A Question of Conformity
an excerpt from "Thoughts Of A Teenaged Nothing" - a collection of writing prompts
by Colt Ellsworth

I don't think PE uniforms are the height of fashion in any school district, and my high school was no exception. So my third day of freshman year, the first day the uniform was mandatory wear during my third period before snack, I can't say I didn't feel awkward. I thought PE class would be about the same as it was during middle and elementary school - the teacher releases us on the field to run around and scream until we wore ourselves out to the point of be managable in a real classroom again. It was a day of firsts all the way around.

Entering the locker room to the chatter of fellow students to find my assigned locker had been almost a shell-shock. I was undeniably...behind my classmates, as they openly displayed themselves in various stages of redressing in the conforming blue shorts and gray shirts. I stared at the cramped alley between lockers with no less than seven such students with little to no elbow room, one thought running through my head like a snake-skittered mustang:

No way.

I stood there rather lamely, clutching my gym clothes tightly in one hand, the other hand clutching the end of my overly baggy shirt that hid my skinny bean-pole frame. Someone brushed past me rather roughly, telling me I was going to be late and that coach would yell.

I scanned the other alleys made by the tarnished and molding yellow lockers, and found them all just as crowded, nowhere to change without an audience. I slowly walked the aisle like a death march until the bell suddenly rang, echoing off the walls and crashing into my ears with such piercing pain I literally did jump.

The upperclassmen filed out obediently, obviously having stalled to the last moment before exiting. The freshmen followed like a herd of sheep, literally looking like they were being led to slaughter. Only then did I kick myself into action, realizing I was definitely going to be late. I pulled the fastest costume change I could summon, shedding baggy street clothes and redressing in the ugly PE uniform in a time I could never have managed in the early crack of the day I woke up at. I barely remembered to swap my hiking boots I had worn for three years for the hand-me-down sneakers from my brother.

I shoved my street clothes and boots into my locker with my backpack and slammed it shut. I paused only to look down at myself, quickly reading the 'property of' label across my shirt. I had swapped the regulation blue shorts for long blue track pants, which the coach had announced as perfectly acceptable. A dark burn down the back of my left leg made me self-conscious, and I hadn't worn shorts in about two years.

I hit the heavy door to the gym, not realizing it was on oiled hinges until it swung open readily and slammed into the wall with a sharp bang. I jumped for the second time, quickly followed by a third when the coach announced in a voice like the announcement of an execution: "Late!"

I swallowed hard, and darted for my place in line-up with a quick mumbled 'sorry' as I passed the man bent over his clipboard. He just grunted, and didn't look up to see exactly who was late, a fact I was grateful for.

As he continued through checking the lengthy role of seventy or so students, I started to relax. That is, until I heard snickering behind me. I turned ever so slightly, and the boy in line behind me cast a quick glance at my pants.

"Cold?" he teased, nearly a head taller than me. I was about to reply 'no' in a tone that spoke of duh, seeing as how it was still in the eighties temperature wise, before I realized he was making fun of me. I kept my mouth shut and faced forward again, as the gym leaders started stretches. While we did the mandatory sit-ups and push-ups (which were only done when coach was near) I glanced about and realized I was the only one in pants, even though coach had announced that they were acceptable.

I started to feel sick somewhere starting in my stomach and working upwards.

Then came one of those socially crippling moments. The coach announced we were dividing into teams for basketball, and randomly picked team captains from the role sheet that were all suspiciously upperclassmen. He did the politically correct thing, saying the choices had to be boy-girl. I give the man credit, he did try. But like many grown-ups, he seems to have forgotten what it was like to be a teenager.

First, all of the upperclassmen chose one another and did 'unauthorized switching', going to whichever team they pleased. Then the freshmen who were known by the upperclassmen were chosen - albeit, not many. Next came the 'cooler' freshmen, known by reputation or siblings. Needless to say, the kid in pants was not in any of those groups.

The coach cut the team-picking off with twenty freshmen still unchosen, either he finally recalled the mortifying implications of being chosen last or he decided they were taking too long, and randomly assigned the remaining students to the nearest teams.

Basketball, unfortunately, proved to be quite a story all on it's own. Ten minutes into the period I discovered that sneakers with extra space in the toes were not very bright. I stumbled twice, and finally flat out tripped and hit the floor hard.

