Brilliant Disguise: An Ugly Story of a Beautiful Redemption

By Sarah Nichter

Sarah is a young, pretty, confident teenager with a deep faith, and the world seems ready to cater to her wishes. But she hides a warped self-image, depression, and desperate need for self-control, only to force it out in secret purging sessions. As she adjusts to her junior year at a new high school, Sarah struggles to cope with her growing discomfort and self-critical attitudes, even while easily making friends and displaying a confident exterior. One fateful day, Sarah follows her friends seemingly trivial suggestion and willingly walks into a corrosive world of binging, purging, and depression.

As Sarah leaves for college, she feels increasing pressure from friends to seek help for her bulimia. But college offers a new opportunity to remake herselfif only she doesnt get in her own way. As she struggles to maintain control, she slips further into the darkness and closer to self-destruction. The few strongholds in her lifefaith, friends, family, and her dogkeep her together as her heart is battered by broken relationships and her body is abused by her own design.

This novel, based on a true story, follows Sarah as she goes away to college and tries to navigate the difficulties of new adulthood, faces academic struggles, and decides whether to leave bulimia behind or take it with her. Brilliant Disguise narrates a story of a young woman with everything to gain and absolutely everything to lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781480803763

Sarah Nichter

Sarah Nichter has settled in Kentucky with her family and has been teaching writing and literature at the college level for more than a decade. In addition, she blogs and enjoys movies, music, and other media. This is her debut book.

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Brilliant

Disguise

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An Ugly Story of a Beautiful Redemption

SARAH NICHTER

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Copyright © 2013 Sarah Nichter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

1-(888)-242-5904

Some people’s names have been changed to protect the privacy of those whose stories are their own to tell.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0375-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0377-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0376-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013955391

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/02/2013

Contents

Prologue

Section I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Section II

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Section III

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to my Tri-phis and Drew.

Your love made all the difference.

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Special thanks to Josh Simpson, my friend, my editor, colleague, and Vonnegut Scholar.

Prologue

1985

W e lazily strolled down the golf cart path out from under the shade of the tall, graceful trees that bordered the golf course. Mikey squinted up at the sun, placing the back of his hand on his forehead, then letting it drop like dead weight. It’s hot, he said.

Mikey was the temporary kid next door. He came to Jacksonville, North Carolina each summer to spend his summer vacation with his grandparents, who were our neighbors. As far as age, Mikey was in the middle of me and my sister. My sister was nine; Mikey was eight, and I was freshly seven.

On this particular day, the three of us had been poking around the edges of the golf course that was a first base hit away from our back yard. A blacktopped, hot golf cart path ran out of the golf course and behind our house, dead-ending at a neighbor’s back fence, creating a kind of alley between picket fences. We were growing bored as we slowly followed the path behind our yards. We stopped for a moment, swapping ideas for what to do.

My bare feet began to burn against the asphalt, and I jumped.

Ouch, I yelped. I scrambled to the grass to step back into my sandals. It’s hot, I whined, pointing at the path, as I saw them looking at me skeptically.

Like a hot tin roof? Mikey asked.

I guess so.

Then this began a slew of as hot as phrases we’d heard adults make:

It’s hotter than a goat in a pepper patch, I threw in, repeating what I’d heard my grandma say.

It’s hot enough for popcorn, Mikey said, shortening the phrase.

It’s hotter than blue blazes, my sister added.

What does that mean? Mikey asked. We were cracking ourselves up now.

I thought of the craziest one I’d heard: Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk!

We laughed at the foolishness of adults, then through his giggles, Mikey dared to ask, What if you could fry an egg on the side walk?

Like in a pan? I asked.

No. they both retorted.

Just on the path, Mikey said.

We all looked at each other; then my sister posed, Wanna try it? Of course we did!

Where are we going to get an egg? Mikey asked.

We’ve got eggs, my sister said, looking at me.

I soon returned with one egg and a spatula, and like three pre-pubescent mad scientists, we commenced our forbidden experiment.

The clear liquid began to turn white, and a smile spread across my face. When the white reached the yellow, Mikey took the spatula, pushed it under the egg, and clumsily flipped it over. We watched in amazement as the egg continued to cook. My seven-year-old mind blossomed with wonder. It was true; you could fry an egg on the sidewalk, and we did it.

