Everyone, fictional or not, has an arch nemesis. It may be a figurative one, for example a writer might allow his fear of failure to impede his work. Then there is always the tangible type, say an 87 cent bean burrito may be considered pure evil to a man who’s had his large intestine removed. Whatever the case may be, we can all think back in our lives to a time when such a beacon of pure, unmitigated terror oozed from one source and one source alone. All burritos and diarrhea aside, in my case there was a little girl named Caitlin Quance.
How could a little girl with a mole on the outside of her nose and a flair for bowl cut hairstyles be so terrifying you might ask? Could it have been the pegged 80’s style jeans she wore everyday? Perhaps the fact that her legs did not once touch anywhere in the 12 years we went to school together? Shockingly, none of these are it. I tell you here and now it’s what was under that stylish barbershop hairdo that was so haunting.
My first encounter with Caitlin Quance traces all the way back to the 3rd grade. I was in Mrs. Chapman’s class and we were learning how to write in cursive. I hated writing capital F’s and T’s, but give me a lower cased j any day and I’d just write for hours. By that time I had been tested for what our school called T.A.G. (Talented and Gifted), and what I now look back on and recognize as the first open invitation to get made fun of in school every single day. If you were accepted into T.A.G., by having an IQ of 140 or higher, then you were asked to come to special classes during school. At first I thought we’d be whisked away to a laboratory somewhere, clad in long white trench coats and begged by world leaders to cure cancer, or discover a method by which to eradicate doggy breath all together. As it turned out, we were actually just taken to a classroom and taught stuff one grade ahead of time, and asked if we wanted to participate in a little something called O.M.
For those of you who don’t know, O.M. is again a wide open invitation for mockery in grade school. O.M. or “Odyssey of the Mind” is an organization devoted to furthering creativity in children of all ages, and as it turns out, spans minds from kindergarten all the way up to collegiate level. The way it works is the school forms a team or multiple teams if they’ve got a healthy supply of nerds to draw from. Our school was a major hub for nerd and dork production, so we had an ample supply of teams. Once the team of 5 to 7 kids is put together, the children are asked to choose from a preset list of problems to solve. No matter what choice, a full 5 minute skit must be a part of the solution, and each problem generally had some wacky technical aspect like, “at least one team member must be moved across stage by a vehicle running on it’s own power source,” or something like that. At that point the team spends the better part of the school year meeting after class and writing, learning, and acting out the skit, as well as building whatever technical aspect happened to be involved. Then, in March, teams from all across the county level meet to show their stuff and be given awards based on the creativity and execution of their “solution.” Luckily, it finishes with a few months to go in the school year, giving the team a month or two to pretend that they’re normal school children, but truly they aren’t. O.M. creates a bloodlust for creativity; one that school can never again pacify. It’s full contact “brain on brain” warfare, and the scars may be invisible, but they run deep.
That brings me back to that little she-devil in a swishy jogging suit, Caitlin Quance. She was somewhat a captain when I was recruited back in 3rd grade. We had a freakin’ gold mine of a team between my flair for the dramatic, Caitlin’s quick wit and snazzy dress, and finally, Alison Schmidt’s mother, who’d go to any length to win. We put together a skit that Highland county Ohio, nay, the world wasn’t ready to handle. There were palm trees and lab coats and dinosaurs… it was brilliance. We’d meet daily to practice and have some of Alison’s mothers snacks, what I’m convinced now in hindsight were baby steroids of some kind. After months and months of putting it all together, crying and sweating over plaster of Paris volcanoes and hot glue guns gone batty, we were finally done. We had a masterpiece on our hands, the likes of which had never yet, and will never again, be seen by OMers around the globe.
One Saturday morning, after a long sleepless Friday night spent in anticipation, we drove to a local neighboring high school. We got signed in and just waited in the hall, running lines and cues, until our group name was finally called. Our skit was perfectly timed to be as long as possible without exceeding the time restraint, costing us valuable points, and with Caitlin leading the way on our creative team, she pumped out more answers at nine years old for college level philosophical questions than Plato himself could have done in a lifetime. We were a force to be reckoned with, and for that we won first place. What are the spoils you may ask? Well a two-foot tall trophy for starters, and then a one way ticket to State level. We had one more month of practice time before we’d have to rumble again.