High schoolers have a way of laughing that make you feel like your soul has been sizzled to the core. I could feel my face turn bright red as I got back to my feet and dusted my seat off - even though there was no real reason to.

"Have a nice trip?" someone asked in a tone dripping with sarcasm. I turned to face a girl with large hoop earrings that looked like they threatened to tear her ears off. My radar immediately went off - she was in my year, and definitely one of those desperately trying to appear 'cool' with her shirt tied high and her PE shorts rolled to reveal more thigh. Looking back, I take no responsibility for my mouth.

"Good comeback," I replied coolly. "Which looney toon did you steal it from?"

She looked quite surprised that I had summoned any sort of reply, and sputtered for a moment before resorting to a sucker-punch. "Nice pants."

I would have rolled my eyes, had not her friends all started tittering on cue. I felt the urge to explain why I wore pants, but knowing it would get me no sympathy points and only come off as a pathetic excuse, I screwed my mouth shut and ignored her.

My eye was on the clock, and when the hour neared it's end I felt incredibly grateful. That is, until I realized that I would have to change out of my uniform and into my street clothes. In the locker room. In front of my classmates. I was not at all comfortable with that.

When the coach blew the whistle, everyone fairly charged for the locker room. I moved to follow but didn't realize what had happened until I greeted the floor with my face, my palms and knees stinging from their attempt to slow my fall. I knew what had happened before I saw the boy behind me with an orange sweatband and matching wristbands. A fashion statement more than function, though he hadn't realized they clashed with his PE uniform.

"You okay down there?" he drawled, his foot still stuck out in my path as he wrapped his arm around hoop-girl's shoulders. He snagged one of her earrings and she fairly yelped, for which he profusely apologized. I snorted, and instantly made enemies.

I got up on my own, and sheepishly headed for the locker room. I elbowed past three half-dressed students playing a game of slapping one another's butts to my locker. Apparently, the time everyone had taken to put the uniform on had been a way of stalling, as the locker room drained rapidly. I found myself in privacy as I changed out of the uniform. I hung the shirt and my pants from the hooks inside the locker and placed the sneakers neatly in the bottom.

The next day, when I opened my locker, I found my sneakers missing and my clothes wadded in the bottom of the locker. So much for the private combinations.

I reached for my clothes, and discovered my shirt wet. I pulled it out, and sniffed tentatively. The smell came readily - toilet water. I inwardly groaned, and looked at my pants. They appeared dry and I was relieved to discovered that they were, but the drawstring was knotted. Vicious teasing - a bit overdone, but teasing all the same.

I heard laughter, and glanced to see one of my new enemy's friends watching me. They quickly vanished around the corner and out the door to the gym. I ran to the adjacent bathroom, and dunked my shirt under the faucet. I hoped I could wash out the toilet water, and with it, the smell. I sniffed it every few moments, until I was fairly sure the smell had come out and rung the shirt as best I could. I hit the button for the hand dryer and ran the shirt under it as close as I could get to the blower without burning my hands.

The bell rang, and I realized I was going to be late for the second day in a row at the beginning of the school year. I exchanged shirts, and for a few moments struggled with the knot. Yet it did not yield to my fingers, so with little choice, I yanked them on. It took a hitch and a wiggle to get the drawstring-bound waist up past my protruding hip bone, but I smiled triumphantly. So there was a plus side to being as thin as a reed.

The shoes...were anyone's guess. I didn't really want to think about it. So I shoved my clothes and backpack into my locker, making a mental note not to leave any valuables in there, and ran out into the gym in my hiking boots.

Despite my care to not bang the gym door, the announcement came again. "Late!"

"Coach-" I started, but I realized I would be tattling. So I shut my mouth.

Hoop-girl looked at me sweetly and winked, before snickering and turning to her friends. As I headed to my assigned spot in line, someone loudly asked, "Hey, who didn't flush?"

I had made sure my shirt didn't smell, although it was still a bit damp. So I concluded meant more people knew about the prank that I had thought. Apparently, the group of bullies had spread. Viciousness is contagious. By the end of the class period, I realized it now encompassed most of the popular kids from my grade. Luckily, the upperclassmen didn't really care about the feuds 'under' them.