And our next game began: What to do with the egg we fried on the asphalt.

1992

I pushed back, straining to keep my arm still and only push with my hand and wrist, my palm pressed against Jessie’s, our fingers intertwined, gripped together in a game of mercy. I made her squeal Mercy! a moment earlier as I slowly pushed her hand back at the wrist while we sat straddling the bleachers in the gym.

Hey, you’re not supposed to push back, she complained, letting up on my hand.

Right. Sorry. I said.

She applied the pressure again, and I kept my arm still through the wrist as she slowly bent my hand back trying to find the pain point where I would give up.

But I was proud, and I wanted people think I was tough. So I was resolved not to say Mercy. I was also counting on Jessie’s soft heart; she didn’t really want to hurt me. It was beginning to hurt, but I held my tongue. My hand was now beginning to bend past a right angle, but my stubbornness persisted. Then the bell rang and another student on the bench above us jumped up grabbing his backpack. In his haste, his back pack hit our intertwined hands, knocking them to the side and Jessie’s hand further into my palm.

Ow! I let out, pulling my hand back. I was immediately disappointed in myself for conceding.

Are you ok? Jessie asked with surprise and concern and the boy tossed out a sorry as he jumped down and headed out the door.

I rubbed my wrist, and changed my scowl to a smile, Yeah, I’ll be fine.

We stood up to leave and I grabbed my backpack with my right hand and began to lift, but lightning shot through my wrist. So I quickly switched the strap to my left hand and tossed it over my shoulder while jumping down from the bleachers.

Jessie and I exchanged goodbyes, and I headed off to class.

How am I going to explain this, I wondered. It was pure stubborn pride that made me not say mercy when it first hurt. I knew this was pretty stupid. I basically let my friend sprain my wrist.

It would be years before I learned not to let my friends lead me into pain.

1999

I stood on the footbridge in the dark, gripping the rail. I stared into the darkness down the tracks. The cool fall breeze pushed and wrapped around me. I squeezed the rail more and shook my head, bewildered.

How can so much pain be possible? I asked myself.

How can one person hurt so much for no apparent reason? I wondered. I searched my mind, heart, soul—again—for the reason. It was difficult to hide this corrosion from my friends, but I tried to contain it until I could make it to the dark to push out the pain, despair, and self-hate. After months of therapy and years of self-investigation, I still didn’t know why. I still didn’t understand why I was what I was. My forearms began to ache from holding my grip on the rail. I let go and placed my palms against the rail.

Why? trailed through my head. This pain was ever present. Like a spring fed well, the pain was always going to be there, pure, constant and reliable. Why?! In anger I turned and smacked my arm against the rail. It hurt, but it was oddly comforting. I knew where that pain came from. It was practical, tangible, a known cause with a known fix. It was pain that could be explained.

In anger I smacked my arm against the rail again, then again. My heart began to race and my breathing quickened. It seemed I couldn’t understand the real reason for my pain, but I could make one. I walked further down the bridge and swung my other arm into the metal rail. It did it again and again and again. Over and over again I crashed my arms into the rails hoping to break them. I desperately sought an external reason for the internal pain. Maybe if it hurt enough on the outside, the inside would subside. I desperately swung, each blow hurting more as bruises began to form. Tears of pain and frustration began to fill my eyes. The breeze zipped past coaxing out the salty drops.

Breathing quickly, I walked over to the steps on the far end. I’ve got to break them, I thought. Something’s gotta break. I took one more quick breath and threw myself down the stairs, arms out, hoping to snap them. Down I tumbled and rumbled on the wooden stairs, finally landing on the bottom three steps just shy of the beginning concrete sidewalk. I lay there in the dark, still and quiet.

Slowly I unfolded, and pulled myself up to the third step, and leaned against the cold wire side of the stairs. My arms weren’t broken, but now I hurt all over. I considered what I’d just done. Astonished, angry sobs contorted my face and wrestled out of me. I pulled my hands into the sleeves of my long sleeved t-shirt and brought my fist up to my mouth, trying to control the sobs and quite them. But it was no use. As my body began to ache from the beating and the cold, I let go. I didn’t really care now if anyone heard me. I sobbed freely.

I sobbed for myself—for my brighter self that was slowly disappearing, being overtaken by the dark, corrosive self.

