We were idiots. We weren’t stupid, we just did stupid shit.

There’s just no better description for the group of friends I had in junior high. We claimed Pearl Jam’s new album to be of more importance than the test in our next period. We threw pennies at each other across the lunch table and Jose did this weird thing with the red jell-o squares that were crowned with the tiniest dollop of whipped cream on top.

We’d spend weekends at each other’s houses and eventually came to vandalize the local sports complex. Those tacky yellow signs with removable letters and numbers were our favorite target at 3 a.m. when we found ourselves hopped up on soda and take out. Jose’s parents didn’t mind that we’d leave the house during the late hour. They figured they’d at least get better sleep without 6 teenagers keeping them awake.

It was Jose’s idea, actually. We’d collected so many of these letters and numbers that we really didn’t know what to do with them, other than throw them at each other when we got bored during our sleepovers. “So, people already don’t like us, right?”

“Yeah,” we all chimed.

He stood up, pacing the room as if to give a speech of grandstanding status. “We should be the judges and jury of the lunchroom.” We all looked at him stupidly. Even the smartest nerds take awhile to process things.

“I mean, we’ve got these numbers, right? And every day we’re making jokes about those kids who have their parents buy them the newest, hippest clothes just so they can stay popular right? So why not play along?”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, “but how?”

He picked up some of the numbers and started counting them out. We had four sets of 6’s, 7’s, 8’s, 9’s, and 0’s. We had 5 of the 1’s and a few 4’s as well. “Whenever we have one of those snotty prima donnas walk by the table, we’ll just hold up whatever number we would give them. We’ll be like Olympic judges, only this will be more fun and not televised, unfortunately.” We all liked the idea and packed up various numbers into our backpacks in preparation for Monday morning.


* * * * *

Now, Jodie Peterson was my crush all through grade school, but once 7th grade came along, she assumed a kind of air about her, a position that came with expensive shoes, makeup, and whatever the hip kids considered the ‘in’ clothing. The attraction was severed easily, but with the kind of sadness forgotten long after graduation. Marcus had pegged her as the first ‘contestant’ of the day as she walked by.

Knowing that she’d walk back by our table again, we got our numbers ready, stifling giggles as we waited for the return. Tommy had been designated as the ‘voice,’ meaning he’d scream out the girl’s name to get her attention and then we’d blaze our numbers high into the air for everyone to see. Jodie made her way towards our table as Tommy screamed her name out. There was a woosh of air around the table as arms shot up like magical beanstalks. Laughter erupted at the tables around us and I immediately saw why; Jose had his ‘7’ upside down and Edwin had disappeared his finger up his nose while holding a ‘0’ aloft. The rest of us had ‘6’s and the look on Jodie’s face was absolute embarrassment.

Ten minutes later, we all found ourselves in the principal’s office.


* * * * *


“I guess you guys find this pretty funny, hm?” asked Principal Denning. “You like putting other people on display to be made fun of, is that the deal here?”

Four of us stood behind Jose and Tommy, who had been unfortunate enough to take the only two chairs on the opposite side of the principal. Jose, always the mouth of the group, spoke first. “I think the question you should be asking is if we like being put on display to be made fun of.” Matter-of-factly, just like that. By 7th grade, the kid had balls the size of Montana and a brain to match. The principal’s face reddened and then relaxed as he understood that this was a nerd’s way of fighting back to make junior high survivable. He leaned back in the chair, a slow squeak coming from the back as he laced his fingers together and rested them under his chin. His eyes darted to each one of us, sizing us up and wondering what to do. After a long silence, he leaned forward in the squeaky chair and laid his hands, palms down, on the desk.

“You all can return to lunch, but those numbers stay in this office. Do it again, and you’re all suspended for three days. Now go back to the cafeteria.” And that was that. We filed out of the office quickly, no longer hungry, but happy we wouldn’t have to explain anything to our parents.

When we were out of earshot of the principal’s office, we started laughing. Jose walked in the front of the group, the way a leader should, and we patted him on the back for the quick retort. He became a legend to us that day and when we got back to the cafeteria, we were greeted with a smattering of cheers and hollering. Not everyone was pleased, though. The table of cheerleaders gave us a unified scowl and the letter-jacket clad gave off the vibe of ass-beatings after school. We didn’t care. It was all just jokes to us, because we were idiots.

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