Between the comments on smell, my pants, and my 'mud-stomping' shoes, I was ready to scream. One boy on my team pretended to chuck the ball at my head, and I openly flinched. I started wrapping my mind around asking my counselor if there were any options for PE credits that didn't actually involve the class, despite that bullying was nothing new. For years, I had been told to just suck it up and ignore them. I despised it when an adult told me that the teasing was my fault because I wasn’t being social or friendly enough. I didn’t understand it, but I had conceded the fight against the mentality of adults and the popular alike. Hundreds of times I had heard that if I simply ignored it, they would stop.

Like before, it didn't work. This was pointed out to me quite obviously when I didn't reply to a teasing remark, and earned a handful of mud launched at my back.

It was cold and - well, gooshy- soaking into my shirt with the wet dribbling down my back into my pants to stain the top of my underwear. My mind raced to find a logical explanation as to where the mud had come from to cover up my shock. Dirt from the field and water from the drinking fountain. It was too hot outside for any mud to be lying about. As the laughing continued, a blush of shame spread across my cheeks.

It was then I decided I absolutely, without a doubt, hated high school.

Luckily the coach seemed to realize that the mud was not natural in the indoor gym during a heat wave. He charged across the room, and grabbed me by my sleeve. "Who threw that?" he demanded in that booming voice only coaches can achieve, which drew all attention to the mud. And me. I discovered the true meaning of wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

No one confessed, and the coach fairly dragged me from the gym into the locker room. In the room chilled by the tile, I acknowledged that my face was hot enough to fry something.

"I'm sorry," I babbled.

He looked at me, confused. "What are you sorry for?" he demanded roughly, making me wince and think he was mad at me.

"I'm sorry!" I blurted, repeating myself.

"Kid, don't say sorry unless you really are," he snapped. He looked at me, inspecting the mud on my shirt. "Change, take your clothes home and wash 'em. You don't have to come back to class today."

"M-my shoes," I stammered, totally intimidated by this large man.

"What?" he looked down at my boots and frowned, before looking at my pants. "You know, maybe if you dressed more like them they wouldn't tease you so much."

I felt so scandalized by the whole thing, I couldn't even reply. I fairly seethed as I changed, anger almost dripping like the mud off my shirt. I thought teachers were supposed to be unbiased. Promote individuality. Stop bullying. Protect the victim. All that pacifistic junk.

My day was fairly ruined, as was my outlook on the rest of my high school career. As I slammed the door that led to the quad (no way I was going through the gym to give those jerks a chance at another shot), I was dead set on asking my parents to transfer me to another school. One that didn't demand two years worth of PE credits.

I never found my shoes either.

My friends seemed to detect my foul mood, and gave a wide berth for me that day. I was plenty grateful - public embarrassment is not something I wanted to share with them. I was only too happy that none were in my PE class to witness my mortification, and since none mentioned it I guess they were all so far out of the loop none heard about it. So I spent the day in sullen silence.

I was still nursing my wound by the time I got home to the washing machine. But by then, I had calmed the anger back down to shame. Mom and Dad were so expectant that I would be able to 'grow' during high school – blossom like my sister and become social and popular. As I stared at the dirty uniform in my hand, I couldn't help but feel I had already let them down. But what could I say? Sure, it was unfair. It was life.

Suppressing the development of my self image and personality for another three or four years was starting to sound great.

I did my homework while waiting for my clothes to finish so I would remember to tuck them into my backpack to take back to school. Dousing them with kerosene and tossing them onto the grill sounded like an even better idea, but somehow, I figured mom would frown on that.

When the dryer dinged and I went to fetch them, I realized the beach hadn't completely wiped out the mud stain, but took large, uneven blotches of the gray also. It looked like one big mess, with those bright blue letters on the front. Why did they even put XXL on all sports related wear, anyways?

Brown, gray, and white. All faded. Great. I debated dumping more bleach on it, and decided against it. It would probably look even weirder. With long pants and hiking boots, a bleached shirt would just stand out all the more. Be even more different.

Why not?

The thought burst in my mind like a bubble, and pondered for a moment. Yeah, why not? Different was good, right? That’s what all those adults said, the same ones who told me to ‘suck it up’. As long as it didn't stray into downright wrong, different wasn’t bad.

I was about to reach for the bottle of bleach, when an even better idea paraded into my mind, and I grinned.

