It’s 2001. I’m in sixth grade.
In my city, for the last several decades, the 11-year olds from across the county get bussed to a sixth-grade-only school.
It’s brilliant. We don’t have to cower to the older grades oppression, but we’re free to shed our naive elementary-school reputations. It’s a little pubescent launchpad where we can establish our own corrupt social ranks and learn new swear words in peace.
In our newfound titles as almost-middle-schoolers, we give up a lot of the baby stuff, particularly backpacks and kindness. Peer Pressure and Lip Gloss are the tyrants that rule these halls.
Unfortunately for my social standing, I have never stepped foot inside an Abercrombie and Fitch. Right away, I’m ranked pretty low in popularity. But having been thrown into a double class of 50 new faces, I’m relieved that I’m making friends at all, even if they’re not “the cool kids”.
I watch from afar as my old friends gain their footing in the new social order. Some have started “going out” with some boys who live across town. I don’t know what “going out” means, but I’ve gathered this so far:
- You continue to not see each other outside of school
- You occasionally sit by each other at lunch, but don’t talk much
- The whole school knows about this social contract
- You agree that you “like like” each other
The whole thing is ridiculous and stupid and I’m jealous that I’m not a part of it. What I wouldn’t give to be “going out” with Beau Lawmann in my class. His perfectly frosted tips, baggy jeans, and oversized puffy Etnies shoes make him a fashion icon, but his naturally tan skin, dreamy blue eyes, and dashing smile make him the number one sought-after boy in school.
One day in art class, Beau is joking around with me and my friend Trey. I like Trey a lot, but I do not “like like” him, which makes him easier to talk to. It’s easier to talk freely and be funny when you don’t have dreamy blue eyes and perfectly gelled hair staring back at you. Trey always laughs at my jokes. We laugh together a lot, Trey and I. His friends are weird, but likeable enough, and I’m glad I’m finally figuring out how to make friends with boys.
Then. One dreadful day, Cherity McKennen, my most gorgeous and drama-loving friend, approaches me with a bomb to drop.
“Trey says he wants to go out with you.”
Ice flows through my veins. What?! Trey?! But but–
“I don’t want to go out with Trey.”
But her life-blood is drama, so letting this blow over casually isn’t going to satisfy her craving, so she continues.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s my friend. I don’t like him like that.”
After some back and forth, she eventually drops the subject.
In my ideal world, she would have sashayed back to the source, relayed my message, and things would have carried on like before. Trey laughing at my jokes, and me having new friends and continuing to be jealous of everyone “going out”.
Before the dismissal bell, I catch Trey and James whispering to each other, looking my way and I know Cherity hasn’t fixed the damage she is causing.
Sure enough, the next day, Cherity approaches me. This time with backup. Two more girls have joined the gossip and want in on this match-making business.
“Trey still wants to go out with you.”
“Cherity, I told you. I don’t like him.”
But Cherity is prepared. See, Cherity had done some digging. Either from a mine of lies or a mine of exaggerated truth, I’m still not sure to this day, but when she finds a nugget of drama this big, she doesn’t let it go.
“Katie, Trey has a heart condition. He could die any day so you HAVE to go out with him.”
“It’s true” the others pipe in. “You ever see that monitor he carries around? You gotta do it.”
Panic. Panic and stress. Panic and stress and the weight of one’s life hanging on my next decision.
“What?!!!”
My mind raced. Trey is very small for his age. One of the smallest boys in the whole sixth grade. And he does have a speech impediment. Is this all related to his heart condition? And a monitor! What monitor?
The weight of this moral dilemma sinks in. Trey has a heart condition that is killing him, and if I break his already weak heart, I’m a straight-up murderer.
Since I neither want Trey to die nor for me to carry any crushing guilt for the rest of my life, there is nothing left to say but yes. Well, that, or check Cherity’s facts. But I’m a hormonal sixth-grade teen in the throes of emotional turmoil, Logic won’t be on my decision panel for another couple decades.
“Fine…I’ll go out with Trey.” I grumble, ever the hero.
Cherity and her gang, giddy as cheerleaders, happily skip off to ruin my life.
I handle this situation as well as any other twelve-year-old with a developing prefrontal cortex, guilted into a pity relationship by her so-called friends. — I ignore Trey for the rest of the year. I never say anything about us going out and neither does he.
Unfortunately, we never “broke up” either. So I guess that means we’re still “going out” these 20 years later. Trey, if you ever read this, just know that it’s over between us, and I’m sorry.
This story ends on a happy note. Trey is still alive and well to this day. I’m not saying it’s thanks to me, but I’m not NOT saying that either.