One Mean Girl

One Mean Girl

By hughgee

It must have been nice, Lisa Naples. It must have felt great back in 6th grade knowing you could beat up any other kid in the school, 50% of which you could beat with just one hit. Even though you were the first girl in school to develop noticeable boobs, you were an ugly tomboy and that's what made you so mean, wasn't it.

To make things worse, to make things even more embarrassing, in your fights with boys you had no problem whatsoever in dispatching boys much older than yourself. That day at the bus stop, when you dropped me in the dirt, I was an 8th grader. My brother who preceded me into assuming a dusty fetal position was in 7th.

I wonder who was it that first told you about the wimpyness of boys’ testicles. Was it your mom? Your dad? Brothers? All I know is if it was a male, he was a traitor to his own sex.

You demolished not only my balls that day, Lisa. You demolished my confidence and my brother's too. That's what I get for coming to his defense. How embarrassing--why didn't you go after the rest of my family while you were at it? Geez, two on the ground at once? You must have been secretly thrilled, you mean little thing. To this day I can't get mad at a woman; I cringe whenever they get mad, as I find myself invariably assuming a submissive, unmanly demeanor around them. It's the same more or less for my brother. 12, 13, that's a very impressionable age. You turned us into submissive wimps forever. Thanks.

You had an ugly flattened little nose but I have no idea how you got it, it certainly wasn't a boy hitting you, no boy ever lasted that long, it must have been one of your occasional scrapes with another gal.

What I want to know is, why oh why did you have to go out of your way to PICK fights with boys? I mean, I can understand defending yourself and all, but to go out of your way? To go out of your way to have a chance at exposing a boy's weakness, to have him ridiculed the rest of the school year? Would you like to know how many times other kids laughingly asked me "How's your balls?" just on the school bus rides alone? Come on. Now that's cruel. Yes, and you were even a ringleader at that, the jokes, the teasing, the laughing at me and my brother. Need I remind you?

Lisa - Ha, ha. How's your balls?

My brother - You didn't kick me there. You kicked me in the stomach.

Lisa - Oh yeah, then how come you were going like this? (Here's where you grabbed your crotch in the bus aisle, bent over, and feigned excruciation.)

What a little bitch you were, Lisa. Are you still?

Hey, remember that group of three or four "tough" boys that used to hang around together? Yeah, they were real tough all right. I notice they pretty much picked on everybody in the school except for you. You probably already knew that. Did you nail one of them before I had moved there to that little town?

Oh, here's an anecdote: Remember those brutal cowboy boots you'd always wear to school, the ones you oh so subtlety bludgeoned my brother and I with that fateful day? Well, I can remember one day hanging out on one of the benches at school with my friend Steve and some other boy. Then, here comes you, bending over, drinking out of the water fountain adjacent to us. I don't suppose you heard the whispered conversation we had, so I'll fill you in:

Steve - Look there's Lisa, she's such a bitch.

Other friend - Yeah, she's always a bitch to me too.

Me - Well if she's such a bitch, go do something about it.

Steve - NOT WITH THOSE BOOTS ON.

I can't begin to express to you how large Steve's eyes were when he mentioned your boots. The boy was terrified. In fact, here's how naive I was. For a month or so after you booted me down there, I had planned on getting revenge on you. You see, for a few suicidal moments there, I actually thought the secret of your power over boys was in fact just your boots. What's even more embarrassing is who I chose to mull over this mistaken "insight" with--my mom, of all things. I told my mom all about you, but I didn't mention any specific names. I just told her there was this one girl at school who thought she was tough just because she didn't have balls and she wore boots. I guess was nervous about doing what I felt I had to do, which was to somehow pick a fight with you but only if you agreed to take your boots off. Boy did my mom ever waste no time in bursting my bubble. She told me any girl who could do that to a boy with her boots could darn well do it to a boy just as easily with a bare foot, and I better leave you alone. Boy, that did wonders for my confidence in my sexuality as I grew older; watch out for girls, they are actually stronger and can beat you up. Yikes.

Your culmination, your icing on the cake so far as I was concerned, was the day I witnessed you pick a fight with the new boy, at the end of my school year of 8th grade. Again, you did it on the bus. He was a 7th grader like my brother. I remember thinking how he looked pretty tough (he probably could've kicked my ass) so maybe, just maybe, he could give you a run for your money. I thought that for about one split second then I remembered he probably had balls just like me. I remember I wanted to tell him, I wanted to warn him not to get in a fight with you, he was the new kid in town so he didn't know about your reputation as a boy destroyer yet. But I never got the chance to warn him, you guys were sitting in back, I was sitting in front kind of, I just remember I could hear you taunting him until he took the bait.

Then the inevitable: the boys and girls gathered round at school, watching, waiting, the brief interlude, the moment where the big young farm boy raised his dukes and circled them menacingly. The town's boys in the circle gulped, the girls covered their mouths over their hands. You brought your foot up and the boy went down. The boy's knees turned liquid and he went down in a heap, curling up in a ball, holding his stricken nuts, silent as a church mouse and helpless as one too. You walked away, but by this time you were good, boy were you good, and confident too.

You had the temerity that day to mutter, "Somebody's going to be late to class" as you stepped over him. Now that's brassy, now that's cruel.

I can't tell you how demoralizing that was, Lisa.

Lisa you were mean, mean girl.

It must have been fun not having balls at that age...