In 1967 I went through 7^th grade in a small town in Southern California. I knew some of the kids from the last time I’d lived there. My father was in the Marine Corps. We moved every two years, always from one coast to the other. Part of my geographical schizophrenia comes from never knowing if I am from the East or the West.

Every school I ever went to I was always the new kid; and then I was gone. But at Carlsbad Jr. High school about 4 kids remembered me.

One girl I remembered; Lisa Beaverbender. In the two years I’d been east, she’d evolved into the most stunning 7^th grader I’d ever seen. She sat right in front of me, her long, blond hair hanging down her back. She was taller than me, and striking. She had developed the figure of an 18 year old, tall and slender with long, graceful arms and legs. She was exceptionally pretty with a clear, open face and dark blue eyes. Despite her beauty she was quiet and shy, almost like the changes she’d experienced had slightly disoriented her. But what impressed me most was how she never seemed awkward or unsure of herself—like me.

We never spoke. We might have nodded to each other in the morning as we settled into our seats. I don’t remember her talking much to anybody. I think everyone was as awed by her as I was. She had a cool, easy sense of style that was intensely sexy because she seemed totally unaware of how sexy it was. I can still see her in her fringed, tan suede vest that left her arms bare, a matching mini-skirt tight around her hips and glossy white go-go boots.

The guys in the class sneered and shuddered around her, from a distance. They giggled about her name. No one could believe that a girl as astoundingly sexy as she was could have a name like Beaverbender. I knew she heard the snickers but I also knew the guys were too intimidated by her to identify themselves.

One kid, Eddie Sniddick, had remained my nemesis for both stints at Carlsbad Jr. High. He dropped a drawing on my desk one day. It was of me with a square head with bristles for hair; ridiculing the crewcut my father still forced me to wear. Eddie had scrawled the word “DiCillo” across my face. The day before, a new teacher had called the roll. He said my name but before I could answer, he yelled out, “You’ll wonder where DiCillo went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”

The entire class erupted. Eddie Sniddick leaned over from his desk and brayed right in my face.

One morning Lisa Beaverbender walked down the aisle with her books. As she sat at her desk, the back of the chair caught the hem of her skirt and suddenly pulled it up over her waist. In a flash, her entire bottom was exposed; her panty hose stretched to transparency over her white panties. And yet, incomprehensibly, she sat there, silent, unmoving and completely unaware.

I’m not going to lie and say that sight did not completely blow my 13 year old mind. I had never seen a girl in her underwear, especially a girl who looked like Lisa Beaverbender.

But, just then, a choking cough from behind turned me around. It was Eddie Sniddick. His face was swollen and his mouth hung open in a strangled leer. His eyes were bulging out of his head as he grabbed the arm of the kid next to him. 5 or 6 guys were heaving out of their seats in almost hysterical disbelief.

I turned back to Lisa. Her hair glistened as it hung straight down over her bare shoulder. I cautiously touched that shoulder. She turned to me, surprised.

I said, “Lisa, your skirt is caught.”

She looked down, and with a small cry, half-rose and pulled her skirt free.