I sobbed for the knowledge of what I was really capable of. I meant nothing to myself, and I would gladly sacrifice me for myself.

I sobbed for the failure I was facing. I was one more purge away from accepting this was my life forever. I would slowly collapse into myself, until there was nothing left, nothing worth fighting for.

I sobbed for the sake of it. I pushed out the tears hoping I was squeezing out the pain.

Once all the tears were gone, I stood up, wiping my face with my sleeve. I went back up the stairs to the middle of the bridge and turned to face the wind. I stood there, letting the cool wind dry my face and brush my cheeks and eyes until that would be the reason for the redness. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans, turned and walked toward the apartment. Muscle by muscle, I mentally smoothed the distress and pain from my face, and slipped on a sweet expression with a half smile before I made it to the first street light.

Section I

As soon as there is life there is danger.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chapter 1

"Thanks, Mom!" I said, bouncing out of the kitchen and through the front door. I let the storm door smack behind me as I sailed up and into the white front porch swing. I slipped my brown sandals off my grimy feet, swung them up on the seat, and stretched myself from end to end. It was pure childhood euphoria, licking an orange Popsicle, swinging through the wet summer night breeze, and marking my growth by how much of the swing I could cover lying down head to toe.

This particular night was special because neither my older sister and brother nor their friends were anywhere near me—no one picking on me, no one making fun of how I said my Rs and Ls, and no one provoking me to fight just to put a hand on my forehead and watch me swing at the air. I closed my eyes and settled into the sensation of weightless floating.

This is one of my favorite childhood memories. I can still remember that snippet of evening like it was two minutes ago. That memory is special to me, not because it was a moment of peace in a troubled childhood, but because it is a true representation of how I felt about my childhood. I loved it!

I am the youngest of three—a brother and sister ahead of me. My sister and I are close enough in age (about three years apart) to be anything but close growing up. I was often either a hindrance to her way of playing or I was competition for her friends. And my brother and I were far enough apart (nine year’s difference) for my world to be irrelevant to his teenage world. I loved my brother and sister and everything they did. In fact, I was an agreeable kid (still am) and could often be suckered into being a guinea pig.

One story I don’t remember, but have heard my mom tell often, was when I was perhaps three and agreed to let my sister and her friend paint my blonde hair black with axle grease.

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Can we paint your hair? my sister asked me.

I looked at her and her friend and nodded, Yeah.

My sister ran into the garage and came back with a can of grease I’d seen Dad using somewhere on the car. They conferred quickly with each other then took the lid off.

Hold still, my sister said as she and her friend dipped their hands into the thick goo.

I stood there calmly, pleased with myself for the attention. They gently rubbed their hands on my hair, dipping in the can again to fill up their palms.

There, my sister announced.

I turned around to look at my reflection on the side of the car. Then Mom came around the front corner of the car.

She gasped. We froze.

What are you girls doing? she asked, moving quickly toward us.

I turned back to look at my sister and her friend, their hands still goopy.

We wanted to see what she would look like, my sister said as a sort of explanation, pointing to me.

I have to get to the PTA meeting in fifteen minutes! my mom exclaimed. Then her military wife skills kicked in; she executed the plan.

You’ll need to go home now, my mom said to my sister’s friend. Go wash your hands in the kitchen, she instructed my sister, Let’s go wash your hair, she said, picking me up.

Okay, I complied.

As we passed through the kitchen, my mom grabbed the dish washing soap. In the bathroom I leaned over the sink, and my mom made quick work of degreasing my hair. Again, I was pleased with myself for the attention. Although not all attention is good attention.

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Being the compliant and sometimes gullible little sister, I was often the one who received the go ask Mom/Dad… request. I was sent to ask things like Can we have some Crisco? (For the slip ‘n slide, of course.), Can we go play at so-and-so’s house? even though my sister already had the answer, or Are there more cotton balls? after we’d already used them all on our craft project.

Like any younger sibling, I wanted to go wherever they went, and I entered the world knowing how to play with others. So I never saw it as rejection if they didn’t want me to tag along. It was just an opportunity to play with someone else or explore. And there was always something to explore.

