The Chart

Author’s Note: I will probably never write a teen novel, but I would love to see an updated version of this true and ridiculous scene from my pre-teen years in a young adult book. Also, all the names in this chart have been generated randomly from the phonebook and are not coded to reflect the names of real people in some furtive way. This is one of my favorite embarrassing stories from childhood to share. Since I can't remember enough to develop a complete essay, I offer a moment in time instead.

Before the days of social networking, teenagers talked on the phone. I talked on the phone. I talked on the phone a lot. I had a group of friends in sixth grade who I talked to almost daily. We talked so much that sometimes we had nothing left to say, but that did not stop the chatter.

One such evening, my friend decided it would be fun to rate all the girls in our class, including ourselves. I was happy to oblige and had no problem giving them all number ratings on their looks, personality, fashion sense and intelligence. We giggled and giggled, later on talked about some boys, and then said good-night.

When I arrived at school the next morning, everyone was standing at a group of desks hovering around something, maybe a book, a map, or piece a paper. Yes, it was a piece of paper. Their voices were low, but I could make out a few words. “A four.” “A negative seventeen!” “What a loser.” “Yeah, what’d she give her herself.”

This situation was a test of my character.

I failed. I came down with a headache and went home early from school that day. For a few weeks, I just didn’t make eye contact. Most of the girls didn’t talk to me until the next school year.

Although it is unconventional for an essayist to address herself within in her work, this episode was so ridiculous and so preventable that I must scold my stupid pre-teen self.

You are a dumbass and a coward. You could have gone two different ways with this one.

Deny. Deny. Deny. It was her word against yours. Your handwriting was not anywhere on that piece of paper and the phone call was not recorded. (Thank God, you did not have a blog in those days).

The other option was: Own it, Own it, and Own it. You could have stood by your ratings and called out those girls. You could have been the Gossip Girl of your generation.

But that is okay. You were only 12. You went on to say and write much more imprudent things that you could later not deny, which I have documented in “Advice for the Young: Don’t Write Stupid Shit in Your High School Yearbook.”