I don’t think it is a stretch of the imagination to think that middle school was a period of three years that I label as void. I grew up in a town in which has not had anything worth talking about since Jason from Math Class was thrown in jail for selling ninja stars on the local playground. But we invented the chocolate chip cookie, so you’re welcome for that.

Middle school girls have such a reputation for being so cut-throat and vicious that they would have Attila the Hun running home to Mama, and that middle school boys are sort of left out in the cold - but not in my case.

Seventh grade English class was set in a crowded classroom at the corner of the school, walls of shelving piled high with boxes of paper and outdated grammar charts. I would have bet my trapper keeper on the fact that my English teacher was a compulsive hoarder and therefore, lost the majority of our worksheets in the sea of ink and 1990s textbooks.

I sat in the row closest to the door, hoping for the quickest escape that way. The individual who sat in the row next to me, three desks back, is the trigger to the next chain of events.

Brad was probably the majority of my brain capacity from grades 6 to 8. His mannerisms and good looks inspired many poems, awkward staring, and diary entries. He was popular, witty, lived on the rich side of town - the whole nine yards. But he did not think of me as more than the butt of his jokes to impress the girls he actually liked.

But at that time my standards were in the negatives and I liked attention, so I took what I could get. But in this particular English class, the talk of the semi-formal hung in the air. We were only in 7th grade at the time and, therefore, not allowed to go. But, since my English teacher had given up about 10 years before this, we were not exactly hard at work.

“SO BRAD,” Carlie asked, her booming yet shrill voice throwing my conscious out of the book I was invested in.

Anything starting with B and ending with -ad was already enough for me to start listening in.

“WOULD YOU EVER TAKE DARA TO SEMI?”

I immediately felt a cold jet of water shoot down my veins. This was it-my shining moment in this dump of a place. I was going to see how he actually felt about me, the chubby quiet girl who competed with him for the best grades and talked to him only when we were partners in science class-I was finally going to get a date.

“What? No, she’s fat.”

I froze and shook at the same time-my brain swirling with intense thoughts and emotions. As the bell shook, I bolted out of the hall like I caught on fire. His phrase sang through my ears, taunting me with the one insecurity I neglected to name. I was fat. undesirable. worthless to him. I was completely shattered.

I ran home, thankful I lived 10 minutes walking distance from the wretched institutional doors. I did not cry until the morning after, waiting until I stopped at my good friend Aubrey’s locker, not wanting to break my daily tradition in my demise.

I crawled to the floor, curling up in the crowds of sneakers and Ugg boots and sobbed into the dirty linoleum as Aubrey rubbed my back. People stared, but it’s not like I noticed. I cried until I felt a small, feminine hand touch my shoulder. I looked up, my eyes bloodshot and sniffling.

“Oh my god, I’m like so sorry I said that yesterday to Brad. He’s an idiot, I’m sooo sorry.’ Carlie sputtered, opening her arms for the most awkward 30 second hug in my life.

I tend to forgive and forget often, so my vendetta against Carlie soon dropped. But, the reason that that story has stuck with me is because I felt society’s perception of me smack me in the teeth. I’ve been overweight since birth, but I always flip-flopped between caring and not caring. Through the inspiration outfits and copious fad diets and unhealthy binging, I found myself not caring if he thought I was God’s gift to Earth or the scum on his overpriced sneaker.My body was perfect, and no one needed to tell me otherwise.

Brad never did apologize for what he said that day-but if he did, I did not remember nor cared. I actually did end up going to the semi formal one year later, and had a wonderful time among expensive balloon arches and the stench of uncovered feet. Brad and I actually did see each other at the dance-and had a rematch of a dance-off that happened earlier that year (which is a whole story in and of itself). We may have hugged, and I nearly burst with happiness even after my epiphany. But that was my reality check, that a fat girl can be happy with herself in the face of aversion.