The next day in PE, I fairly ran to the locker room to be there before anyone else. Because my clothes were already in my backpack I didn't have to stop by my locker, so I headed straight to the connected bathroom. The stalls were dirty and rarely used, but it was someplace to change without having to worry. I quickly swapped my clothes, having to fight my tied pants up over my waist again. I leaned against the stall wall as I waited for the sounds of kids to minimize. My heart pounded as I second guessed myself for the third time since entering. But it wasn't like I could do anything now. I was committed, unless I just skipped PE altogether.

I entertained that notion for a while, before I realized the bell rang. I waited for the patter of sneakers exiting before leaving the stall to my locker to shove my backpack and clothes in. Then I drew a deep breath and raised my chin just enough that I wasn't looking down, but not high enough to look conceited, and opened the door to the gym.

"La-" the word cut itself off as I strolled past at a perfectly paced gait, not too slow to be obvious and not too fast to seem nervous. Someone had started to laugh, but I ignored them and started for my spot.

I discovered something in that moment. When you set out to make a point, the snide comments didn't hurt so much. I meant to get strange looks – so they didn’t bother me. I got a temporary high which turned my ego up a notch. Then the call of my last name made me stop and face the coach.

"What is that?" he demanded, prodding a finger in the air at my shirt.

"My uniform, coach," I explained. Somebody started laughing.

He frowned. "You look like a runaway from a hippie boot camp."

I looked down at my usual hiking boots and track pants, with the addition of my 'property of' PE shirt that now sported loud blue and yellow tie-dye. "Do I?"

He flipped his clipboard over, where the gym contract had been taped. "No modifications to the gym uniform: this includes cutting off shirt bottoms, sleeves, rolling up shorts, lowering shorts, or any handwritten messages," he read off.

"I haven't done any of that," I pointed out, quite proud of myself for finding such a loophole – although it was pretty obvious. "The color faded, so I added some more. School colors, of course."

It was then that he started laughing. Then again, he couldn't very well argue with me. But he stuck a finger in my face. "Get a new shirt." The order didn't hold much power, as he was still half chuckling.

I took my place in line, and the guy behind me who had teased me on the first day about long pants was grinning a mile wide. I felt strangely complacent in lace-up hiking boots, long pants, and a tie-dyed T-shirt. At first, my earlier proclaimed enemies tried to descend upon me yet again with taunting and teasing, and the remarks just seemed to slide off. I solidified my theory about when you mean to be different it doesn't bother you so much.

By the end of the hour, most of them had given up. Hoop-girl tried to take one final stab as we were dismissed to the locker room, with an insult involving a few swear words and 'hippie freak'. I just smiled back at herm, before stealing the ball from her hands. My hiking boots gave me a solid grip on the polished floors, and I whirled around and faked a pass at her head. This time, she flinched.

The next day, I made sure most of the class was in the locker room when I trotted out of the bathroom stall still decked in my tie-dyed gym shirt. I had debated doing something to my pants, but decided not to go too overboard. I figured Coach would let the shirt slip if I claimed to have forgotten to purchase a new one.

As I took place in line, I was pleased to see that several students had worn long pants today. Just looking at them told me they weren't among the popular crowd, and probably had felt awkward in those ugly shorts. One girl caught me looking at her and her long pants with white running stripes, and flashed me a shy, relieved smile.

I can’t say I made friends with the kids who teased me. I wouldn’t even say that they stopped disliking me – but the teasing lightened. I didn’t ignore it because it still hurt, but I was able to live with it when I reminded myself that I had done this on purpose. Some days I still wanted to hide in the locker room until everyone left and run off campus, but I can proudly say I didn’t ditch a day of PE that whole year.

Three days later, the coach came over to me, expectantly annoyed to see my homemade tie-dye gym shirt. "You aren't allowed to modify the gym uniform," he stated.

"I'll buy a new shirt today, coach," I promised. He seemed satisfied, and stalked off. Not ten minutes later, headband boy tripped and literally skidded across the floor face-first. His gym shorts had been riding so low, they finally surrendered to gravity. The gym burst with laughter. I suppose I should have felt sorry for the guy, that whole having been in his shoes thing - but I couldn't summon any sympathy.

Something about revenge and mud slinging.