Only Bullies Like Dodgeball

Only Bullies like Dodge Ball

         "Yowch!" I cry. I look across the gymnasium at the offender that just smoked me in the face. Trish smiles at me weakly, then waves. At least, I think she does. I'm seeing two of her.

         "Jenkins! You're out!" a voice barks. The drill sergeant - er, I mean, Ms. Patterson - is pointing at me. "To the sidelines!"

         No kidding, I think to myself. I kind of noticed that I got hit. Geez.

         I go and sit on the bleachers on the west side of the gym. Trish jogs up to me, which is rather unnecessary, since I'm only ten feet away. "I'm so sorry - you okay?" she asks.

         It really amazes me how someone who once played "Connect the Dots" on my face while I was sleeping can sound so convincingly concerned. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

         "Anytime," she says, as if she's done me some huge favour. "Again, sorry." Right. Dodge ball rules say you're not supposed to hit above the waist. Trish is a baseball pitcher on our championship team - first string. If her aim is that bad, the other teams must really suck.

         Trish half walks, half jogs back to her friends. They give her high-fives. I wonder if they're celebrating because they're winning, or they're secretly enjoying my pain and suffering. Probably the latter. I've been their personal "project" since third grade. It's really quite juvenile. You would think that they would have grown up by now, but no, they still like to pull their stupid pranks.

         “Jenkins!” It’s Ms. Patterson. She sits down next to me. “You going to live?” To Ms. Patterson, it doesn’t matter if you’re hurt - it’s only a big deal if your injury is potentially fatal. One of these days, somebody will sue her.

         “Yeah, I’m fine. And my name is Leigh. Leigh Jenkins.” I wonder when she’ll figure out that I don’t appreciate her calling me by my last name.

         Apparently, today isn't the day. “Whatever, Jenkins."

         She blows on her whistle so loudly I cringe. “All right, girls. Hit the showers!”

* * * * *

         The humidity from the shower makes my nose feel a little better, so I stay in there a little bit longer than I should. Trish didn’t break it, at least. Thank God for small wonders.

         I wrap the too-big towel around me. Tightly. No need for me to be teased about my lack of "endowment." Again.

         I peek out from behind the shower curtain. Everyone else has their backs turned, so I'm relatively safe. If I time this just right, I can run out of the shower, grab my clothes, and get into the stall before anyone can see me. Wait a minute - where are my clothes?

         I check my bag. Once, twice. Just to make sure, I dump the entire contents on the floor. Nope, not there. I don’t have a gym locker, so I check all the hooks and underneath all the benches. Nothing.

         There is only one reasonable conclusion. They took my clothes! Trish and her posse - they took my clothes! Of all the stupid, juvenile, immature pranks...

         I pull my gym shirt over my head. I have no bra, but there’s not much I can do about that. If I’m lucky, they hid my clothes in an obvious place, and nobody will see me like this.

         At that moment, a voice crackles over the P.A. system. “If someone is missing a pink polka dotted undergarment, would you please come to the office to claim it. We have retrieved it from the flagpole.”

         Giggles erupt in the change room. "How does somebody LOSE their bra?" Jen asks. "Does it just fall off while they're walking down the hall? Seriously."

         They must be kidding. This is some cruel joke. They didn’t really put it up the flagpole, did they? I can just imagine it now. A truck driver, about ready to fall asleep from driving for so many hours without stopping, is cruising down the highway. He does a double take. He backs up, just to make sure. All of a sudden, BAM! The car behind him rear-ends him, because the driver was too busy applying lipstick to see the big rig in front of her stop to look at my bra, flying gloriously beneath our national flag.

         This is the crap I go through for 75 minutes, every day. And the Ontario government wants to make P.E. mandatory for all grades? Over my dead body!