When we lived in North Carolina, I loved to roam and explore the golf course that was a short walk from our house. A golf cart path from the course ran behind our yard to its eventual dead end. I would pretend the asphalt was a path leading me to any number of magical lands and adventures. On one afternoon, the edge of the golf course was my wilderness, and I was on a treasure hunt. I pulled up the bottom of my shirt and scooped my treasures into the pouch. I returned home with a pouch full of golf balls. Put them back, I was told. I couldn’t understand why golfers would want these balls. They were just laying around in the leaves at the edge of the grass. Still, I obeyed, and dumped them in a pile back at the golf course’s edge.

One thing that helped encourage my sense of adventure and exploration was that I was a military kid. My dad was a marine, starting his career with two tours in the Vietnam War. By the time I entered the family, my parents had already crisscrossed the United States. My brother was born in Utah, my sister in North Carolina, and I arrived in Iowa. I don’t remember Iowa. I only have one memory of our next station—Quantico, Virginia. So the first place I really remember was Okinawa, Japan. When we moved back to the United States, it was back to Jacksonville, North Carolina. This is where we were stationed when my dad retired from the marines as a major. I would continue to move a few more times after that.

I developed my taste for hot tea (oolong preferably), rice, and sushi as a preschooler in Japan. As kids, my sister and I had blonde hair and blue eyes. And in Japan, I was even more different with curly blonde hair. We would play with two neighborhood girls our age who liked to dress us up like dolls in their traditional kimonos and put our hair in buns. I liked being their little figurine.

I developed my taste for sweet iced tea in North Carolina and Alabama. I remember family picnics at Onslow beach, North Carolina, collecting sea shells and finding sand crabs. I began to exercise my independence in North Carolina with my bike. I would make frequent trips on my bike to the 7/11 with my friends. With my allowance, I bought enough candy to rot my teeth.

In Birmingham, Alabama, I choose my loyalties after the gravity of the Auburn—Alabama rivalry was made clear to me on the playground. An Auburn fan I would be. I spent countless hours in the summer plucking and sucking honeysuckle that coated the back fence. My parents showed me the beauty of the natural world and the science of classification at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens.

From Birmingham, I carried with me y’all to Greenville, South Carolina, where the tea flowed sweet and iced. And in South Carolina I learned that hickory smoked, pulled pork is the perfect barbecue. I also discovered that South Carolinians have a distinct way of slurring their words that sets them apart from other Southern lazy talkers. It was at my first job at the vet in Greenville that I challenged a cocker spaniel, and he left me with a permanent scar on my forefinger.

Church was also an important part of our family life. I never questioned if we’d be in church each Sunday—of course we would. My godly parents lived their lives in such a way that we could see what really being a Christ follower was like. Many of my early memories involved church functions and food. That is the Southern American way. While we were stationed at a base, we attended base chapel. Since those serving in the military come from all different faiths, Christian base chapel needed to meet the basic needs of each Christian denomination. For example, at the base chapel in Camp LeJeune, I learned that Catholics use kneeling benches, and why. I learned which denominations baptize by sprinkling or dunking. I also learned which cups in the communion tray were grape juice or wine—and why both were available. And I learned the joys of the chapel pancake breakfasts (that was my first taste of grits, yum).

When we lived in Birmingham we attended Shades Mountain Baptist Church, which was BIG. When waiting for my parents, I would often roam the building with my friends. Of course it was a stages building—a church built on to in stages as the congregation grew. Since it was such a large congregation, there was always something to be involved in. Church and its accompanying activities involved people, which I liked, and I had a true curiosity about God and Jesus. And I believed they were who they said they were.

I was so accustomed to the alter call as a regular part of a worship service (this was a Southern Baptist church after all.) that perhaps I didn’t really know the call might be for me. The pastor never seemed to be talking to me, or to anyone younger than my parents, so I didn’t give the alter call much thought, until one particular night. I was 11 years old, and I was at Sunday night church with my friend and her mom. I often met my friend for church on Sunday nights and we’d sit together. That night, my mom was not staying for church because she had to shuttle my sister somewhere else. We agreed that I would be at the same drop off/pick up point at the prescribed time after the service, and I bounded inside.

