Singed Synapses and Deranged Dendrites

The Claw (#spray)

Margo brushed her teeth, disgruntled. Her bangs drooped with despair summarizing the disappointment of the middle school dance she had just returned from. Hours ago she had painstakingly taken the metal curling iron and curled half her bangs back and half of them forwards. After fluffing them 'just so,' she had plastered them in place with a heavy spray of Aquanet. But, like her hopes for the evening, the ideal look only lasted a fleeting moment before flopping over. 

She sighed.

Margo had viewed starting a new school between Thanksgiving and Christmas of eighth grade as an opportunity to start afresh. A clean slate. Her elementary school flaws would be erased and she had the chance to become a popular kid. 

But moving from a small town in the midwest where many of her classmates had lived on farms to a suburb of New York City meant the new cool kids were even cooler. They shopped for clothes on 5th Avenue in 'The City.' They had the latest shade of zinc pink lipstick. They didn't just peg and roll the hem of their jeans, they placed a safety pin in them as well. Margo and her floppy bangs didn't stand a chance. 

She thought back to drama class earlier that day. The teacher had stepped out for a few minutes and one of the cool girls had gone around the room examining girls' faces to see if they had a foundation line–foundation makeup not properly blended in at the edges. 

Margo didn't wear foundation but she had been relieved the cool girl had stopped in front of her, taken her chin between her fingers, and tilted Margo's face back and forth examining it critically. At least, Margo had thought, she thinks I might be wearing foundation. The next girl was even more awkward than Margo and the mean girl had just looked at her, given a little 'harumph,' and moved on.

Now at the dance Margo stood feeling stupid. She wandered over to the concession table.

"Could I get a pop," she asked one of her classmates, a cute popular boy, who was pouring the refreshments.

"Maybe in WisCONsin they call it pop, but here it is called SODA!" he said as he shoved a paper cup full of 7-up at her.

She signed. 

Finally, one boy asked her to dance. His name was Jonathan and he only lived a block away from her new house. He was cute too and seemed to want to hang out again soon. But when she went into the girls bathroom she overheard some of the other girls snickering about how everyone hated Jonathan. He had apparently kissed all of the girls in the 8th grade. Now blacklisted by the popular girls, he had been left with only the new girl to dance with.

It was a painful two and a half hours. Margo was relieved to come home, brush her teeth and get into bed. As she lay there in the dark she thought that at least back in Wisconsin she had had friends even if they had become caddy and mean once they reached middle school. 

And more importantly she realized the old adage: No matter where you go. There you are.