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Middle School: 7th grade, exactly. 'Nough said, right?
Science class, toward the end of last period when Mr. T is finished lecturing and we're supposed to be studying for an exam the next day. In other words, it's QUIET.
That's when I feel it. The gas. It's not tooooo awfully bad, so sure, I can let it slip out carefully... slowly... it'll be silent. No one will know...
It was, um, loud. So loud, in fact, that the entire class turned and stared in astonishment toward my seat (all the way in front, farthest row from the door). I couldn't stand it. It was so bad.
I did the only thing I possibly could as a seventh grade girl, struggling for popularity in a mean-girls world. I pointed my finger -
- At the gross kid who sat behind me. Whole truth: I stood up, turned around, made a hugely disgusted face and yelled, "Vincent! Ugh!" I then proceeded to hold my nose and swish my hand back and forth in front of my face. It was quite a show, and I still wonder if my face reddened enough to give away the secret... or if I owe Vincent a long overdue apology.
In any case, Vincent, I am sorry. Seventh grade was probably harder on you than me in the first place, and you probably weren't that gross.
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