First few chapters

A Chapter by huishtrevor

In the year that I went from sixth grade to junior high, my life irreversibly changed, without warning and in the most shocking way possible. In the process, I lost all my friends and learned some hard truths about myself. But at the beginning of sixth grade, I had no idea what was heading my way.

I was living the dream. I rarely bathed (except for when forced to). I ate a ton, played all day and did not have a care in the world. No, I was not a stray dog (not a bad existence either); I was a twelve year old boy in elementary school. More specifically, I was in sixth grade, or my last year, of elementary. We were the kings of the school.

I was of average height and average build with medium brown hair and hazel eyes. I was pretty much average in every way. My mom always told me I would be very good looking, as soon as I grew into my nose. While I wouldn’t have minded being good looking, I was more concerned with truly important things (like my basketball skills and what was on the menu for dinner). People thought I was funny and, despite my average looks, I still did okay with the ladies, not that I really cared. The thing is, I was one of the few boys in sixth grade that still didn’t like girls.

My best buddies were Danny, Marshall, and Ron. Danny was huge. He was the biggest boy in our grade. He had dark brown hair and loved to laugh. He was also the most disgusting person I knew. He never showered, and by never I mean we once went on a week-long campout for boy scouts and even I felt dirty not showering for that long. That week left him unfazed, and he went one more week without showering. He will also pass gas anytime, anywhere. The boy has no shame. This was good and bad. It was bad because he often lets loose at the most inopportune time. One time we were taking turns in class reading. It was my turn to read and just as I started my voice was drowned out by a blow horn fart. This fart is the opposite of the sbd (silent but deadly) fart. It has little smell but its intent, like a blow horn, is to startle, wake up, and sometimes downright scare. So Danny blow horned me right as I started reading. Needless to say my part was never read as the class rolled with laughter. Now everyone knew it was Danny who had bombed (Danny was blamed for anything remotely gross), but it was still embarrassing to be so closely associated with a person capable of such atrocities.

The good side of Danny’s gross habits is that you know he will be blamed for anything repulsive that happens in a twenty foot radius around him. He is basically a walking free fart zone. A free fart zone is an area where you can pass gas without fear of being made fun of or ostracized for being a sicko. One example is a dairy farm. It stinks so bad that you can drive by a dairy and let loose without repercussions. Basically any area that stinks is a great free fart zone and can be used when your stomach is killing and you need some relief.

Having Danny as your best friend is even better, because he goes wherever you go. I found this out one day in class. I was sitting there doing my spelling test when all of the sudden I accidentally broke wind. It was a squeaker that was just barely audible to the entire class. Squeakers, while not loud like a blow horn, are piercing and unmistakable as a fart. I braced myself for the inevitable mocking I was about to receive, an interesting thing happened.

The class in unison shouted “Danny!” I looked around nervously as I waited for Danny to blame the real culprit. He simply smiled his big goofy grin and said,

“Whoever smelt it dealt it, you all disgust me.”

“Danny, you truly are the grossest person I know,” said one of the girls closest to him.

Danny stood up and took a bow as the class loudly booed him. Now every time I get stomach pains I am grateful my best friend is a free fart zone, and I discreetly (or not, depending on my mood) relieve my stomach of unwanted gas without fear.

Early Likers

One of my other BFFs is Marshall. He is tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He is charismatic and the girls love him. He is one of my best friends despite the fact that he was an early liker. In my very scientific research I have noticed that most boys began liking girls around fourth or fifth grade, so those who started their infatuation early were given the very derogatory nickname of early liker.

Liking girls was more than just having a little crush. Lots of boys had little crushes in second or third grade, but they didn’t really like girls. They were still dirty and stinky. Truly liking girls was a way of life. You had to shower and be nice to them and sometimes even talk to them! It was miserable! Danny and I were on the slow progressing side. We were in sixth grade and still not enjoying the company of the opposite sex, and the change in lifestyle that it brought.

The earliest liker in our grade was Chris McConaghie. That kid was calling girls in Kindergarten, kissing by first grade, and in second grade he married his elementary sweetheart Juanita Gomez in a beautiful civil ceremony on the playground between Social Studies and PE. Unfortunately, like many first marriages, it ended within six months when Chris left her for a younger woman (a cute first grader). It was bad enough that Chris already liked girls, but now he was also cradle robbing! Cradle robbing occurred when you went out with any girl younger than your grade level. This was definitely looked down upon throughout elementary school. Honestly, people should stick to their own grade!

