The Debbie Diaries: A High Chance of Ignorance

A tale of my unfortunate experience with one Debbie Anderson.

Gym class. Oh yes, it was that wonderful time again. I so looked forward to the hour-and a-half of too-serious glances from Coach Manor, my total lack of grace in the world of sports in general, and the football stars’ display of blinding athleticism. But the icing on the cake, the cherry on top, was not one of these fine attributes (disclaimer: the previous statements and the next few sentences are heavily laced with sarcasm, if you couldn’t tell already). My favorite thing about this athletic addition to my sophomore schedule was… Debbie. By birth, her full name was Debbie (Deborah?) Anderson. By reputation, her name was Satan. Not really of course; my hatred of her was a rare gift. Do understand, I’m not a mean person. I’m not your cynical Regina George-esque popular girl that everyone loves or even that Gothic girl who moves about high school halls, spreading dark rumors at every turn. But that semester awakened an inner demon that I didn’t want to put back down (cue Imagine Dragons’ Demons).
Today for gym class, we were going out to the tennis courts to learn how to think less of ourselves due to failing yet another sport. Or maybe that was just me. On the way to the gym, I went to my locker, dropped off my books from Honors English, and grabbed the drawstring bag that held the hideous gym clothes that I had to don for class. I made my way down the grand staircase and into the locker rooms. I was usually one of the last ones to the locker room to change, so I had to fight my way through the crowd of girls blocking my gym locker. I was tying my silver and purple Nikes when I heard it: that horrible, vacant, simple voice that could only come from one person, or maybe her brother: Debbie. I groaned and finished up my shoe, knowing she would attack me with endless questions. Now, I didn’t always hate her, rather, strongly dislike her, which is a better term for Christians to use. I met Debbie Anderson on the first day of class, and honestly felt sorry for her. She tried to fit in with the cool kids, flirted with the jocks, tried to talk girly stuff with the cheerleaders, but nothing ever worked out for her. So I thought I would be nice when she tried to approach me. Then, after about thirty seconds, I understood. Debbie, it seemed, was a pathological liar, and not a very bright one at that. Between the stories about her insane family, countless boyfriends, and incredible athletic ability, she wore my patience thin rather quickly. Anyway, on this particular day of class, she comes up to me and begins talking about how her beloved brother had hit her across the face. Right about now, you’re probably thinking ‘wow, Megan’s a terrible person for not feeling sorry for an abuse victim.’ Keep in mind, though, she lies. Her evidence for her brother’s meanness was a tiny red spot on her face, where she had probably just pinched herself or something coming into class. I could also tell she was lying because she was smiling when she told me this. Based on the assumption that she was furthering her dishonest ways and had not suddenly become a masochist, I sort of nodded my head and left the locker room. To the tennis courts we go. 

Let me take some time to describe Debbie Anderson. I’m a big fan of descriptions in books (unless this forever remains a Pages document). Debbie was a freshman that year, a new addition to the East Hickman High School family. Everyone knew her or at least knew about her, and this could partially be blamed on her fashion sense, or lack thereof. Parading around the halls in leg-toning, light-up Sketchers, shorts of varying colors, and similarly colored graphic tees, sometimes featuring bedazzlement, she certainly was a sight that made eyes sore. This elementary-schooler vibe was definitely not lost when it came to her physical features. She was shorter than me, which doesn't take much, as I’m probably descended from the Amazons. So she was probably about average height, but her weight was a different story. Wispy could be a word to describe her figure. No wait, that sounds far too graceful. Stick-like is probably a better term. She was boney “as all get-out” as the locals would say. Her skin was unnaturally pale, and I know pale. The lightest shade of Bare Minerals sometimes adds too much color to my face, but Debbie somehow had me beat. But before you write me off as inhumanely cruel, I do have some positive things to say about Miss Anderson. Though unnaturally skinny and hopelessly fashion-less, she had a very pretty face and cute hair. Her blue eyes were shrouded by flower-design glasses, and would have been beautiful if they weren’t always glinted with the evil burn of lies and deceit. Her hair was a jet black bob with bangs, which worked for her in all honesty. But enough description, let’s get back to the story. 

