1993

There are many things you can do wrong in life. Nothing, though, is as wrong as letting your mother pick your outfit on your first day of high school. Teenage girls are a malevolent species; I learned that the hard way. Arriving at the schoolyard I noticed that everyone was dressed in jeans n’ t-shirts paired with branded sneakers. I, on the other hand, was draped in a yellow dress decorated with pineapples and wore flimsy sandals. I was one year younger than the rest and the shortest one among three hundred and fifty others.?

Luckily I wasn’t easily intimidated so I was never bullied. Soon I took my honorary spot amongst the weirdos till I slowly upgraded to my permanent position as the “art kid.” I spent most of my time drawing and observing others, half craving to be a part of the school cliques. But most of the time I was content to exist in my own imaginary world. Up until that point I would look at the cold faces of my peers feeling as lonely as someone could be. Out of boredom, I started walking around the courtyard with brisk steps. The monotonous repetitive movement relieved my anxiety. For that, I got the nickname “winder.” I didn’t like being called a winder but it sounded rather harmless compared to much more degrading alternatives. The next day I came dressed in what I thought was more fitting. A classmate asked me if I thought I was in Paris or something. If I wanted to fit in, I had to try harder.?

I looked around and for the first time really studied my peers. The cool kids could smoke in a designated area they called the “Triangle.” The next in line of the hierarchy could hang around the “Triangle” but never inside it. On special occasions, usually when they ran out of cigarettes, the underlings would be invited to the spot, a sign of social upgrade. Everyone else was grouped according to their popularity, looks and music preferences. No matter how hard I searched I couldn't find a single soul that wanted to have anything to do with me.?

Soon I learned that my school was the kind of establishment that if you were sixteen and not pregnant that was already considered an academic achievement. Most of my peers had the collective intelligence of a gorilla and behaved accordingly. Later I realized that there was nothing too wrong with them mentally but their need to fit in made them act that way.?

One day a new girl arrived. She had been kicked out of another school for repeating the same class too many times. She was 16 or 17 and wild as a beast. Her long dyed red hair fell on her white face hiding most of its features. Although she was painfully thin she was more adult-like than the rest of us. She spoke in grunts and curses and spent most of her time smoking in the “Triangle.” Although a newcomer she was immediately admitted to the highest cast. She started dating one of my classmates who was 15 and had also repeated some years. I think that was the only thing they had in common.?

After a few weeks, she didn’t feel like smoking in the “Triangle” anymore and started hanging out in the bathroom. I can’t stress enough how bad a Greek public school toilet smelled in the 90s. Still, she used to lock herself inside of one of the small dirty stalls. Soon other girls thought that was cool so more and more spent their break inside the toilets. I was curious so I started doing the same. There was something unearthly about this girl and I was intrigued to study her as closely as possible.?

Amongst the familiar urine-chlorine stench my Sherlock Holmes instincts developed. I counted the cigarette butts and even inspected the trash bin after she left. The mystery persisted: how did this girl, or any girl for that matter, tolerate this inhuman stench? My curiosity proved stronger than my sense of smell so I kept pretending to use the toilet day after day. But my prolonged stay in that room had its perks. I witnessed various weird phenomena, like the 13-year-old girl doing a pregnancy test inside a Coca Cola can. To pass the time, I drew spiderwebs on the dirty tiles.?

One day there was a line up for the toilets. The door was open and under the sick halogen glow I could see her black skinny jeans and boots sticking out of one of the stalls. A teacher came followed by another. They knocked on the stall door. No answer. Somebody suggested breaking the door but before such a heroic reenactment a teacher grabbed her heels and dragged her out. Her pale body laid stiff. The teachers were screaming, “Leave, there is nothing to see.”?

Nobody moved an inch; we were all hypnotized by the blood that was still streaming out of her nose staining her face. Some kids said a needle was stuck in her arm next to a rose tattoo. An ambulance came and two men took her away. None of the teachers explained. She didn’t return to our school and I resumed my lonesome walks in the courtyard.?