WHEN I WAS 13, I LEARNED that I was a bad kid. In the fifth grade, I had switched from a public school to an all-girls private school in Toronto, and I didn't fit in. It took some time, but I eventually made friends. I was hanging out after class with one of them and a boy from a nearby school when my friend suggested that we sneak into the grad lounge.
The grad lounge was a hallowed space reserved for 12th graders. I'd never been inside. We entered the school, and I slowly opened the lounge door to find a room filled with mismatched couches, blazers strewn about. The feeling of being where we weren't allowed was exhilarating, but before we could drink it all in, a 12th grader caught sight of us and told us to get lost.
A few weeks later, I noticed some older girls I didn't know staring at me in the halls. Then I heard the rumour for the first time: my friend and I had apparently been found in the lounge engaged in a sexual act with a boy. The rumour grew more exaggerated in each retelling, and I was powerless to control it.
I'd never even kissed anyone. How could people say those things about me? I cried after school and sometimes at school. My peers had decided who I was, and I felt helpless to escape it, so I leaned in to their idea of me. If everyone thought I was a bad kid, that's what I'd be. I snuck out at night to smoke pot with friends, shoplifted and stole money from my parents.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة July 2023 من Toronto Life.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة July 2023 من Toronto Life.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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