The girls loved these early likers since most girls started being interested in boys in secondor third grade (although a large number were even chasing boys before Kindergarten). We boys were living the good life for two years when the girls liked us more than we liked them. Sadly, after those two short years we would be living a lifetime when the opposite would be true. Now, early likers and the rest of us got along fine. Marshall, despite his affinity for the ladies, was still one of my two best friends, although at times there were misunderstandings. Especially in the fourth grade when his addiction to the ladies began.

It all started a beautiful day in May. We went out to recess and started playing basketball with all the greatest fourth graders at DeGrazia Elementary. Well, all the best ballers except for Trina Peterson, who we excluded either because she was female or because she was significantly better than us. She had at least two inches on each of us (dang early maturing girls!). She had just moved into town, and we had seen her ball handling and shooting skills during warm-ups. I’ll just say it: we were scared. Luckily, Victor Ramirez and Tyrone Jones said they were uncomfortable playing with a girl and that ended that. Yes, in fourth grade I admit we were a little backwards not allowing a girl to play with us. However, by sixth grade we were much more tolerant, and we allowed Trina to participate (It had nothing to do with the fact that we were all now Trina’s height and of comparable skill level).

So on this great day of basketball, Marshall said he had to go use the restroom. (“Drop a deuce” was the official term he used; he was a literary genius that one). We all laughed and marveled at his excellent wordplay as he walked off, and I was proud to call him buddy. Five minutes later Danny was upset at a terrible call by the official (a funny boy by the name of Jared Winsor).

“That was the worst call ever; I did not touch him!” Danny said.

”What do you expect? You guys force me to be the official! I don’t know anything about basketball!” Jared yelled back.

“Force you?” Danny replied angrily. “We give you eleven skittles every time you officiate!”

To this Jared said something that you just don’t say to the biggest kid in the school.

“Exactly! You might get better quality refereeing if you paid me a fair amount!”

At this Danny became justifiably enraged and kicked the ball as far as he could, because as anyone in the fourth grade knows; eleven skittles is a fair wage to do just about anything.

As Danny and Jared discussed the finer points of labor relations and negotiated future compensation, I ran to get the basketball and salvage the last five minutes of recess. I found the ball about a hundred feet away, but as I picked it up I heard a group of girls laughing, and I looked around to see what was going on. To my surprise and dismay, I saw Marshall surrounded by five young ladies all hanging on his every word. Now, I knew there had to be a logical explanation for this. Maybe the girls had attacked him as he left the bathroom; it was five on one after all and Marshall was a bit of a softie. Yet this did not seem logical, since I didn’t think a prisoner would be leaning back against the slide, smiling and laughing. If Marshall were a captive, he should be miserable right? Why was he smiling and laughing?

Then it dawned on me. I had learned about this once; it was called the Stockholm Syndrome. Sometimes prisoners inexplicably begin to have positive feelings toward their captors. Stockholm Syndrome! It was the only logical explanation. I knew immediately I had to save him or shortly he would be wearing makeup or wanting to do that weird hand slap thing girls always did. I started planning the rescue.

They were all situated by the slide. I knew I had to take out the muscle first. Two of the girls had me by two inches and 10 pounds apiece (dang early maturing girls!). This would be tough, and for a split second I thought about going back and getting Danny (he was the biggest kid in the fourth grade and was the only boy who could keep up with giant girls), but the thought of Marshall being tormented for even one more minute motivated me to take these girls on. After I dealt with the big girls, I would have to eliminate the smart one: Holly. If I could get those three out of the way before I was suspected, I might have a chance. It was five against one (six on one if you included Marshall, who might be damaged enough to fight with his captors), and as I scaled the steps of the slide I knew that surprise was my only hope against the odds.

I nestled the basketball in my arms as I began the descent down the slide. As I got to the bottom, I noticed that the two bruisers were perfectly positioned at the end of the slide. In one fell swoop I kicked one over with my left foot and the other with my right. In one motion I stood up and threw the ball as hard as I could at Holly’s forehead. As the ball got closer, I saw her eyes widen. Direct hit! The force of the blow knocked her five feet backwards. Now with the brain and the brawn out of the way, the other girls looked at each other and bolted. My plan had worked to perfection!