We returned home that day triumphant, and ready to embark again upon our mental, and emotional journey. We worked hard, and labored tirelessly, partially due to the adrenaline, but mostly due to the uppers I’m sure Alison’s mother was pumping into our fruit juice. We were titans among our grade school comrades and we were sure we’d win again. If only we could have known what lay in store for us on that fateful day.
State competition arrives finally. It is still a day that resides in the back of my mind, lodged forever by the terrible event that took us down to our knees, crying like the children we were. Our sound girl, Emily, botched a sound cue. We tried to bribe her with money and cookies to keep her mouth shut about it, but no. She blabbed to the only people that truly mattered to us at the point: the judges. Her big puppy dog eyes welled up and we knew we hadn’t a shot in the dark at the title. We walked that day with a creative recognition, something I like to call the “don’t feel too bad for losing” award. Broken, we were all broken. Our tails between our legs we left, knowing that all we had was next year, and that we’d tasted blood and soon enough we’d be back for more.
Now, don’t think I’ve forgotten that this is a tale to convey the scourge that is Caitlin Quance. Oh no, this is right about the time she sells her soul to the devil, and all hell breaks loose. So, as I mentioned, we’d all vowed to rejoin O.M. the next year, and to kick some major creative butt. I spent all summer between 3rd and 4th grade reading, keeping up on current events and quickening my reaction time to a well posed creative response question. My mom might ask me, “What’s a creative description of dryer lint?” and before she could even finish her sentence I’d be on her with “Alien Toupe,” or “over-used Brillo pad” in less than a second. I knew what I was capable of and was very much in control of the power that I harnessed. I was a beast.
Fourth grade begins, time to get down and dirty. I go to class daily knowing that some day, some 7th grade teachers assistant will come get me and take me to the new O.M. headquarters, wherever that may be. I waited patiently, and pretended not to notice one day when Caitlin would be missing, hoping that maybe she got the bird flu or something. Finally after about a month or so of waiting around, I saw Caitlin on the playground one day. She was leaning on a newly built wooden railing, hanging out with a few of her dorky friends, a group that I longed to be a part of more than anything in the world. I approached her and, without mincing words, got right to the point.
“Hey Caitlin, when is O.M. gonna start this year?” I asked very pointedly, knowing she’d say it was just about to begin, and then she’d disclose the top secret location to me through an elaborate display of hand gestures and sub-verbal grunts. Instead however, the whole group nervously chuckled, and begin to dissipate, as if to suggest that they knew what was about to happen.
“O.M.? What do you mean ‘when is it gonna start’?” she shot back.
“Like when do we have practice? I wanna do it again this year.” I answered, fearing what her next move might be.
“Our team already started a few weeks ago, we didn’t have room for you. Sorry.” Oh but she wasn’t sorry. My heart broke. I went into what can only be described as a juvenile psychopathic rage. I felt my body surge with power as I reached out for Caitlin’s shirt collar. I lifted her off the ground with one hand and held her, dangling, over the railing, wishing that I had it within me to allow her to drop that 5 and a half feet to her death, or at least to a sprained ankle. I knew hatred in that moment, and felt a part of me fall away knowing that I’d spend an entire year wishing I could be a part of O.M. my one and only friend. I put her down gently and began to cry, alone, at the back f the playground. I had nothing, I was broken, damaged, and not a thing could change that.
In retrospect I think I just pushed her a little for not putting me on the team, and she was knocked back into the railing. But had I let her plummet that mediocre distance it wouldn’t have gone undeserved, for this was only the beginning.
So, with a full year to figure out who I was again, completely shattered, I picked up the saxophone. It was the only thing that could sooth the beast that was growing within me. At ten years old I was a prodigy, playing from the 7th grade handbook by the end of 5th grade. I loved my saxophone, and it loved me back. The two greatest things about being in band were this: my own collection of nerds and dorks to live among, and no Caitlin Quance, Rosemary’s baby if you will.
