I was a pudgy kid who preferred reading books and drawing horses to spending time with other children, and, naturally, they hated me for it. Most of school wasn't so bad, since all of my classes were with the other smart kids, and they quickly realized that being partnered with me was fantastic for their grades. But there were mine fields during the day where I felt unsafe and where no amount of parent and teacher intervention could help me. Like P.E., where I was thrown into unflattering clothes and sent outside with coaches who didn't know me to battle with kids who didn't like me. There was one boy in particular who dedicated his time to throwing balls at my head. Luckily, I was pretty good at sports and managed to dodge or catch, every time, despite the tears. 

And then there was the bus. It was like Lord of the Flies on there. I was spat on, kicked, and jeered. The little monsters ripped my books, shredded my drawings, and called me names. And the fact that the bus driver was my Great Aunt Barbara only made it worse. I still have an animal, gut-deep reaction to the smell of a school bus and am not entirely fond of the color yellow. 

In P.E., on the bus, in the cafeteria-- there was no way to fight back. No one ever actually hit me or pushed me or did anything that I could prove. It was all subtle, insidious, cruel. Words and ripped paper and laughter.

The final straw came my sophomore year of high school. I had finally found my friends and was thriving. I had my own car and didn't have to go on the bus. Ever. I had contacts and a decent haircut and a boyfriend. As long as I never ventured down to the A-hall bathrooms where the really tough kids hung out, I was pretty much safe. So I was happy that day, because it was my birthday, and life was as good as it had ever been. My girlfriends had brought me a cookie cake and presents and a bouquet of balloons, which were tied to my belt. So I was walking across the cafeteria, elated, carrying this delicious cookie cake.

A guy leaned into the aisle with the flat, dull smile of a shark, blocking me.

"Is it your birthday?" he asked.

I stopped, because he was he kid who had tried to give me a concussion in P.E. I pointed the balloons and said, "Um, yeah."

"That's cool. Happy Birthday!" he paused. More shark teeth. "So, you gonna share that cookie?"

I looked at the cookie cake. And I looked at him. And I looked around at the cafeteria, where everyone was oblivious to the fear squirting through my system. And to the rage. I had never had a chance to stand up to this kid, but I'm pretty fond of cookie cake, and I was flat out sick of taking his crap.

"No."

He was dumbfounded, of course, because he was popular and good-looking and an athlete and, honestly, not that smart. "Why not?"

"Because you're a bully. You've been pushing me around and threatening me and kicking balls at my head since middle school. So no, you can't have any of my birthday cookie."

Proud and, yes, terrified, I kept walking.

"Church parking lot. After school. I'm gonna kick your ass, bitch," he shouted at my back. 

I turned, slowly, and smiled. "See you there."

When I got back to my friends, they huddled around me. "Did he just challenge you to a fight in the church lot? He's going to kill you!"

I couldn't stop smiling. See, my parents had never taught me how to stand up to bullies. But they had always told me that if someone threw a punch at me, I was welcome to fight as dirty as I wanted to, and they would back me up, no matter what. With years of rage built up and an enemy who thought I was weak and cowed, I couldn't wait.

And you know what? That jerk never showed. I was there, in the church parking lot, surrounded by a crowd of a hundred bloodthirsty spectators, with a bouquet of balloons tied to my belt, grinning like a killer to finally fight back.

And he never showed.

And then, last year, he checked me out in a department store. And I kept walking, head high.

He may not have shown up, but I still won that fight.

-- 
Delilah Dawson
Associate Editor, Cool Mom Picks
http://coolmompicks.com