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Today I’m thinking about a girl I went to high school with. Joy and I came from different worlds; her family came to the United States on the Mayflower (probably), while my grandpa came through Ellis Island as a young boy from Italy. My parents had little schooling beyond high school. While I don’t know what Joy’s parents did, I do remember how upset she was to get the used Mercedes for her 16th birthday. Apparently she wanted a Jaguar.

But I didn’t care that Joy’s family had lots of money and mine didn’t. I grew up with two amazing parents who gave me, from the start, unconditional love and unwavering support. What I did care about was how Joy would treat me. 

Definitely Not Part of the In Crowd

Now, it may shock you to learn that bookworms who would rather read than learn how to wear makeup and preferred writing to partying didn’t interact much with the popular crowd, but reader, I was not popular. I read Gone With the Wind in sixth grade — for fun — and trust me when I tell you that achievement does not get you invited to cotillions which, yes, were a thing that happened in Clearwater, Florida.

In short, I was not part of the “in” crowd, and it never once bothered me, but for some reason, my very existence seemed to make Joy wild with rage. I have vivid memories of her pointing directly at me — I was about 10 feet away — and whispering into her boyfriend’s ear and laughing loudly. 

This happened almost every day at lunch. It also happened whenever she passed me in the hall between classes or saw me at a school function. She never missed the chance to take a jab at me. If her boyfriend wasn’t around, she’d grab whichever of her friends were around, point at me, whisper, and laugh at me.

We Didn’t Call That Bullying

I tried asking her once why she didn’t like me. That’s how I was raised: You address problems directly. That didn’t set well with Joy. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but I do remember my asking enraging her. After that, she ramped it up, and sometimes her friends would go along with her, or her boyfriend, who honestly, had seemed like a nice enough guy before this all started. It’s not as though I was competition, or that I wanted to be. My very existence filled her with anger. 

Senior year, I was the editor of the literary magazine, and I spent my lunch hours in The Pub (short for  publishing room), the journalism classroom, or the yearbook room. I don’t know where Joy spent her lunch hours but it certainly wasn’t there, for which I was grateful. We graduated. I never saw her again.

My understanding is Joy married well. I do not believe she chose to work. That’s nice for her. I, too, have married well, although I suspect she and I have different definitions of what “marrying well” means. And while I know my own achievements and am as pleased with my professional life as I am my personal one, I can’t seem to find any record of Joy other than an occasional virtue signaling post about her when I remember to check Facebook. But that’s just as well; everything, it seems, passes eventually, unless you’re able to leave a meaningful mark.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about her lately. No real reason.