This story
takes me back to the last month of my senior year of high school at Mascoutah
Community High School: home of the (purple and white) Indians. The year itself was an interesting experience
full of adventures that I might explore later.
But this
particular one happened in gym. At good
ol’ MCHS, gym classes weren’t segregated by grade level. Some activities were co-ed and others
weren’t. For some reason, on a gorgeous
day in the spring, we were stuck inside playing volleyball. Now, I like volleyball. Don’t get me wrong. In fact, it’s one of my favorite sports to
play. I used to be pretty good, if I do
say so myself.
We were
busily playing a match, but the game wasn’t flowing very smoothly. On the opposing team was a girl, I believe
she was a sophomore, or even a freshman who could not shut up to save her
life. I think her name was Nicole or
Natalie or something like that. Marc
might have known her. I remember she had
short, brown hair, and big teeth. I
thought she looked like a chipmunk in a cheerleader outfit. Yes, she did cheer, which was one of the
reasons for her aloof attitude. She
thought that because she was on the team, it somehow elevated her status. Honestly, most upperclassmen still ignored
her high-pitched giggling. She was cute,
but annoying as all get out.
On this day
in gym, I was not the only one fed up with her incessant gossip. Multiple times she had verbally assaulted her
own teammates who were trying to involve her in the game. She just rolled her eyes if the ball came
near her. Some people duck out of the
way or scream or at least pretend to try and hit the volleyball, especially
when playing in a large group setting.
Chipette didn’t even bother to move out of the way. Like it was too much
effort to even pay attention to what was going on around her. Every once in a while, when she would make an
excellent non-effort to make a play that came right at her, she would sidestep
and say,” Oops.”
Aggravated,
one of my teammates threw the ball at her to get her attention, but he
missed. She gave him the stink eye for a
couple seconds and then promptly turned back to talk to her other friend. (She was a half-hearted—no, make that a
sixteenth-hearted player.) We were
trying to play a game, but all she wanted to do was discuss boy bands, braces,
and bra sizes.
The guy who
missed hitting Chipette the first time—I don’t remember if it was Jason or Josh
or Chris—called my name on the set for the next ball over. I was playing in the right side of the net,
my strength when it came to swinging the hammer.
“Just hit
her!” he exclaimed as he set the ball high and tight: beautiful.
I swung with
all my might, just wanting to get her to move, perhaps clip her leg or
something., so she’d shut up and play, or at least move off the court.
At that
precise moment, Chipette turned her head toward the net for the first time all
period. Boom! Wilson greeted her in the face. It caught her nose and spun her head back
around. Blood spewed red a couple yards
across the floor and across her friend.
The red fountain gushed, as she stood dumbfounded in the middle of the
gym.
A couple
students gave a polite applause.
Chipette,
or Natalie, or whatever her name was, stood speechless (about time). It took quite a while before the blood slowed
to a drip. Oops.
Before I could say or do anything,
three of the other kids playing ran over to Mr. Junker to report that this
chick had an accident and got hit because she wasn’t paying attention. There was no mention of my name. Homegirl laughed it off, trying to downplay
her embarrassment and humiliation.
The next
day, she showed up with a white bandage on her nose and a non-participation
note for gym. She looked more like a pig
with chipmunk teeth after that. I don’t
remember if she ever even dressed for gym again for the rest of the year, yet
after school she would shed the sympathy plasters and cheer her little guts
out.
Moral of the story: Pay attention.
Moral 2.0: Pay attention ,or your nose will promptly be
broken.
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