Caroline No

Middle school, or junior high as it was known back then, was a bit of an anxious time for me. For one thing, 7th grade math scared the crap out of me. To be more precise, Mrs. Mead, the math teacher, terrified me even more than the elusive quotients and products did.

At the time, I thought Mrs. Mead must have been in her seventies, but I realize now that she was probably about the age that I am now. Possibly even younger, which is a sobering and disturbing thought. She was a New Englander - you could hear it in the nasally flat way she pronounced her vowels. More than that, she embodied that sort of Puritan work ethic. A kind of "take no prisoners" approach to teaching math. She was a little on the large side and quite imposing with her wire rimmed spectacles, no-nonsense black shoes and iron gray hair. She would brook no discord or monkey business on her watch and little escaped her watchful eye.

Oh, and I was beyond hopeless. Math was never my strong suit, but it was even harder to concentrate and understand what she was teaching when my stomach was churning and my knees were knocking for the entire class period. I didn't fail, but came perilously close. My parents decided that I should go to summer school to take another crack at learning the mysteries of 7th grade math. On the last day of school, I shyly waited for the classroom to empty and told Mrs. Mead that I would be re-taking math during the summer. I don't remember whether I was looking for approval or whether I was instructed to tell her, but I remember the surprised look on her face when she said "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. You'll be fine." I think it was the first time I ever saw her as anything other than my own personal nemesis and it shocked me a little that she even sounded nice. Nonetheless, leaving 7th grade math for the last time was a moment of profound joy for me.

Ah, have I mentioned yet that I was a late bloomer? Just writing that makes me laugh, because in some ways, I don't think I "bloomed" until about 8 years ago. In junior high I was skinny and inept. Back in those days we didn't wear makeup or jeans to school or try to look older than we were. My hair was dark brown and I never seemed to have a good haircut. My freckles were oh-so-plentiful. No cute sprinkling across my nose, not me! Oh no, I was blessed with big old dark freckles all across my face. My clothes were just okay. I always got a few outfits before school started every year, but truth be told, many of my clothes were hand-me-downs from an older cousin. I had friends and hung out with popular kids, but I was a bit on the periphery. If I wasn't present, I wasn't necessarily thought of. I'm not saying that in a "poor me" kind of way, because I never felt that way. I've just always been the type that blends in with the scenery and doesn't stand out or command much attention.

One of the really fun parts of junior high were the parties. One particular girl, a good friend of mine named Sue, would have parties periodically in the basement of her house. Pretty much the whole class would be invited and about 75% would show up. These parties were fairly simple affairs - Cokes and potato chips, a record player and dimmed lights. The exciting part - the truly exciting part - was not knowing if tonight would be THE NIGHT. Would one of the boys ask me to dance? Would that maybe lead to a slow dance? I knew the boys in my class pretty well, most of us had been together since first grade. But in a darkened room on a Saturday night, I could daydream most of them into interesting possibilities.

The 45's would be stacked on the record player. One by one they would drop and play. And the one I always remember because it got played over and over at those parties, was the Beach Boy's Caroline No. To this day, even when I hear it on my Ipod, I find myself in Sue's basement, hoping a boy would ask me to dance.

To be honest, they never did. The smartest girl in the class with the white blonde hair was always dancing with the most popular boy. And another girl disappeared into the laundry area with a boy with a dubious reputation and came back 2 minutes later going steady after an obvious makeout session. I was fascinated, jealous and repelled all at the same time.

In many ways, though nothing really remarkable happened while I was in 7th grade, I feel as if I learned some valuable lessons. I could be afraid of things I didn't understand whether it meant math problems or a budding relationship with a boy. These things seemed both within my grasp and completely out of reach and while I never got a B in Math or danced a slow dance to Caroline No, I never really failed either.