By my freshman year at Lawrence Central High, I had developed friendships with a handful of girls from the ninth grade: Carol Lewis, Lynn Stewart, Petie Peterson, Becky Harper, Peggy Nugent, and Rita Gomez (not her real name) from my neighborhood. All of my friends had boyfriends, but that accessory would not be available to me for five more years. My only appeal to boys was my ability to make them laugh...at me.
The boy who made fun of me the most was Larry Davison. He and his posse of friends would roam the halls looking for those students who (or is it whom) he deemed worthy of insult, so I was just one of many who would be unlucky enough to cross his path in the hallways.
After feeling the discomfort of red-face embarrassment time and time again, I came up with idea to defuse Larry and get a few laughs myself. I began to laugh along with the insults (the opposite reaction he was wanting) and then I would strike back. A little tit or tat, you might say.
Larry and his posse backed off, but for some people making fun of other students was an extra curricular activity at our school, and it was just something I would have to accept until the boobs and butt showed up, the pimples went away, the glasses disappeared, and my face grew big enough to fit my big two front teeth.
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