The class met in the hall next to the gym. Like the typical high-schoolers we all were, we sat down or slouched against the walls while waiting for the others to get done changing. I hung out with a few less-popular girls like myself, the names of whom I’ve completely forgotten. Debbie was a social butterfly in that she went around to the various cliques and posses, trying to strike up conversations. She gravitated, like usual, to my group that day. Coach Manor blew his whistle and we all started walking, with Debbie trotting along next to me, to the tennis courts. Through the grand hall, out the back doors, and across the large parking lot we went. The school’s campus was rather large; it was the county’s largest investment since installing the three Dollar Generals that made up Hickman County’s economy. While on our little venture across the slab of asphalt, I could feel Debbie’s ominous stare on me. I knew something, a boastful statement, an insane observation, or something even more annoying was on its way. That day, or morning rather, was lovely: low humidity, so my hair was suffering less than usual, a light breeze, lots of sunshine, climatic perfection. All was ruined by what came next. Debbie tapped me on the shoulder, as if she didn’t have my attention with her stare already. I resisted the urge to harshly ignore her (I was going to say something more violent, but I’m trying to keep readers here). I turned toward her, and she pointed up at some cirrus clouds. First a note about the nature of cirrus clouds: they’re the pretty, wispy clouds that form way up above the stratosphere, usually indicative of future thunderstorms. I was a nerd about meteorology as a child. Anyway, Debbie is pointing up at some of these peaceful vapors. I follow her eyes and listen to her inevitable question. 

“Megan, are those from a hurricane?” I was stunned. A hurricane? Did she actually just say a hurricane? Is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy? I could hardly speak. Should I be angry? Annoyed? Intrigued at her thought process? I chose to throw all emotion out the proverbial window. 

“No, Debbie. Those clouds aren’t from a hurricane.” She seemed dissatisfied with this response, and floated off to ask someone else. I had peace like a river until we got to the tennis courts, a mere thirty seconds later. She trots up to me and again points up at the sky. This time her scraggly finger found the moon, somewhat shrouded in the intense blue of the mid-morning sky. I sensed yet another vacant interrogation. 

“Megan, have you ever been in space before?” Oh no. It was bad. This question sent my patience out the same window my emotions had gone through just moments before. Space, the final frontier’s vacation package. I thought over sarcastic things to say. Should I tell her that yes, my family regularly vacations on Neptune, that I’m not originally from Earth, or that I’m secretly a Russian cosmonaut, spying on Hickman’s in-the-middle-nowhere school system in search of specialized weapon technology. Why, oh why did I again choose the semi-polite route? I sighed, trying not to seethe with annoyance.

“No, I’ve never been in space. I like space, but I don’t feel the need to visit anytime soon.” 

“Why not?” Jee, I don’t know Deb. I should just do that sometime. 

“I don’t know.” I sort of mumbled. Suddenly, Coach Manor ordered the class to pay attention as he was going to explain what a tennis racket was or something. I was ever-thankful for the distraction. The rest of class was consisted of falling, flailing, and failing at tennis altogether. But Debbie had no more questions, which made the day as beautiful as, I don’t know, a passing cirrus cloud. 

Author's Note

Probably not the most grammatically correct thing I've ever written, but definitely the most fun. Based on a true story. Intentional casual style.

Reviews

[D.G]

This is prose of a "rare quality," in comparison to all else I've read on this site. Certainly more vociferous than any other (stories I have read), and intelligent too. It seems quite obvious to me (as elucidated in your story, here--indeed, fun to read) that you've developed a good understanding of what "good writing" is, with respect to prose (at least). The musicality of this piece is admirable, and even brave I'd say, given that the music is always sung through your "voice," i.e., writing style.

This is a piece of writing refreshingly itself.
Great job.

(However, some of your initial paragraphs are quite continental. I would (in my artistic opinion--certainly refutable) divide those large paragraphs into smaller ones that focus more on an individual and specific topic sentence, also creating more "blank space"--which is desirable to the reader. Perhaps I'm speaking in my own gibberish again (?)

In any case, great job--this story was one of the few pieces (of prose on this site) that kept me scrolling through the final line. Keep writing!