The Bodyguard

This one is kind of a cheat, because it is a piece I wrote for something else, but I am already a week late, and I have a lot of stuff to do, so I'm going for it. I did at least make some edits.

In school I know was thought of as the smart one, whom you could ask for help with your homework, as well as the nice one, from whom you could borrow money and probably not pay it back. What people may not have necessarily realized is that I was also the tough one. At least, I thought I was. I knew I could handle myself in any situation, and, without being the type to start fights, I was always kind of hoping for a chance.

Yes, I was familiar with the concept of turning the other cheek, but I did not have much interest in it. For example, the last day of second grade, when our bus driver ill-advisedly said we could have a water fight on the way home, everyone brought water guns and spray bottles. I had none. When Jason S., whom I did not like anyway, stationed himself right in front of me, and started spraying, despite me being an unarmed girl, I grabbed his hair and used it to hold him to the seat until we got to his stop. When I let him up his face was beet red. I knew he was humiliated, and I was thrilled!

It was one of only two times I have had to defend myself physically. Generally I found that just being ready, confident in your clear path to victory, you did not even need to fight because your opponents would back off. The most striking example was the day I saved Lise.

Lise was in eighth grade when I was in ninth grade, and we were friends in spite of being very different. She was pale, blond, thin, and timid. Kind of rabbit-like actually, and I would probably be some sort bear, I guess. Her church was anti-Mormon, and as she kept failing to convert me, the stress of caring about someone who would not be saved really began to interfere with our friendship. I guess she eventually just consigned me to Hell, because by the time she and her brother transferred to a Christian school we had grown apart. This was before all of that.

We had made friends on the bus, and that was where the trouble started. We had just barely pulled out one day, and something ticked off the driver. I don’t know if something was thrown or someone shouted a bad word or what, but the fact that I can’t remember that part makes me think she blew it out of proportion. She pulled back into the school parking lot, and suddenly the vice principal was there and our bus was not going to move until the culprit was identified.

Although I did not do things to get in trouble, I still adhered to the basic code of the playground in that you do not snitch. For Lise, all she could think about was that if she was late her father would be mad, and she was terrified of her father. I don’t think he was abusive or anything, just stern and not comfortable. Anyway, she got off the bus with the vice principal, came back on, and the bus started for home. As subtle as that was, why they even bothered going off the bus I do not know.

Soon the news circulated that the next day, everyone was going to get off at her stop and gang up on her. I told her not to worry about it, because I would walk her home.

It was important to dress appropriately. My usual coat that year was my father’s old motorcycle jacket. I accessorized it with a studded leather wristband. I probably would never have bough either item, but I loved them both. The wristband was found while I was in line for the Matterhorn at Disneyland. I spied it on the ground from a few curves away, and hoped no one else would claim it before I got to that part of the line. It wasn’t an every day thing. I would wear it on test days or special occasions, when I wanted that extra edge. For bodyguard service it was a definite necessity.

The bus route was basically a square, from 170th turning on Blanton, then down 165th, turning right on Farmington, and doubling back onto 170th to complete the route. My stop was one of the first and Lise’s was the last. The bus progressed along the route with no one getting off. You would think after her overreaction the day before, the driver might have responded a little to the lack of exits, but we were all unusually quiet and she probably liked that.

We were sitting in front so got off first. There was a group of about seven to nine kids behind us. Part of the strategy was to not look back, just keep walking, so I only had the one brief glimpse. If I try to remember, some faces almost appear, but the only two I can identify with certainty are Melissa and Cheryl. I knew Melissa because she was dating Aaron, who had the locker next to mine and whom I liked, even though he was a year younger than me and a drug dealer. I knew Cheryl from church, and yet somehow I was not shocked to see her there. I bet her parents would have been surprised. It was not an all-girl group despite that. I think Tom might have been there, but I am not sure. I hope not. If all the teasing he took about his mentally ill mother did not turn him against bullying, I don’t know what would have.

Lise had a very long driveway, so the perfect attack spot would have been halfway up. They would not have necessarily attracted attention from either the road or the house. But nothing happened. They followed for a few steps, then disappeared. I spent a little while at Lise’s house, then walked home unmolested.

I feel confident that I did the right thing. If I had not been there, she would surely have been jumped, and hurt, and her father would totally have pressed charges, allowing the ugliness to escalate. Still, it was all pretty stupid. Why didn’t they attack her the next day when I did not escort her? Does a group attack really require that much planning? And how pathetic is it nine against one is acceptable, but throw an extra person in there and all bets are off? And how long would they have kept us on the bus if she had kept her mouth shut?

I don’t know what the answers are, but I think of all my experiences, this one may be the most definitively junior high. That and the beetle thing.

Just imagine Whitney Houston blaring over the credits. I’m not saying that I will always love Lise, but I like the song and it’s one of the last songs I remember of Whitney’s before she turned into a strung out crack ho.