Then I looked at Marshall. The expression of bewilderment on his face told me that the brainwashing was worse than I had thought. As I grabbed his hand to run, his feet would barely move. What kind of abuse had they inflicted on the poor guy? It was almost as if he was struggling against me, pulling to get back to the girls.

“Man,” I thought, “that Stockholm Syndrome is messed up!”

We were almost back to the basketball court and Marshall continued to fight against me, so I did what they did in almost every movie when someone was acting hysterically.

I slapped Marshall across the face as hard as I could and shouted, “Snap out of it!”

In the movies the person who gets slapped always says Thanks; I needed that. Marshall, however, obviously still suffering the effects of his captivity, got really angry and punched me in the arm. Fifteen minutes of being captured by girls could do some serious damage.

Red-faced, Marshall asked, “Why did you attack those girls?!”

Poor guy, he had no idea what was going on. He must have been brainwashed.

I grabbed his shoulders, looked squarely into his eyes, and said, very slowly, “You were captured by those girls, but now you are free.”

Marshall looked at me, confused, so I repeated myself even more slowly, “You…were captured…by girls…but now…you are free.”

He shook his head. Oh man, he still wasn’t getting it!

I said again, even more slowly and with sign language, “You,” I pointed to him, “captured,” I grabbed his shoulders, “by girls,” I shook my hips, “now free,” I said, flapping my arms like a bird flying away.

He stared at me, dazed, so I slapped him a second time and started to say, “You were captu…” but before I could finish he grabbed me and wrestled me to the ground.

Luckily, Danny was close and he helped me get Marshall under control. Right then the bell rang. We missed the end of recess, but at least Marshall was safe (and would not be wearing makeup in his future).

Danny and I escorted Marshall back to his class the whole way. He seemed to be calming down. I guess my efforts were starting to work. We sat him at his desk and then Danny and I went back to our class. Twenty minutes later, the intercom came on crackled and announced:

“Please send Trevor to the principal’s office.”

“Oooh!” the class called. (Oohing when someone was sent to the office was standard procedure.)

I wasn’t nervous, though; I was never in trouble. I was probably being lauded for something. Helping a fellow student, scoring well on a standardized test, or good penmanship were all possibilities. I sat down on the chair in front of the principal with a smile on my face. He quickly exploded my expectations.

“I heard you attacked three girls this afternoon, Trevor. This is so unlike you,” He said.

“Principal Smith, I was just protecting my friend Marshall!” I replied.

“What were the girls doing to him?” asked the principal.

“They had captured him outside the bathroom and who knows what terrible things they did to him after that!” I exclaimed.

“Did you see any of these ‘terrible things’?” asked Principal Smith.

“No, but Marshall said he was going to the bathroom, and he never came back!

Then I saw him talking to a bunch of girls who had him surrounded. He was obviously a prisoner; who in their right mind would talk to girls instead of playing basketball?”

Principal Smith took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second.

“Poor old guy.” I thought, “He must be exhausted.”

The principal opened his eyes and suggested “Why don’t we ask Marshall what happened?”

A few minutes later, Marshall entered the room sheepishly. The principal asked him to sit down and then said in a bored voice,

“Marshall, were you attacked by a group of girls today?”

Marshall put his head down and answered “No.”

“Then why were you with them instead of playing basketball?” I asked, wondering what had come over my friend.

Marshall bowed his head again and whispered quietly “Because I like girls.”

I gasped, and struggled to catch my breath for the next few seconds. This was a catastrophe! Sure, there were a few boys my age who liked girls, but no one who was a close friend. Boys who liked girls in fourth grade were looked down upon and made fun of! What was Marshall getting himself in to?

“Is this because you’ve been hanging out with Chris McConaghie lately?” I asked earnestly (talk about a terrible influence!).

“No. I have been hanging out with him because I like girls, and he is the only one who accepts me for who I am. I don’t have to sneak around at recess and pretend I am something I am not around him!” replied Marshall forcefully.

He looked at me with angry eyes and continued, “I knew you wouldn’t understand that I liked girls. With you it is only ok to hang out with boys. Well, that’s not me anymore.”

