Speaking of Denise
After I posted the story on Monday, I took a little trip down the memory lane named Denise Gordon. When I was young, I hated cheerleaders in general, but Denise represented everything I despised about the ilk. She was beautiful, mean, stupid, and good for nothing except screaming “We’re NUMBER ONE!!!!!!” with her arms raised high so her spankies would show—and, of course, whatever the jocks did with her in the backseats of their Camaros. Oh, and she always wore her dark hair in two thick pigtails that looked like turds. (Except for the phase after "10" when she wore it in Bo Derek braids.)
I’m sure it says much more about me than it does about her that I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy devising ways to torment her. A few of those ways:
1. My friends and I would sit on the second row at basketball games so that we could hide our squirt guns behind the peoples’ heads in front of us and shoot her as she cheered. Oh my god, it was so great to watch her miniscule brain work to figure out where the water was coming from.
2. We’d order brown wrapper items out of the back of Cosmo and have them sent to her house.
3. One of our teachers, Mrs. Wynn, always put items that had been left in her classroom up on the chalk board tray and would announce whatever it was the next day before she started class: “Someone left their Bonnie Bell Lipsmacker yesterday. You can come up and get it.” Well, I worked as a library aid, and there was a book in the library called “Teenagers, Sex, and Dating.” I’d check it out in Denise’s name, stamp it, and then leave it in Mrs. Wynn’s room. Over and over. The more Denise protested that it wasn’t hers, the funnier it was.
Of course, I’ve grown up since then, and I’m ashamed of my behavior. Besides, it was high school. A long time ago. I hardly remember it.