Much like normal, I met my friend and we whispered and giggled just until the service settled down and the pastor took the pulpit. I don’t remember what the sermon was about, but I remember that I listened. I didn’t whisper with my friend, flip through the hymnal, or draw on the offering envelopes; I just sat still and listened. The sermon came to a close and, as we all stood up to sing, the alter call began. If you feel Jesus calling you, come down to the front, the pastor softly instructed. I opened the hymnal to join in the singing, but my friend leaned over and asked, Do you believe? No one had really asked me that before, not like that. I paused to consider just what the question meant. Yes, I said somewhat surprised. I did. I really did believe that Jesus was the son of God, that he died for the sins of man, that he rose from the dead, that He loved me, and I loved him too, like a grandfather. Do you want to go up front? my friend asked. I looked at her mom, looking ahead and singing. I looked at the pastor, and back at my friend. Yes, I said with excitement. So we sideways walked out of the pew and the few steps to the front of the sanctuary. I knew the right terminology to use. I said to the pastor as he leaned over to hear me I’ve accepted Jesus as my savior. That was good news apparently. I was introduced to another person who lead me, my friend and another, older kid to a small classroom just off the sanctuary. This is what Christ meant when he talked about faith like a child. I just simply believed.

I don’t remember exactly what the questions were that I was asked, but I quickly figured out they wanted to make sure I knew what this was all about. I quickly assured them of what I knew about God, Jesus, and love, and that I was serious. Then I began to realize I might be late to meet my mom. I was giddy with excitement; yes, I believed! But I was also becoming antsy that my mom might be waiting and getting mad. They had lots of materials, and went through the Roman Road. When the Road ended, I said I think I have to go. I was supposed to meet my mom for her to pick me up. They instantly understood what that meant, and prayed with me to conclude the experience. Thank you, I said.

I left the classroom and took a quick right down a main hall to the entrance where I was supposed to meet my mom. And there was my mom coming down the hall way. She looked a bit put-out. That didn’t register until later though. Mom! I exclaimed. I accepted Jesus! Sorry I was late! I was in that room, I said pointing behind me, with the ladies, I said, turning to look back at them. One of the ladies had followed me with my jacket in hand. Oh, yeah, thanks! I said, hopping back for the jacket. My mom had reached me by this point and received a brief recap of my salvation experience from the lady from the classroom. I was still so excited, I couldn’t stand still. The lady and my mom finished talking and we began to walk back to the car. I know my mom talked to me on that walk, but I don’t remember what was said. I just remember her smile, her kiss on the top of my head, and my joy. Life seemed perfect now. I knew this was big. I just couldn’t comprehend how big it was going to be.

And that was how Jesus saved my soul. At 11, I didn’t know Jesus would save me 2 more times.

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I consider myself very fortunate to have had the family and experiences I did while I was growing up. I never doubted that my parents loved me. They never failed to tell me that or show me. They provided us with everything we needed, and sheltered us from things kids shouldn’t have to worry about. If we struggled with money, I didn’t know it. If Mom and Dad were fighting, I didn’t know it. If there was a recession or a child predator on the loose, I didn’t know it. My childhood struggles were just what they should have been: maintaining peace with my siblings and friends, doing well in school, learning how I should behave, and trying to reduce my consumption of Band-Aids.

You might say, I was an all-American girl next door. My parents nurtured in me a deep love for Christ and a strong self-confidence. I revere the military. Baseball is one of my favorite pastimes; I will always cheer for my favorite college football teams—and soccer is better than you realize. I was a cheerful, talkative kid with a sweet disposition.

So how did that girl become a depressed bulimic?

I was in no way a typical at risk kid. I had both loving parents and a stable home life. No matter where we lived, I knew what life would be like at home. I always did well in school and easily made friends. I had a clear understanding of right and wrong, and that I shouldn’t do things that are damaging to myself or others. I had a true faith in Christ, and knew I was accountable for my actions, good and bad.

Somewhere along the way, a split in me occurred. One part of me kept those truths and meanings and showed confidence and my pleasant disposition. Another piece began to believe I wasn’t beautiful, that I wasn’t small enough, and that it really mattered. I began to think that size was necessary for beauty and that a number was a size—the smaller the better. At the beginning though, it wasn’t even about size. Choosing to be a bulimic was more about control.

Chapter 2

T hrough my middle school and high school years, rearranging my room became a common activity for me. When we moved to Birmingham, my sister and I finally got our own rooms. I had the two twin beds that were in the room we shared before we moved, a dresser, a desk and a storage cube I used as a nightstand. These were my things, in my space; I didn’t have to share them with anyone, and I could exert control over my environment by choosing the arrangement of my room, over and over again. I made a king bed once by putting the two twin beds together. The dresser would move from one side of the room to the other. The desk rotated from under the window to under the shelves on the wall. It was common for Mom or Dad to come tell me something, only to find my room in chaos as I rearranged it again.