As I struggled with this new information, I began to realize how hard it must have been for Marshall to keep this secret from his best friends. Sneaking around with girls behind our backs and worried that if we found out he was attracted to the opposite sex we would not want to be his friends. Was finding out Marshall was an early liker worth ending our friendship? Of course not! And even though I couldn’t understand his new interest in girls, I felt compassion for him.

“Marshall, sure it will take me awhile to get used to seeing you flirt with girls. I am sure at the beginning it will make me very uncomfortable. But you are one of my best friends; you can tell me anything and do anything, no matter how embarrassing, and we will still be best friends.”

“What if I told you I hate basketball?” Marshall asked.

I gasped.

“Just kidding,” said Marshall with a big grin on his face “it’s the greatest game ever invented!”

“Oh and by the way, please don’t tell the other guys; I haven’t had a good opportunity to tell them yet, and I think it should come from me,” Marshall said with a concerned look.

“Sure, buddy, you know I am a vault,” I replied happily.

A look of relief spread across Marshall’s face. He was so happy to finally be accepted for what he was: an early liker.

Out of nowhere we heard a sigh from the background. Oh yeah, we were in the Principal’s office. We looked over and Principal Smith had his face in his hands. He rubbed his forehead, took a deep breath and said,

“Ok, out of my office boys. Oh, and, Trevor, no recess for a week.”

For the second time in five minutes I began hyperventilating. First Marshall likes

girls, then going to the principal’s office and no recess for a week! That was a bad day. However, for the last two years Marshall and I had gotten along fine despite our differences, and the other guys ended up being fine with it too. Eventually, Marshall came up with a schedule to make sure he didn’t neglect one of his interests. Tuesday and Thursday he spent lunch recess with the ladies, and Monday, Wednesday, and Friday he played basketball with the boys. While it was disgusting at the beginning, we soon got used to him talking (boring), flirting (gross), and sometimes even touching (I am getting ill thinking about it) members of the opposite sex.

Becoming a minority

In fourth grade the people who liked girls were the outcasts, but as we got older we noticed public perception was changing and all of a sudden it was cool to like girls. I partially blamed the media. Chris McConaghie had become editor in chief of the DeGrazia magazine midway through fifth grade and the articles had switched from Girls: What To Do To Avoid Their Cooties to Five Ways To Attract Girls complete with a picture of a girl that Marshall and McConaghie both thought was hot.

The other thing I blamed was hormones. I was always hearing people talk about these mystical, powerful, personality-changing forces called hormones. I even had a strange talk with my dad about them. Apparently, they affect your eyesight (my dad said I would see girls differently) and they also make you smell bad. I felt bad for the other guys who were afflicted with hormones, but it was terrible for the rest of us too. Danny and I, and any other boys who could still see girls clearly, were becoming the minority! By the end of fifth grade, Danny and I were almost all alone.

The effects of the cultural shift were all around us. We had less and less people playing sports at recess and more and more of them hanging out with girls. Those who were in the minority were also made fun of as backwards. As the problem got worse, Danny and I felt more and more isolated. Luckily, most people didn’t know if we liked girls or not. It was time to decide if we wanted to out ourselves. But before making that huge decision I knew I needed to talk to someone who had experience being a minority. I needed to talk to my buddy Tyrone.

Now Tyrone and I were buddies in a playing basketball at recess sort of way. We played basketball every day at recess but outside of that I didn’t know a single thing about him. The fact that I was able to talk to him about such a delicate subject shows how close sports can bring you. He was the only bla.. I mean African American boy in our grade, and if anyone knew about prejudice directed at a minority, it was him. I decided to approach him after school.

I had heard that Tyrone was being detained in a minimum security facility with a harsh warden (room 105 with Mr. Norton, an older man who was known as a strict disciplinarian). I had never been to detention before (luckily I had been a first time offender when I threw the ball at Holly, so I didn’t have to serve any prison time: just five recesses).

However, being there even just to visit scared me. Tyrone was obviously used to doing hard time as he seemed totally at ease, eating potato chips. I walked in unnoticed and sat next to Tyrone.

“Tyrone, what are you in for?” I whispered.

Tyrone looked at me with a weird expression on his face and answered in a normal voice, “I’m in here for eating potato chips in class.”

I thought it was odd that he had not stopped doing the very thing that got him locked up, but I continued without asking that obvious question. I had more serious things to discuss.

“I feel your pain.” I replied compassionately, then, nonchalantly, I continued, “Other than being locked up, what else stinks about being a minority?”

