Y.S.T.

I remember it well. I was in eighth grade, ruler of the proverbial middle school roost. There were few perks however, for no matter how many pizza parties we were given, we all still had braces and frizzy hair. Although, we were allowed more frequent field trips, one of which included a trip to the movies to see the educational Russell Crowe flick, "Master and Commander."

In truth, I don't recall much from the film except for lots of sea water and Paul Bettany playing the cello like a guitar in the end. What I remember most is the events preceding it. You see, on this day, we were given the opportunity to "dress down," which, for all intents and purposes meant being freed from the khaki confines of middle school uniforms. It was liberating, however our prudish social studies teacher limited our freedoms to a "hoodie" (this was her feeble attempt at pre-pubescent vernacular) and jeans.

So what did I wear? A "hoodie" and jeans. This wasn't any just any hoodie, though. Made with black cotton, with ribbed, glittered and striped cuffs and a black satin lined hood, this jacket was absolutely lush. It had just enough grit and jagged embroidery to fit my "tough girl" facade (after all, I did listen to Good Charlotte and Avenged Sevenfold), and I felt fantastic. I still do when I wear it. It was a zip-up hoodie, so of course I chose to showcase some more angsty personality with a hot pink "Beauty School Dropout" tee. My jeans were a recent purchase from the thirteen year old girl's boutique of choice--Wet Seal. Light, frayed, and of course skin tight. I walked into school, tie-dyed LL Bean backpack in tow, overconfident and overdone.

It made no matter, though. Our class went through the typical morning routine, studying world capitols and reciting mnemonic devices in hopes of remembering some stupid battle, and then homeroom announcements. As we were standing for the pledge, all eyes begrudgingly gazing at the red white and blue, and consequently the asbestos covered ceiling tiles, my teacher's eyes locked with mine. And, from across the classroom, she growled, "I'm disappointed in you, Cox."

In an instant, I blinked my mascara covered eyelashes, and they became stuck. One too many coats, I suppose. I began rubbing at them incessantly, and soon after resembled a hooded raccoon. Why did she single me out like that, I wondered. I was dressed no differently than anyone else. I hadn't done anything wrong. Once I managed to pry each of my eyelashes apart, I looked back to her. And, as usual, all I received was the slitty sneer.

She pulled me aside as we divided into bus teams, and told me that she had once wanted to play the Kool Gurl, the Rebel, the Smart Ass, but she said she knew that I wasn't that. She said that she was disappointed, then, that a girl who once won geography and spelling bees would feel the need to wear dark clothing and skating shoes with wild laces. She didn't like my attitude, she said. Boys may like that here, but they aren't the type that you should get to know in that way.

I had nothing to say, of course. I knew she was right, but I was too proud to admit it. I rolled my eyes and replied with a curt "well, thanks for the insight," and then forced a smile and laughed back to my Converse clad circle of friends. I was too scared to turn my head back around. "What did she want," they asked. I said nothing, and then muttered under my breath that she was just a bitch. No matter how many times I said that, though, it didn't become easier to say. I picked at her appearance, easy things--like belittling her choice in ill-fitting denim, mocking her generic tennis shoes, but that just made me feel worse.

And in the theater, while I could see the glassy eyes of my classmates transfixed on Russell Crowe's seamanship, I could only focus on the way my teacher pulled me aside, tried to talk to me, and I essentially just spat in her face. She wanted to help me, but the only thing that sank in was the veritable poison I expelled with my venomous tongue. She had nothing to do with me the rest of the year; I finished out my final and languid term with unremarkable grades. At graduation, I received nothing but a hollow pat on the back.

It happens often, though. You know, reaching out a blind hand and vulnerable palm only to be slapped in return. Dipping your small foot into a raging river only to have it ravaged by a school of piranhas. Maybe that's a bit extreme, but the point remains: disappointment stings.

To a certain extent, I feel like we're so scared of disappointment that we ball our fists so tightly and shove them into our pockets so deeply that they become numb to everything. We sell or we're spent. But at the end of the day, nothing is scarier or darker than making that final trek home, looking into your rear view mirror and not being afraid of what you will see, but rather what you won't. Nothing is worse than nothing.