My American History teacher in high school was awesome.  She was also in charge of Quiz Bowl, which I was part of more to spend time with friends than compete (oddly, I went to State to fill out our team because most of our hardcore players had chosen to do the state science fair instead).

So she had these Quiz Bowl buzzers in her classroom that she pulled out twice during American History to review for tests.  She split us into teams, grouped our desks together, and anyone who knew the answer could buzz in for their team.

The first time we did this, about halfway through, I gave a wrong answer.  I was on a team with Chip Girl and a boy who always seemed to be stressed out.  (They belonged to the intellectual group, whereas I belonged to the group that was too weird to hang with the intellectuals and too intellectual to hang with the freaks.  From what I could tell, my group was a lot more laid-back than theirs.)

In the test review, when I gave my wrong answer, the boy turned his head away and muttered “I knew that one” in frustration to the person on his other side.

I stared at the fake wood top of my desk and stopped giving answers.

After class, I shoved the incident to the back of my head and didn’t bring it out again until the review for the next test, when our teacher set the buzzers up again.

All the hurt came rushing back, so I raised my hand and begged to go to the nurse for a stomachache.  My stomach really did hurt.  It hurt because I was going to start crying any second, so when the teacher gave me permission I grabbed all my stuff and fled.

The nurse took one look at my face and ordered me to the counselor’s office.

Here’s the thing.  I worked in the counselor’s office.   I knew all the counselors by name.  I felt really awkward going to them in tears.

But go I did.  And the soft-spoken man I talked to let me cry and handed me a box of tissues and waited patiently.  I got out what had happened last time I played that review game, what the boy had said and how he’d said it.

I’d never seen that counselor look angry before.  He asked the boy’s name.

I shook my head vehemently.  I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, especially not a kid who’d probably never gotten in trouble before in his life, and who might hold it against me if I made that happen.  (You really have no idea how wound-up some of the intellectuals came across.)  And I could imagine how he’d feel about getting in trouble for an impulsive comment he’d made weeks ago.  Oh yeah, he’d love me for that.

So I explained that I didn’t think he’d meant to upset me, and the counselor didn’t insist on the name. In spite of my tears, I didn’t really blame the other kid — he was an overzealous student who groused when I lost him a point in a game.  It happens.

By the end of our talk, I’d stopped sobbing but couldn’t go back to class.  The counselor asked if I wanted to stay or go home (it was maybe the second-to-last period of the day).

I wanted to go home.  I wanted to escape.  I didn’t think I’d be able to pull myself together enough to get through another class and I didn’t want to try.

My mom came and the school secretary told her I had run out of sick days.  My mom tried to talk me into staying, but I couldn’t.  Emotionally, I knew I’d continue to be a non-functioning mess if I couldn’t get some alone time in my room with my cat.  Logically, I knew that I could explain myself to the school board if one extra sick day made them question my legitimacy to graduate.

I was absolutely desperate and absolutely adamant that I get out of there, so my mom said okay and gave me a hug and took me home.

I’ve been okay about it since.  I’m not ashamed I cried, and I’m not mad at the boy for letting his competitiveness make him insensitive.  I’m glad I got to go home, and I’m glad nobody else knew I’d broken down, and I’m glad the school board didn’t think my one extra sick day was worth commenting on.

All in all, it could have been worse.