Two years had passed since the ‘incident’ on the playground, and I was doing the best I could to allow it to heal. Every now and then Caitlin would get a better grade than me, or finish her book first for our monthly reading and with each scholastic victory she held over me, it would rip the stitches out, one by one. If I ever needed soothing I knew I could just wait until fourth period, just before lunch, when I’d get to hold my musical prowess over the heads of many a 4th grader and that would be enough to get me through. Band class became a drug, the metaphorical Morphine drip to the knife lodged deep within by none other than that mistress of evil. I thought I had her outdone, but not her, she’s a tricky witch she is.
Sixth grade begins. First day of class and I’m feeling great, ready to take on the world. It’s the unofficial beginning of Junior High at my school, which means we learn “college style” with multiple teachers throughout the day, as apposed to the standard grade school style, where you sit at the same desk all day long, listening to one teacher drone on about every single subject. It was liberating to feel so mature, and it had me streaming with love and happiness. And then, it happened. Noon rolled around and all those opting to be in band had to go meet their new band instructor, and listen to him lecture about practicing and what not. I, along with my fellow nerds and dweebs, took leave and began the long walk across campus to the band room. In my jovial state, I cared not for who I walked among, I simply skipped merrily all the way across the basketball courts, through the junior high cafeteria, and finally, to the band room, which was placed directly about the janitor’s basement storage space, and always smelled a bit like WD-40. Regardless, nothing was going to bring me down from my euphoria, nothing at all, or so I thought. I took my seat in the half circle, waiting to take notes about music theory, and be told what our song would be for the Halloween parade that year. To my dismay what should I discover, Caitlin Quance developed a love for the clarinet that summer, and joined my safe haven, band class.
I watched as she sat with her smug little case. That year her affinity for plaid, pleated skirts was nearly nauseating. She smiled and laughed with her girly little clarinet buddies and got so excited about the Halloween parade she nearly piddled right then and there. I hated her with every fiber of my girly boy being. Over the following weeks I listened as she squeaked her way through Good King Wenceslas, never realizing that she was always off by the end, making it difficult for me to focus on my art. I found any reason I could to despise her, be it her shiny pleather shoes or her underplucked eyebrow. I envisioned myself whacking her with her own clarinet, shattering it in two, and telling her, “Try it now; I’m sure it’ll sound the same as it did before, awful you novice!”
I kept it all locked up inside until one afternoon when the band teacher left class a little too early. We were all packing up our instruments, getting ready for the bell to ring, signifying the beginning of lunch, and I overheard her talking about me. She’d made some little jest about my clothes that day, a jest that was probably justified when I look back on it. I only wore sweats, or wind pants, at the age. I was already trying to minimize my waist line because I was getting a little tubby. At any rate, I felt it was an injustice that I certainly couldn’t wait for the system to fix, so I took a plastic piece from my saxophone, a little plug to keep it from getting anything inside of it, and I lobbed it at her. For that moment that it was in the air, I felt nothing but triumph. I felt that years of oppression and tyranny were falling all around me, and that finally my true justice had come. What I didn’t factor into the equation was that soon, it would have to hit something, and I had chosen her face as my mark. Somehow my limp wristed toss had managed to place the plastic ‘bullet’ directly under her left eye, and was thrown only just hard enough to leave a mark. She began to cry immediately, a tool that women use from birth to make men look like fools, and every girl in the clarinet row hated me the rest of the school year. If I had ever hated her before, now I knew it. Even my attempt to teach her right from wrong, by hurling a saxophone part at her face, had failed.
Over the years to follow, Caitlin eventually pulled ahead of me in every way possible. She may not have ever mastered the clarinet, as a matter of fact she quit that same year, giving me back my sanctuary. She joined cross country and was a running whiz. She joined student UN and settled things in the fake
To try and get away from it all, I smugly told everyone in my hometown that I’d be going to a small private school in
Looking back on it all, Caitlin wasn’t my enemy. As a matter of fact, she was quite a lovely person, inside and out. I may have wanted to punch her on occasion, but she wasn’t the reason I was upset. In hindsight, she was one of the best friends that I had growing up. People in my family don’t really push you to be the best ‘learner’ you can be. If you can hit a baseball 100 yards they’ll throw you a party. When I said that I had been accepted to NYU for musical theater, they wanted to know why the hell I’d want to move to
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