“Why does it matter to you?” asked Tyrone curiously.

I decided, at least in this instance, I needed to give up my anonymity.

“Because I am a minority too,” I whispered. “And my people are always being persecuted. But, please, don’t tell anyone; I am nervous how people will treat me if they know. I just need to know how hard it is to be one of the only bl…African American kids in school,” I said.

Tyrone stared at me with an odd look on his face for a second obviously wondering what kind of a minority I was, but then a look of realization came over his face and he realized I was different since I did not like girls.

He then responded quickly “You and Danny both, huh?

I nodded and then wondered how he knew it was both of us? He was definitely one smart African American!

Tyrone then continued. “To answer your question, I am a black man,” (“Sure, he’s allowed to use racial slurs about himself,” I thought to myself.) “and it is AWESOME! People assume I am an amazing dancer, they think I am hilarious and laugh at things when I’m not even trying to be funny, and the ladies love me because I am black.”

Then he leaned in and whispered, “And I don’t know if you noticed, but I am not very good at basketball, but everyone thinks I am the best. Being black is amazing!”

My head was in a whirl. Firstly, he had used the “b” word three times in twenty seconds I guess it was socially acceptable for him to refer to himself that way. As far as Tyrone’s assertions, I didn’t know about his dancing or sense of humor, but I had played basketball with him every day, and he was phenomenal! He had been one of the best ballers in our grade since he moved to DeGrazia in third grade. I still remember how afraid we were of him the first time he stepped onto the court. We had never played with an African American before.

However, as I thought about it more, there was the time he shot an air ball, and we had wondered why his teammates hadn’t realized he was making an amazing fake shot pass to them. And what about all those trick dribbles off of his feet over the years? One time he had actually kicked the ball twenty feet out of bounds. We had laughed at old Tyrone. What a funny joke: pretending that he couldn’t dribble. It was true that his teammates always messed things up for him, and he lost almost every game, but it wasn’t his fault.

At this point, something clicked. Tyrone was terrible at basketball! How was that even possible?! For the next few minutes I tried to wrap my mind around this new knowledge. Apparently, there were sometimes positive stereotypes as well as negative ones that went along with being a minority, but were the benefits worth the undesirable aspects? More importantly, were there any positive stereotypes to disliking girls?

Visiting hours were just about ending, so I started to say my goodbyes.

“Thanks, Tyrone; I appreciate your information. When you get out of here, I will teach you our patented softening method. That way you can eat chips, or anything crunchy, in class, and you will never get caught again. It’s the least I can do after all the information you’ve given me.”

I stood up and started heading for the door. Mr. Norton glared at me over his glasses and said, in a mean voice, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Oh, I was just here visiting Tyrone,” I replied.

Mr. Norton just looked at me, raising one eyebrow, and waited for me to sit down.

“I haven’t broken any rules!” I pleaded.

“Sure,” Mr. Norton said sarcastically, “everybody is innocent in here.”

All the students in the detention room suddenly looked up and started talking about how they had been wrongly accused.

“Everyone calm down, or I will add fifteen minutes to your detention.”

Had Mr. Norton heard that I was a minority and now he was purposely keeping me in detention even though I was innocent? I took my seat, and in that very long thirty minutes of detention I decided that I never wanted to come back to this terrible place. I would keep my distaste for the ladies a secret. I needed my freedom!

A New Friend

One other good friend is Ron. We became friends in the sixth grade when a mutual dislike for the opposite sex brought us together. He has blonde hair and blue eyes. He also is extremely skinny but loves sports, so he is always trying to gain weight. Unfortunately, no matter how much chocolate milk he drinks, he still looks like a marathon runner. He is really smart; he uses big words and the scientific process to solve most of his problems. Some people call him a nerd, but I just call him Scrawny Ronny (he prefers nerd). He also has really bad allergies, especially a peanut allergy that Danny and I took advantage of one time. That terrible experience ultimately made Ron one of our best friends (I’ll get to that story in a minute).

Even by sixth grade Danny and I still had no interest in females, but they sure had interest in us (well interest in me anyway). I had something called The Power of Ting. The Power of Ting is named after my good friend John Tingey, a funny, likeable kid who took no notice of girls until he turned twenty-two years old. Remarkably, the girls loved him precisely because he had absolutely no interest in them. Now John Tingey was normal in every way, which is the other ingredient required in order to have the Power of Ting. Danny had the non-interest in girls part down, but since he chose not to follow important social norms (like a monthly bath) the Power of Ting evaded him.

