As a student of the largely unremarkable Vanilla Wafer Academy, there were few things worth looking forward to more than Jonathon Wolff's birthday. As far as our little corner of K-12 was concerned, Wolff was king. He was champ. He was the flagship poster boy for the sixth grade class--the most popular, the most charismatic, by far the most athletic, and, as these things go, he also had the richest parents. So when Jonathon Wolff had a birthday party, you made damn sure you were going to be there.
And to top it all off, it was going to be a pool party. With girls.
I arrived at the House of Wolff to find a spectacular sight: table stands decked out with name brand potato chips and actual takeout pizza boxes, frosty cool cans of sweet root beer, ice chests swelling to the hilt with creamy mounds of soft, homemade vanilla like miniature softballs, and, at the end of this delectable cornucopia, the most amazingly blue inground pool my eyes have ever laid witness to; the thing was seriously immaculate.
It wasn't long before I met up with my small circle of friends, and we began debating which tactics would be most effective in approaching a girl. One friend recalled feigning color-blindness in a bizarre attempt at gaining a girl's sympathy, hoping she would then proceed to go out with him. Neither was accomplished.
As we carried on, a most peculiar thing occurred--every one of the popular kids, the "jocks," were tossing and pushing the girls into the pool. And, most surprisingly, they seemed to actually enjoy it! The girls laughed and screamed playfully as they fell one-by-one into the water. Was that it? Would this minor transgression on my part propel me from diffident wallflower to middle school Casanova? Now in junior high, I figured myself to have matured greatly from the awkward, timid youth of elementary school, and I was going to prove it.
I scouted through the raucous antics of the backyard for a target. And there, standing idly by at the other end of the pool, was Sarah--a pretty-enough blonde to catch my attention, but not popular enough so as to arouse deep-seated anxiety at the mere thought of approaching her. I made my way to her side of the pool.
"Hey, Sarah!"
As she turned to face me, I thrusted my hands forward with gusto, watching triumphantly as her body fell into the majestic waters of Wolff's pool.
I did it! I actually did it, I thought to myself. The exhilaration felt at that moment was palpable, and it seemed as though time, itself, had stopped. I imagined everyone at a standstill with their eyes fixated upon me, admiring my feat.
But time had not come to a stop, and everyone was staring at me. The mistaken look of admiration was, in fact, shock, as poor Sarah flailed about in the now markedly grim blue body of water, and screaming at a level of volume I previously thought incapable by human vocal cords. Rather than being seen as joining the ranks amongst the popular, sixth grade elite, I was, instead, viewed as the mean, menacing, still awkward, bully who had almost killed the girl with asthma.
After the ambulance had arrived and transported our deeply distressed classmate to the ICU, I was left alone to pass the time whilst waiting anxiously for my angry and disappointed parents to come and pick me up. My brain kept the incident on a sadistic loop like a bowdlerized "Clockwork Orange." While Jonathon Wolff's party had been a bust, it was far from forgotten; family and classmates made certain of that...
Neither one of us brought up the pool party during our brief run-in this afternoon, though. I gave her my life's post-high school highlights, mentioned plans for the future; Sarah reciprocated. And as she directed the conversation to the shiny new ornament around her finger (congrats!), I couldn't help but think of that stupid pool party and how much I hated pushing her, even before I knew anything was wrong. Truthfully, my mind replays that night far more frequently (and in no less vivid detail) than I'd care to admit; it's become a sorta, kinda, almost, slightly quasi-defining moment in my life. Aside from the very obvious recognition that I was not apart of the "cool" clique, throughout the years I gradually became more and more aware of the importance of understanding your own identity. Experimenting and testing one's limits shouldn't be avoided, but if you find yourself upsetting the crux of your character, then you'll just end up a pariah.
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