I’m not very good at getting even. Keeping track is hard. Stuff falls out of my notebook. Or I forget what I’m supposed to avenge.
In the days of hotheaded feuds – eighth grade – I knew who was my enemy. Barbara P. wrote “I can’t stand that girl” about me, in a note that she passed to my alleged friend Bonnie S., who “accidentally” put the note where I could read it.
I didn’t like Barbara P., either, but I felt wounded that she would publicize her animosity toward me. Who needed to know what a mean person she was? Of course I told everyone (three girls I sort of trusted). Word got around – whatever that means – and we all wallowed in adolescent melancholy.
One night, alone in the kitchen, I cried through a whole bag of Utz potato chips.
Decades later, at a class reunion, I saw Barbara P. I knew I didn’t like her. She attempted a hello. I turned away. I snubbed her.
I doubt if she cared. Neither did I. And I feel really dumb writing this.