I, however, definitely had it. Marshall always wondered why the girls liked me so much. He thought I had a big nose (my mom said I would grow into it) and crazy hair (caused by not combing it) and a big bottom lip. Nevertheless, I was an average enough guy, and I didn’t care one bit about girls; thus, the Power of Ting. Girls were always asking me out with the ynm method. This was the preferred method at DeGrazia Elementary and involved sending out a note that asked,

“Will you go out with me? Check one of the following: yes, no, or maybe.”

I received many requests and had a very strict Always-Mark-Maybe policy. Marshall became curious one day when I received three notes, one from a cute blonde, another from a cute brunette, and a third from a slightly pudgy girl.

“Why do you put maybe on all of them? Why not just say maybe to the cute ones?” asked Marshall.

“Well, Marshall,” I replied, ready to impart some of my wisdom, “first of all, I don’t think any of them are ‘cute’. Secondly, I don’t want to say no, because I don’t know when I will start liking girls. And, lastly, I have absolutely no idea what type of girls I will like when I do start liking them, so I might as well be on the safe side.”

Now the thought of touching girls made my body begin to dry heave involuntarily, but by the start of sixth grade every girl (except Trina Peterson) liked boys and almost every boy (other than Danny and myself) had at least a small interest in girls. Now instead of Marshall having the plague, it was us! We were in the minority. Then one magical day we found out there might be one more like us.

It was in November of our sixth grade year and Danny and I were coming back from PE. We had just killed it playing soccer and we had five minutes before math started. As we approached our class we saw Ron looking at a boy and girl hugging and mumble under his breath,

“Girls are disgusting.”

Danny and I looked at each other. Was it possible there was one other survivor!? We motioned for him to follow us into an empty classroom.

As he entered, Danny asked him, “Did I just hear you say ‘girls are disgusting’ when that boy gave his girlfriend a hug?”

“No, you must’ve misheard me,” Ron said. He then paused thinking carefully what to say next and continued. I said ‘I like girls who are big and busty,”

“Busty? What the heck does that mean?” I thought. I had a feeling Ron didn’t know either; he had just heard it on TV and was trying to fool us.

“If you like girls, then you won’t mind flirting with a girl. Let me go find one in the hall. And I’ll even to try to find one that is particularly busty just for you, Ron,” I replied confidently, although secretly I was a little nervous. We had to be careful just in case Ron did by chance like the ladies, because if he did we didn’t want him to find out about our aversion to the lasses.

“Go ahead, find the bustiest one you can. If she is willing, so am I,” Ron responded, completely self-assured.

Now I was really beginning to worry. Maybe we had misheard him. I did not exactly have the best track record for hearing; in fact a potent wax buildup problem had led me to quite a few misunderstandings through the years. And now I had to go find a girl willing to flirt with Ron!

I went into the hall looking for a busty girl (whatever that was). After taking a few seconds to analyze, my best guess was that ‘busty’ meant someone with busted up teeth. But why would Ron want someone with busted up teeth? Well I knew boys liked “junk in the trunk,” so I guess funky teeth could also be a preference. Just then I saw

Jamie Adams, and I went to ask her if she would hold flirt with Ron. She had braces, so she had had busted up teeth at one time.

However, right as I got close to her, Ron pulled me aside and said in an ashamed voice,

“Okay, you got me; I don’t like girls. Please don’t tell anyone. And please, please don’t make me flirt with anyone.”

“I knew it!” Danny said.

“Well we can let you in on our secret too: we don’t like girls either,” I chimed in.

“And we have absolutely no idea what busty means,” Danny said laughing.

“I heard my brother in high school say lots of boys like busty girls, so I thought I could fool you two with it. I figure it means a girl who busts up at funny jokes.”

I looked at Danny with a confused look and then started nodding. “Of course, that is what it means!”

“Well, Danny, today we learned a new word,” I continued.

“I can see how girls who laugh really hard at your jokes would be desirable,” Danny replied.

So Ron didn’t like girls, and he was expanding our vocabulary! He was going to be a good friend, I could tell.

