Junior high. Social studies. A promise from a well intentioned teacher: If we finished our work early, we could spend the rest of the class listening to his cassette of Dire Straits’ Brothers in Arms. Featuring such hits as “Money for Nothing.”

Ha ha. Classroom full of 13-year-olds scoffs and snarls. Dire Straits. That’s so quee-ah.

Upon reflection, classroom full of 13-year-olds decides even listening to Dire Straits beats learning about real straits. Music commences. Teacher’s dignity remains intact.

Not that he was worried about his dignity, I suppose. But I always fretted about the teachers. Maybe because I was more used to being around grown-ups than kids my age. I saw teachers as human. I watched for their reactions to things. Even as I participated in general junior high scoffery, I kept an eye out to make sure things weren’t going too far.

Lot of wasted energy, that. Should have focused on being a kid.

Oh! Bonus memory! Social studies class, in that same classroom, different teacher. I had a string of days — weeks, maybe? — where I was deathly afraid of throwing up at school. The humiliation, oh the humiliation! I could picture it vividly, despite never having experienced that particular fate. The more I thought about it, the more anxious I got, and the more anxious I got … well. I would sit there, my mouth clamped tight, my eyes seeking any sort of distraction: the clock, the chalkboard, the National Geographic pages stapled to the bulletin board. Anything, anything to keep bucketsful of puke from rising up. Don’t call on me, don’t call on me, if I have to talk I’ll spew.

Eventually the phobia dwindled.

Oh, and social studies? I learned something in there, I’m sure. Even if it was just the complexities of the working man’s feelings in re: rock stars on MTV.

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