Switching shorts

When I was in grade 8 there wasn’t too much difference in the fashion that there is now. Really short cut-off jeans were the thing to wear in the summer... and my mother was having NONE of it. It had taken me so long to get the fraying just right on them too. I guess I had put up enough fuss about it that she had become suspicious of me when I quickly left for school (wearing my lame just-above-the-knee-length shorts). Of course, I had taken the cut-off jeans with me, with the intent that I would change into them when I got to school... which I did.

It was second period and there was a knock at the classroom door. It was my mother. “Sorry to bother your class. Can I speak with my daughter? I have a change of clothes for her.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I was totally embarrassed! My close friends knew why she had come and they were giving me some pity smirks, but the rest of the class didn’t think anything of it. My mom was a frequent volunteer and familiar face at school, so it didn’t seem weird to most. I didn’t care. I was so angry with her; I couldn’t believe she did that to me...in front of everyone!

I followed her out into the hall. My face was on fire and I wanted to punch a locker, or anything that would make a lot of noise...something to release the rage that I had boiling in my stomach. She shoved the more “appropriate” clothes in my arms and only said one thing to me before she walked away: “Do you think I’m stupid?”