My high school years were ok, even good.  Fond memories, and while I haven’t attended a reunion since the 10th, many treasured friendships.

But I had bullies.  I told my Spanish teacher several years ago for the first time.  She was surprised to learn it was the super-smart kids who were the worst.

Mine hunted in a pack.  Typical of the weak and insecure, but I didn’t realize it back then.  The worst was a wealthy one who couldn’t leave me alone for whatever reason.  And he was smarter, more athletic.  I dreaded the start of each semester when we learned the composition of our new classes.  I held my breath hoping he wouldn’t  be in any of them.  Lucky sometimes, not all.

My worst memory was at a track meet.  I threw the discus because I couldn’t do anything else.  At the meet, there were no throwers on the opposing team.  I would have won – a cheap win, but my name would have been mentioned on the morning announcements.  Our coach, however, instructs him to throw and he beats me.  The coach praises him.  He rubs it in – in front of the entire team.  The last straw.  I go ballistic and start throwing my disci against a fence while cursing out the coach.  On the long humiliating bus ride home, the kind assistant coach sits next to me and tells me about his Navy experiences and how these things happen in life.

He ends up Ivy League for college and law school.  A legal star, he represents Mohamed bin Salman among other clients.

Decades later, I can admit I was afraid.

Of him.

And the darker truth.  What I wanted and could do to him.  Do not ever f___ with Malaysians.  Ever.

I saw him at the 5th when he started to take a familiar condescending tone.  I calmly ask him where he went to law school.  His tone changes and he stammers out an answer.  He realized something had changed.  I also saw him at the 10th.  A friend who had similar experiences with him gets upset.  I stay away.  He didn’t look happy – an ugly wife will do that.