My Bully Was The Head Cheerleader

And my sweet revenge tasted like Chicken Parmigiana

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Mary Jo Marx was perfection. Even her name made mine sound like a German curse word. Her long black lashes gave great contrast to her gorgeous hazel eyes. Sometimes, when she glided by a window and the light hit them right, they gleamed a bright green, like those of a mean cat at the end of a hallway. Her button nose had the perfect spray of freckles across the bridge, accentuating that alabaster skin and black bob.

Her striking appearance offset her trademark accessory — that green and white cheerleading outfit — as if divinely inspired.

I would catch them from the corner of my eye, sense them, the dreaded gaggle of cheerleaders before they entered the classroom. A green and white cloud of angels, here to bestow their beauty upon us mere mortals just trying pass an algebra test.

At twelve years of age, I had hoped to finally have a great year, but shit was falling apart fast. I was a New York City girl, growing up in Queens in the late 70’s, and was just figuring out how to survive middle school.

My job was to observe, like an outsider trying to understand the tween species of lower middle-class Queens. I noticed the Puerto Rican girls were the leaders, the tough girls, they demanded respect. I was…