graders our classes traveled together as we switched every period. I suppose this made the transition easier on the prepubescent small fries. My group at the time consisted of Lauren, Anita, and Tarah, as mentioned in previous posts (I seem to have plenty of memories from this year in school... maybe 7th and 8th grade were so horrific I had to block them out completely...?). Lauren and I had been pals since third grade, our parents had also become good friends, and we spent the bulk of our weekends at each others' homes; Anita was the tallest girl in sixth grade, with thick strawberry blond hair down to her butt, and though most people didn't know it due to her shyness, had a biting wit that far surpassed many full grown adults; Tarah was short and dark, polite, and earned the best grades (probably in the entire school). We were a tight group. We were also complete and total dorks, we just didn't know it.

We all decided we loved volleyball, and not only did we go out for the team that year, but I bought a really nice, official regulation size volleyball from K-Mart for about six dollars. (You have to be willing to spend some dough when you discover your calling.) We played with it every day at break, at least until one of the colossal eighth grade boys would invariably steal it from us and kick it across the blacktop. We'd simply take off and chase it, return it to the circle, and hope that if the predators realized it didn't phase us, they might actually throw it back to us the next time.

We had a homeroom teacher named Mrs. Hays. She was from Boston and said things like "di-ah-ree-er" in place of "diarrhea"; the boys made her say it at least seventeen times a day. Mrs. Hays had long blond hair, both on her head and on her upper lip. Whenever Mrs. Hays walked by our table, Anita pointed out the mustache, and Tarah responded with, "At least her mustache is blond and not black like mine." We had to agree.

Mrs. Hays was in tip top shape; she had even run the Boston Marathon a couple of times. She was always training for her next race, and she enjoyed taking off her shoes to let us see for ourselves how her big toe looked: like a juicy purple grape, ready to pop, right before the deteriorating nail fell off and made way for the new baby nail underneath. It was creation at its best.

Thank goodness I was allowed to attend middle school or I never would have added these experiences to my repertoire.