Part 1Bite Back

A guy in my class wanted my attention, so he decided the best way to get it was by making lewd jokes to my face.

I tried to ignore him. So, he escalated and started spreading filthy rumors about my mother.

That was the last straw. I whipped around, grabbed a heavy metal water bottle off the desk, and went to town on him. It took the homeroom teacher and a security guard to pull me off.

When they called our parents in, his folks pointed a finger in my face, screaming that girls like me should have been "drowned in the river at birth."

That was their mistake. Because this time, it was my parents' turn to grab a weapon.

* * *

The guys in my class loved giving the girls nicknames.

There was "Kong," "Bucktooth," "Darkie"—you name it, they had a slur for it.

My desk mate, Sarah, had the unfortunate last name of "Stools," so they’d called her "Poop" since freshman year.

I wasn't spared, either.

Because I was tall and hit puberty earlier than most, I was one of the first girls to wear a real bra. So, I got the nickname "Dairy Queen." It was their favorite topic of conversation.

Today, after gym class, I heard my name in their mouths again.

This time, they were even grosser. They were laughing, miming my running posture by cupping their own chests and panting heavily every two steps.

Sarah was furious. "Are you guys psychotic? Jordan doesn't run like that! You are so disgusting!"

"Seriously, that is way out of line. We’re telling the teacher!"

The other girls chimed in, rallying around me, angrily calling them out.

Brad, the ringleader, just laughed. "What’s out of line? I didn't say a name. Who told you I was talking about Jordan? I was talking about a cow! A big, milking cow!"

He grinned that shameless, punchable grin, banking on the fact that I’d be too humiliated to clap back. He thought the shame would silence me.

He was wrong.

I stood up and glared right at him. "Who are you calling a cow, you needle-dick?"

"You're swinging around something the size of a toothpick, looking like a shriveled pickle, and you have the nerve to talk? Maybe you should go get surgery, though I doubt it would help you upgrade from a zero."

The insult was venomous. Brad was stunned for a second.

Then, he exploded. "Jordan, you bitch!"

"Who do you think you are? I’ll beat you to death!"

Relying on his height and size, Brad was used to saying whatever he wanted without consequences. No one had ever verbally castrated him in front of an audience before.

Humiliated, he clenched his fist and charged at me.

The class erupted. Boys held Brad back, shouting "Bro, chill!" and "Don't hit a girl!" while the girls formed a wall in front of me.

The noise attracted the patrolling teacher, Mr. Henderson.

But Mr. Henderson wasn't there to serve justice. He was there to sweep things under the rug.

After listening to the chaotic retelling of events, the balding, middle-aged man waved his hand dismissively and pointed at me.

"Jordan, is it? Why is your language so foul? Is that how your parents raised you? Making jokes about people's anatomy? Write a thousand-word apology letter. Have it on my desk by Monday."

"Excuse me?!"

The girls were more outraged than I was. "Mr. Henderson, how can you blame Jordan? Brad started it!"

"Jordan insulted him back, sure, but Brad gave her a sexual nickname first!"

"This is harassment! You're taking his side! We’re going to the Vice Principal!"

Kids these days are sharp. They know exactly how to hit where it hurts. The moment they realized Mr. Henderson was siding with the boys, they rebelled.

I stepped to the front and flipped Brad off. "Coward. Toothpick. Loser."

"Jordan!!!"

Brad’s face turned purple. He lunged over a desk to slap me.

The girls shoved him back, scratching and pulling, protecting me like a phalanx of warriors.

I pushed my messy hair out of my eyes, seized the opportunity, grabbed Brad by the collar, and slapped him. My nails left three bright red streaks down his cheek.

Seeing the situation spiraling, Mr. Henderson panicked. He ran to get our substitute homeroom teacher, Mr. Lee.

Mr. Lee was another piece of work. He was the type who openly said, "Premature dating is always the girl's fault for seducing the boy."

Seeing the gender war erupting in his classroom, he didn't even ask questions. He ordered me to read my apology letter in front of the entire school at the Monday morning assembly.

To appear "fair," he told Brad to clean the chalkboard for a week.

Everyone knew cleaning the board was a joke compared to a public apology at an assembly. That was a formal disciplinary action. It was a public shaming.

The girls' rage was enough to blow the roof off the school.

I raised a hand to stop them. Looking at Brad’s gloating face and Mr. Lee’s blatant bias, I replied calmly.

"Fine. Monday assembly. I’ll do it."