Friday, October 26, 2007

The Girl Bully

Pete O'Byachick

My last story was about 60% true; this tale is the real deal: I didn't have to make up a thing.

When I was around 10 years old, we moved from a modern suburban environment to a podunk hick town in the Midwest. We only stayed there two years before we got sick of the backwardness and fled once again to civilization. But my 5th and 6th grade years were spent in that little hick town; the place had a population of about, oh, 250 at the most. School was really interesting: all the usual cliques that you find in any other school were easier to spot because each clique had such fewer numbers; you had your few nerd kids, your few smart kids, your few jock kids, your hick kids (heavy on the hick kids), and you had your thug kids--the usual bully types: five or so boys clustered together and roaming the playground at recesses and lunch times eyeing out easy targets to pick on and harass; inevitably, they sought out kids who were ALONE; they pretty much had there way with everyone, and for the first couple months I naturally assumed that they were on the top of the food chain in that little hick school.

Wrong! It soon came to my attention that there was one person whom they never, ever dared to mess with--even though this person was nearly always alone.

It was Lisa N. Yes, that's right, folks--a girl. But not just any girl: Lisa was the first girl in school that I had ever seen develop boobs. That is not to say that she was attractive or anything; Lisa N. was far, far too extremely entrenched in the camp of "tomboy" for that. By nature a loner most of the time, she was nevertheless never, ever harassed by any of the boy bullies because, as I soon came to find out, she had a real ugly mean streak in her that had, by the time I got there, gave her a ubiquitous reputation for being the girl to stay the hell away from: she was a consistent and notorious ball-kicker. And she used to wear these heavy, clod-hopping cowboy boots EVERYDAY to school.

It was those boots that the group of bully boys feared, as I found out, for I once overheard them talking together about going over to pick on her or something (Lisa had done something in class to make one of the boys mad, apparently). The lead bully was bragging about the things he would "like" to tell her and to her, but when one of his subordinates challenged him to act upon his boasts, he suddenly turned ashen-white and, looking at the lesser boy, said "Not while she's wearing those boots." (Of course, that seems all very silly to me now: whether it is a boot or a bare foot, the result of a girl kicking a boy in the balls is rather the same: a boot weighs more, but a foot would be traveling faster, so who cares? But my, oh my, how those boots assumed a foreboding reputation of their own in that school!)

Lisa N. lived down the street from me and thus I saw her more than just at school. Even though she was not attractive, I used to watch those strange appendages on her chest bounce when she played with us sometimes, because no other girl in school had yet gotten those yet; Lisa was very much the early bloomer, all right: I wish I could tell you guys that Lisa was this little petite thing, because I know that such would make her ball-kicking antics all the more appealing; but no, Lisa was at least as big and strong as any of the boys in school at that time, built very solid--almost too solid for a girl of 10 or 11.

Living down the street from me as she did, I shared bus rides home with her. She was normally such a quiet, reserved ultra-tomboy; but she did indeed have a quick temper and a mean streak, which erupted from time to time in feuds over such as the seating arrangements in that bus. And when some boy did make her mad, she would not let him off the hook: she would cast aside her reticence and needle and provoke him, although, by the time I had moved there, all of the boys in that town were wise to her and would give her a very wide berth.

But my brother was new and had to learn the hard way one day. I was sitting in the front of the bus and my brother in the rear. I had no idea, but some argument must have broken out between Lisa and my brother. Lisa did what she always did, waited until the bus let off, and then picked the fight. I saw none of this; I was walking home. I was walking up the steps to our porch when I started to hear this wretched crying about 40-50 feet behind me and, upon turning around, I saw my brother crying horrendously, struggling to walk while hunched over, dropping his books with every other step. Then, walking directly pas me, I noticed Lisa, looking back at her handiwork—at my brother--and she was smiling--so help me, she was SMILING!!! I knew what had happened, naturally enough, and I hated Lisa for it. I made up my mind to get revenge upon Lisa, but, looking at the pain in my brother's face, I froze: I would have to think about this.

From that day onward, bus rides to and from school must have been a difficult thing for my brother: kids who had witnessed the event (i.e., everyone on the bus), along with Lisa herself, would sometimes teasingly ask him "how's your balls?", to which he consistently let out the same lame protest "she only kicked me in the stomach"--yeah, right. So, I thought about how I could get revenge upon Lisa for about a week. My outrage had not subsided in the least, and I had finally convinced myself that I could "take her"--yes, I would beat Lisa up and get revenge for my brother.

But at the end of that week something else happened - a new boy moved into town. Now, Lisa had kicked my brother in the balls on a Monday, and hence, Friday was the day that I had made up mind to show the entire school that I was not afraid of Lisa. But the day before, Thursday, this new boy shows up on our bus in the morning. I don't know why, but somehow, someway, Lisa got into another bus ride argument with him (she really wasted no time in her maintenance of the pecking order, I guess). Anyway, the new boy and Lisa chose each other off inside the bus, and it was agreed that they would fight just as soon as they got to school. Word spread like wild fire throughout the bus - a fight! a fight! Everyone knew the inevitable outcome, of course, but they all wanted to see it anyway. I watched the boy; he was a tough kid, all right. He looked pretty sure of himself, like he'd been in quite a few scrapes already. I suppose it was this, this confident appearance, which instilled within me the slightest of hopes: Maybe he can take care of himself, I thought.