One such time, my mom came to tell me that dinner was ready. She knocked politely on my door then opened it, but it was abruptly stopped by the dresser that I’d pushed way from the wall. She fit her head through the door,

Sarah?

Yeah? I said, poking my head out like a turtle. I was sandwiched between the wall and the bed with my feet positioned on the bed frame, ready to push.

What are you doing? she asked as her eyes scanned the room.

Rearranging, I replied cheerily, as if it was natural.

Again? She asked, as if it was crazy.

Yeah, I replied as I had before. I wanted to change it a little. I’m gonna turn this bed that way, I explained pointing to the wall with the window, and scoot the dresser up.

Well, dinner is ready, She said.

Okay, I said, strained, as I shoved the bed away from the wall with my feet, I’ll be right there. I scooted up, put my feet on the frame and shoved again.

She closed the door, and I heard her deliver the same announcement to my brother as I finished moving the bed.

I never asked anyone to help me when I wanted to rearrange my room. I wanted to feel and show that I could do this physical work on my own. I also didn’t want anyone to influence my process or decision. I liked being in control of what was mine; I liked controlling a project. I still do.

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During middle school I had three distinct romantic encounters that would shape my view of dating relationships and what boys liked in girls.

My romantic development happened much like any other American girl, I suppose. Somewhere between fifth and sixth grade boys became interesting as more than just friends. My first what-if romance was a boy in my sixth grade math class—Jeffery Morgan. He had brown eyes like hot chocolate, dark hair, and he was terribly shy. This was probably what sparked the crush. Being shy, he wasn’t obnoxious like every other sixth grade boy, and I was free to daydream without the interference of reality. We would look at each other often and smile a little bit. Then our greatest encounter happened one day while we were retrieving our notebooks from the crate where they were stored in the classroom. Jeffery and I arrived at the same time, reached in for our notebooks, and our hands touched. He pulled his hand back, we smiled at each other, his cute cheeks were turning red, and we walked back to our seats. It was glorious! I was in blissful crush-heaven for a week. Just when I resolved to act—meet him at his locker, ask to sit with him at lunch, follow him to his next class—he wasn’t there anymore. The teacher said he had moved. So, that was sixth grade.

Seventh grade was an educational year for my budding ideas of romance and dating. It was also my ugly duckling year. I still laugh at my seventh grade school yearbook picture. To begin with, in the summer before the school year, I bugged my mom to take me to the salon for a haircut. I wanted a cute bob. I think I bothered my mom for a week about a haircut before I finally gave up and did it myself. I cut it surprisingly straight. However, I had yet to learn how curly hair behaves. Just because I cut off the curls didn’t mean the rest wouldn’t curl. I had wet my hair, combed it out, and cut just below my chin, accounting for shrinkage when it dried. However, my curly hair didn’t just shrink a bit when it dried; it curled up too. So the end result was more like a crumpled mess, just below my ears. My curly hair would not behave like a bob, so I often pulled the sides back and continuously smoothed the rest behind my ears as it grew out. Early in seventh grade, my very crooked teeth were fitted with braces, much like everyone else, thankfully. So in my fall seventh grade picture, I have awkwardly short, bumpy hair and braces with orange and blue decorative rubber bands to show my team pride for the Auburn Tigers (Other kids had red and white for Alabama. Trust me, it’s a big deal.). Later that year my parents discovered I needed glasses (I didn’t know the world wasn’t supposed to look the way it did.), and I choose awesome red frames for my thick glasses. This was well before Sally Jesse Raphael made the look famous. They really were quite stylish for the time (trust me). In my spring picture for seventh grade, thankfully my hair had grown out some, but it was still short, still unruly. I didn’t have the decorative rubber bands on my braces, but my teeth were still quite crooked, and the red glasses were an addition. My outfit showed how I was approaching the teen years. I picked a girly sweater, and I think I wore a skirt that day, though it’s not visible in the picture. I was definitely in my awkward stage.

Luckily, in the seventh grade most everyone else is in their awkward stage also. But I didn’t think