Carrie Unser handed me a note attached to a folded piece of paper.
I know words. Sullen came to my mind when Carrie wordlessly looked at me. Maybe contempt.
Carrie, a senior, earned vague credit for performing modest gofer jobs in the main office. She turned her head and without a word walked away.
And, to date, that had been my entire high school experience with Carrie Unser.
I was going to make a point.
Ever since my uncle had died I made points. I looked at it as a matter of time. I could not waste time. I was private, so I didn’t share my points. I made them to myself. Just a sticky-note sized points. I posted them all over my psyche. My psyche covered canyons.
I didn’t judge the quality or depth or accuracy of the points. I just made them. It was a way of asserting control. To understand better. The world.
I made a point about Carrie Unser and the larger world that she and I inhabited.
I didn’t often come in contact with seniors. Strict lines divided the old from the young at Blissfield High. I approved of this setup because, frankly, the people on the side of the line that wouldn’t ever be on my side were not my kind of people. So why make a point about Carrie Unser?
She looked at me as I were ripe cheese.
By using this metaphor I was saying that Carrie Unser did not like old cheese.
Part of my point was about snobs and how I reacted to them. Carrie Unser just snobbed me. I didn’t care that she did this publically. What other people think of what Carried Unser thought of me did not touch me. And while I didn’t much care what Carrie Unser thought of me, I just didn’t need her to express it. She could think about how better she was than me every second of every minute of every day.
Enough of that point.
It was that she had to let me know.
I was spending much thought on Carrie Unser.
I was sensitive. I couldn’t stand slights. Especially from upper class girls. My self-esteem wobbled. And I liked blue cheese.
The point? It had to do with aggression.
My reaction to my uncle’s death had made me angry. I probably occupied a step, one part of a progression dealing with loss. I should have read a book on this. But I couldn’t read anymore.
I thought about violence. I wanted to hit things – people, walls, parts of nature, like a tree. I would have liked to hit Carrie Unser.
She didn’t know that. But she might have. Carrie Unser exuded a mysterious quality. I saw a piece of a red tattoo on her mid-section.
It strangely attracted me.
She’d better be careful. Next time.
That was my point: I was sensitive and angry and I didn’t want people insulting me. Or I may have become violent.
Of course, my attitude of Carrie Unser might have been totally off base. For all I knew, Carrie Under liked me.
Was that a point?
I moped my slobbery face with a stupid stiff handkerchief with a Guns ’n Roses print insignia, totally useless for absorbing tears and snot, and crumpled it into my lunch bag. I opened the small piece of paper, yellow, square and official. I read,
“See me about you club. After lunch. Have a name.”
The large B on the note’s bottom elongated horizontally. I thought about Twinkies. A vertical line jabbed the Twinkies, followed by nothing legible. I translated this to be Mr. Blok’s signature. I unfolded the larger piece of paper. The top, in twenty point font comic sans serif, announced: Club Application Form. Clip Art of happy young people cheering surrounded the heading. Lunch had not ended so I stayed seated and read the form in its entirety.
Name of Club____________________________________________________
Name of Student Wishing to Make this Club___________________________
Purpose of Club__________________________________________________
Write on back any other interested members. Do not forget to include your grade.
*Teachers: Please remember to read the rules about your responsibilities as an advisor located on the “How to Be a Responsible Club Advisor” before agreeing to advise a club.
Mr. Blok had approved my club. Or had he? The note Carrie Unser gave me said he expected to see me after lunch.
How much did I want to be removed from Mr. Blok’s radar?
Purpose of the club?
I had never joined a club, let alone started one. The future beckoned. I sensed trouble. My eyes welled with moisture. What had I done?
I wanted to go away. I wanted Mr. Blok off my back. I never wanted to cry in that office again. I wanted nothing to do with a club.