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.
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There will be blood
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BRUTE FORCE
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THE SECRET CITY
INSIDER TIPS AND TRICKS THAT MAKE LIFE EASIER, CHEAPER, FASTER, SLOWER, TASTIER, SMARTER AND WAY MORE FUN