Another random memory about gender relations.
It was the 4th grade and we were eating lunch in the cafeteria. The two popular girls, Amanda and Veronica, were sitting with their court in exciting ’80s sweaters and pastel skirts. Several boys who could interchangeably be called Kevin, Brian or Mark were eating at the next table. I was one table back with the misc kids.
One of the Kevins peeled open his PB&J to reveal the strawberry jelly slathered across bread and peanut butter. He made a show of being revolted and showed it to his friends, the other Kevins, before gesturing to the girls with it.
“Hey Amanda,” he called too-loud over the cafeteria noise. “I bet this is what your underwear looks like when you’re on your period.”
He proceeds to ball up the sandwich and shove it back in the paper lunch bag. He and the other Kevins shove each other a lot as they head out to recess.
Amanda and Veronica pretend like they don’t care. None of us have started our periods yet. We’re dreading that next stage of our bodies mutating yet again. The Kevins are going to be the prize at the end of that trauma.