I probably embarrass myself every day at school. I walk around with my backpack open and my phone flashlight on. I say the wrong answer in class, spill water all over my desk, and trip over uneven concrete in the hallway. Sometimes I think the construction workers place ledges on the sidewalk just for my feet to find as some cruel joke.
One moment, however, that haunts me more than the rest, happened before I was even old enough to be a freshman. I was in seventh grade and went to a Selma High basketball game to watch my older brother play. Being the amazing and supportive sister I am, I begged my mom to first take me to the snack bar to get nacho cheese-covered Hot Cheetos. I can’t even begin to explain how excited I was to sit in the stands with my snack and watch this game I didn’t even understand. Everything was perfect so far.
I reached into my small bag of chips and pulled out a Cheeto with tons of hot cheese dripping from it. As I went to taste it, the ball flew out of bounds and picked me as its target. The timing could not have been more miraculous because the Cheeto, which had not yet made it to my mouth, was smashed into my face by the basketball, and the bright yellow cheese splattered everywhere. My mom, who saw it coming, had stretched her hand out to stop the ball before it made contact. She missed, smacking me in the side of the head instead.
I can’t believe I even have the guts to put this story in The Clarion because it was a nightmare. Spectators’ eyes flew to me and people (mainly my sister) laughed like they were starving for entertainment. I’m literally cringing while I write this because it was just so embarrassing.
After that, I abandoned my desire to be a good sister and told my mom we had to leave the school gym immediately. Of course she didn’t understand I was mortified and made us stay until the end of the game. The three quarters following went on like normal and I don’t even remember which team won. All I remember was thinking I could never show my face at the high school again.
It was the moment I knew that grades 9-12 would be the worst, most awkward, and humiliating journey I’d ever embark on.
