The Fight

”Everyone wants to kick your ass and I’m going to be the one to do it.”

These words came from my former friend, Meghan, right after she demanded I meet her in the baseball fields after school for an old-fashioned brawl.

I was in eighth grade, and it had been the longest two weeks of my short life.

I was sitting in my social studies class, half asleep with my head on my desk because Ms. Bohannan was less interesting than watching paint dry, when it happened.  Eddie, one of the most popular and athletic boys in school, stood in the hallway outside class, pulled down his pants, and flashed his tight butt at his friend Julie who was sitting in class.  Knowing Eddie, he probably even wiggled his butt around and did a little dance.

I have no idea what he actually did because I, apparently, miss all the cool stuff that happens.

Of course there had to be an investigation.  Ms. Bohannan had a giant stick up her ass and made sure the Principal called witnesses into his office for questioning.  Everyone knew what happened even if they didn’t see it, but Ms. Bohannan and the giant stick that lived in her ass wanted him suspended so someone had to talk.

And apparently someone did.  I had no idea about that either because I was never called into the office.

I had no idea, that is, until someone decided that it was me who ratted Eddie out.

Most of the time I was pretty invisible at school.  I wasn’t one of the popular kids, but I wasn’t a total loner either.  I had friends, at least I thought I did.  Until this thing blew up and I became the pariah and it was suddenly ok to push and shove me in the hallway, and write things on the back of my jacket, and talk about me in the locker room.

When my mom asked me why on earth I would scribble on the back of my coat, I could only say “I don’t know” when really it was because a big blob of an ink stain was better than the NARC sign it covered up.

I overheard my “friend” Claire telling Julie that I had said I didn’t do it, but of course I would say that because who wouldn’t say that.  Julie said she didn’t believe me, that someone had seen me in the office and heard that I told, and so, of course, Claire said she didn’t believe me either.

That was the first time I felt real betrayal.

In the nine years before my sister came along I felt very alone as an only child, but I was never as lonely as I was during that time of accusation.  It seemed everyone had either turned against me, or was shunning me out of fear of being labeled guilty by association.  I was a social leper.

I can’t remember what set Meghan off, what made her decide that we needed to fight.  We had been friends, the casual kind of friends who walked home from school together because we both went the same direction.  But we were sitting in class and suddenly it was decided.  We would fight.

For most of that previous two weeks I’d had an ever-present sick feeling in my stomach.  My hands were clammy and I lived in a constant state of stress that had my heart thumping in my chest and my eyes glistening with unshed tears.

The hours leading up to the fight kicked all of that into high gear.  I was sure I was going to either fall down because my legs were shaking too much to hold me up, or I was just going to projectile vomit the previous two week’s heartache all over my friend Danny before we even got to the baseball fields.

Danny was the only cheerleader I had left.  I don’t know why he stuck with me, but he did and I’m still grateful.  He kept telling me I could do this, that I just needed to be like Rocky because it was the 80’s and everyone knew that Rocky was the ultimate tough guy. “Remember the Eye of the Tiger!” he would say.  He worked on building me up the whole way there, because there was no way I could avoid the battle at this point and somewhere, way down deep inside, way, way down there buried under the almost crushing fear, I was actually looking forward to this.

It was the culmination of two weeks of absolute shit for something I hadn’t done and really, I had had quite enough.  I was ready to relcaim my dignity, and to tear a piece out of someone’s ass for all the suffering in the process.

I don’t think either Meghan or I had been in a fight before that day and neither of us really knew where to start.  She was so much bigger than me, it seemed at the time.  I’ve always been short, and she seemed huge and just like Mr. T in that moment as she tried to stare me down while removing her dyed feather earrings so she could “kick my ass.”

I don’t know who swung first.  I don’t remember actually getting hit at all.  It was all dodging and weaving and Danny yelling “Eye of the Tiger!  Eye of the fucking Tiger, baby!” over the shouts of the crowd, and I’m sure she hit me at some point, I just can’t remember it and suddenly I was on the ground and she was sitting on me and I couldn’t breathe and that was it – I reached up and clocked her in the face.  I put all the rage that had built up over the last two weeks into that punch and it felt awesome.

With that one punch I took my dignity back and said enough.

I got up, and dusted myself off, and walked my ass to the school where my mom taught like I did every afternoon.  On the way Meghan caught up with me and asked me how I was.  Like nothing had ever happened, like we hadn’t been rolling around on the crusty dried grass of the baseball fields just moments before, she asked me how I was.  Because we had been friends before, right up until the moment she sat on me and I punched her in the face, we had been friends for years.  Right up until she decided she was going to increase her own miniscule status within our school by being the one to punish the person everyone thought got the popular boy suspended.

Except it didn’t quite work out that way.  After that day everything kind of faded away.  I don’t know if it was because I didn’t run from the fight, or if people just moved on to the next thing, but it all just seemed to go away after that fight and Megan faded back into obscurity. When we all made the transition to high school the next year it was as if it never happened.

Except for me, of course.  I didn’t forget.  I haven’t carried it around in my pocket to dwell on, but I’ve never forgotten how quickly people can turn on you , and I’ve never forgotten that people who called themselves your friend for years will take up the pitchfork against you in a moment to fit in with the mob.  I always vowed that I would never be that person who followed the mob.  And I haven’t.

About a year ago I received a private message on Facebook from a boy that I had briefly dated in middle school, as much as middle school kids could date in those days anyway.  The message said how very sorry he was and asked if I could ever find it in my heart to forgive him for what happened all those years ago.  I had no idea what he was talking about because as far as I knew there wasn’t any bad blood between us.  It took me a couple of weeks to put two and two together, to figure out what he was finally taking responsibility for, albeit backhandedly, some thirty years later.  At least that’s what I assume, because I never responded.

Yes, I can forgive the person who left me to twist in the wind.  Because of what happened I learned that I can face the hard things.  I learned that while it’s going suck and it’s probably going to hurt for a while, I really can get through most anything without actually dying.  I learned that sometimes there’s injustice in the world that you can’t defeat, but you can stand up and fight anyway and reclaim your dignity in the process.

And after the fight? You maybe want to add little swagger to your step because you earned it.

Photo Credit: Lisa Stoner