We Kill What We Love

We had been friends just a short time when one day at lunch Ron told Danny and me that he was starving. Danny offered him half of his sandwich for half of Ron’s twinkie. Danny really worked hard at that sale, explaining how much more filling his sandwich would be than the empty calories in the twinkie. Danny wasn’t the smartest kid, but when it came to acquiring food or embarrassing people he was a mastermind. Ron contemplated the trade and then asked Danny what kind of sandwich he was trading.

“Peanut butter and jelly” Danny replied and then continued, winking at me, “On delicious, and filling, wheat bread.”

“I can’t eat it, then; I have a peanut allergy,” Ron shook his head sadly.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means I can’t eat peanut butter, or anything with peanuts in it; if I do, it makes me sick,” Ron answered.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Danny said, giving up his ruse and throwing half of his sandwich into the garbage can. Then he picked up the other half, looked at it and dramatically said

“My…Hate….Dies… With…You.”

He smashed it up and threw it in the trash

Ron’s information about his peanut allergy had started my mental gears turning. I thought this was a great opportunity to welcome our new buddy to our clan with a prank. Boys love pranks, and we were no different. We were always messing with each other; it was the male way. I decided the next day we would get Ronny good.

It was an epic prank, and one that I still regret to this day.

At lunch the next day I offered Ron a twinkie. Unbeknownst to him, I had placed a ground up peanut in the very middle of it. As he started eating, Danny and I started laughing. Ron stopped and looked at us.

“What is so funny?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nothing” I said with a big smile on my face.

Ron gave us a weird look and continued eating his twinkie. Finally he swallowed the last bite.

Danny and I jumped up and down and started laughing.

“We got you, Ron; we got you good!”

“We put a peanut in your twinkie!”

Usually when someone is pranked the reaction you get is one of disbelief and then shortly thereafter, laughter. Never before had we seen a reaction like Ron’s: complete and utter fear.

“This is our best prank ever!” I thought.

Ron’s skin turned even more pale than usual, and he looked like he was going to pass out.

“Is little Ronny gonna be sick?” teased Danny.

“Is Ron going to have a little tummy ache tonight?” I said joining in.

Ron looked at us with a disbelieving stare and started running full speed toward the nurse’s office screaming something about his friends being idiots.

Danny looked at me and said, “Best prank ever!”

“Yeah, that was classic, but I hope he doesn’t get too sick.” I said suddenly worried at the super speed at which Ron had left.

“Don’t worry; how sick can you get eating one little peanut?” Danny asked.

Before lunch was over we had even more excitement. An ambulance had roared into the school parking lot. This was turning out to be the most exciting lunch ever! As we went out to see what the commotion was, we saw the nurse walking out supporting a fat kid who looked kind of like Ron.

“I wonder what is the matter with that kid.” I mused.

Danny and I walked up to get a closer look. It looked like the fat kid was scowling right at Danny and me, but it was hard to tell since his face was so swollen. As they loaded him into the ambulance he tried to say something, but nothing would come out.

“I hope that kid will be okay,” I thought in passing and ran out to the basketball courts for the rest of my lunch, wondering if Ron was done being sick and would be out there to play.

“I am so sorry, Ron,” I said shamefacedly that night at the hospital.

“Me too,” said Danny, “we thought you would just get a little sick.”

“Its okay; a lot of smart people don’t know that around two hundred people a year die from food allergies, and more than half of those are from a peanut allergy,” said fat Ron (that boy loved statistics), “so I definitely shouldn’t have expected you morons to know.”

“Plus, riding in an ambulance was sweet, and look at how ripped I am! And I was really only violently ill for about twenty minutes,” Ron said optimistically.

“When do you think the swelling will go down?” asked Danny.

“Hopefully never,” gloated Ron, flexing in the mirror while looking at his swollen face and neck.

His face was all distorted and he looked weird, but it just showed how people always wanted the opposite of what they were, even when it wasn’t the best change.

“So, you forgive us?” I asked earnestly.

“Of course, guys! Besides, I figure that whatever I do for my next prank, you can’t be mad at me. Do me a favor, though. Don’t tell my mom it was you guys who gave me the peanut, ok?”

We nodded.

That near death experience marked both the time we became best friends with Ron and when we started doing a little more research on our pranks. Ron had definitely proved his friendhood by sticking with us even though we almost killed him.