Now, when I had initially heard that it was a new kid who was going to be fighting Lisa, my first reaction was that I should warn him; I wanted to say to him, "Look out! She is a vicious ball-kicker! She runs this school and all the boys are afraid of her! She makes boys cry and then smiles about it!" But really, his look suggested that he could take care of himself, so I joined the rest of the kids in the desire to see this fight come off.

Well, we exited the bus, a huge circle of kids gathered round (huge for that podunk town); Lisa and the boy faced each other and began the prerequisite name-calling. The boy then gathered up his fists and began to move around in a kind of boxing shuffle; indeed, this boy DID know what he was doing! Perhaps Lisa had met her match, I began to wonder; after all, Lisa just stood there, arms at her side, looking not at all like someone about to engage in a fight. The boy threw out a couple of deft, feigning jabs at her.

What happened next was that I blinked my eyes; I really did blink my eyes, and that is only just how long it took; by the time I was done blinking, her boot was already crashing upwards between his legs. It happened so fast that I did not even see her foot lifting off the ground! I only saw the actual fight-ending, day-ruining blow, the actual impact of her boot upon his balls.

The new kid went down like he'd been shot; it was as if there was some mechanical pulley, some automatic reflexive tether stretching from his balls to his knees which ensured that the instant his balls were struck, his knees buckled at that very same instant. He fell to the ground, hands clutching his package, like a sack of potatoes, without even making sound.

Once on the ground, however, he made a lot of sound: he began crying hysterically. And there was Lisa, standing over him, triumphant once again. Looking down--again in admiration over her handiwork--she paused long enough to say, "Looks like you're going to be late for class.", and then she stepped over him and proceeded to class herself. I don't think he heard her, I don't think he could have. In retrospect, I suppose the one fortunate thing for this hapless kid was that at least he did not share the same classroom as Lisa. For I could just see how embarrassing that would have been for him, to walk into her class--after finally leaving the nurses office--late and have every kid there know why he was so late.

And, you remember that I had had it in mind to get my revenge upon Lisa the following day? Well, this incident cured me of any such suicidal notions. For the remainder of that school day I was in shock; that night, I kept pondering over and over again what would happen should I actually try to start a fight with Lisa the following day. I saw myself standing across from Lisa as that new boy had, with the entire school gathered round with vulture-like eyes fixed at the target between my legs, and then I saw, as though looking through my own eyes during the occurrence of the very event, I saw Lisa and the crowd suddenly rising up over my head, and I saw the ground coming towards me, and then I was looking up at Lisa, and she was saying something, mocking me, and some of the kids in the crowd were laughing at me, and I had the most nauseating pain in my gut that would not go away but only got worse and worse.

No, this thought, this vision, made up my mind for me: I would not mess with Lisa N., because Lisa N. would clobber me. She would kick me in the balls, and that was a very bad thing. A very, very bad thing. There was a brief moment when I considered wrestling her--for she could not kick me so easily if I got her on the ground, I reasoned--but even that thought was quickly dashed as I had to remind myself that she was at least as big as me, and very likely stronger. No, call me a coward if you must, but my brother would go unavenged.

When I think about it now, I am SOOOOO GLAD that I thought things over before I attempted to take on Lisa N. I remember so vividly the look of staggering, humiliating, excruciating, lingering pain upon that new boy's face, and upon my brother's face: that could have been me!!!

Also, when I think about it now, I think how appallingly easy school life must have been for Lisa: what must it be like to be a girl who walks around KNOWING that she is the toughest kid on campus; not only that, to be such a girl and to know that, not only are you the toughest of all kids, but that also, when the moment arises and you have to remind others that you are the toughest kid, you don't even have to break a sweat, because all the other tough kids have to carry around this secret little easy-to-reach sensitive spot, this hideously vulnerable pouch, which you don't have to worry about yourself, but for which you know you can always have access to and take advantage of in others, and when you do "access" their sensitive spot, you just KNOW that the fight will be over and you will have won. It truly must have felt to Lisa--and to any other tough school girl--that all the boys are Supermen and your foot is made of Kryptonite. (Actually, I wonder if it may not be the case that ALL school-age girls, whether tough or dainty, might not share such an all-encompassing degree of confidence within themselves regarding the weakness which they lack and which all boys have, once the girl is first apprised that just such a weakness exists for all boys.) It was just blatantly unfair how easy Lisa made it look; she made winning a fight over a boy look as simple as pressing a button.

Bang! Oomph! The boy falls. The boy cries. The fight is over. Lisa has won again. Lisa can walk away.

To this day, I hate Lisa. In fact, if I ever came across her now, I would probably give her a piece of… I would tell off in such a way as to... no, no, forget it. There I go again. If I ever came across Lisa now, I would be as utterly ingratiatingly nice as possible. If I somehow couldn't run from her, I would be the most craven, cowardly, wishy-washy nice and cordial guy I could possibly be. Who knows--the well-being of my balls might depend upon it!

P.S. If you think that story was not true, so be it. I only wish that it was. We finally moved out of that town after a couple years. Phew! Now if only I could somehow erase the memory, or hypnotize myself into thinking it false myself, then I believe I would be a lot more assured of my manhood - that girl bully bothers me to this day. Ouch!

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

That was a great story. It is very true to, that defeating a boy, is as simple as pushing a button.

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Hey are u a retard, wear a protection cup, or fight sideways like an actual real boxer does, that way the genitals are harder to to hit likedirectly

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